I sit and wonder where she’s gone
That woman with the golden curls
Who haunts my dreams
And left me years ago
To let my blooming garden wilt.
So now I have a garden new
But the damn thing has no blooms
So I curse her in my dreams
Hope those golden curls are gray
And her garden’s filled with weeds.
Smarty Pants: Well, football season is finally here! I’m Smarty, with my fellow prognosticator, Sandy Bottom, coming to you from radio station Y-E-L-L, located on the campus of the University of Long Pants, in Long Pants, in the exciting Midwest. Now let’s get started. First thing is, the recent popularity of Mixed Martial Arts recruits.
Sandy: Yes, few fans realize that the whole recruitment process has changed quite a bit.
Smarty: Not just martial artists, who can sure beat you with their feet, Also, referees have been retiring in droves. Many have become circus clowns and community activists. Others serve as elementary school crossing guards.
Sandy: Let’s skip that for now. I think we ought to begin with some of the recent rule changes and some that lurk on the horizon.
Smarty (chuckling): They changed the horizon?
Sandy: Let’s get serious and talk about the new concealed carry rule.
Smarty: You mean the one where a player may tuck the ball under his jersey?
Sandy: That’s the one, and I think it’s going to really help out Toggi, the seven foot seven, 650 pound Pacific Islander, and others like him. Did you realize the linemen average over six hundred and fifty pounds these days?
Smarty: You think nobody going to notice the bulge?
Sandy: Toggi could hide Jumbo the elephant under that jersey and people will just think he ate his normal breakfast.
Smarty: How ‘bout the other rule about guns?
Sandy: This rule is to shorten the games, as well as life spans.
Smarty: Want to explain that to the listeners?
Sandy: As you know, the length of the games have gone from what was supposed to be an hour to an hour and a half to over four hours, including potty breaks. The new rule says four players on each team will be armed, with each having one bullet. They may fire their bullet at any time. They may also be used to return fire. At halftime the armed players will change, so in the second half, players’ eyes will be constantly shifting, looking for telltale smoke and the smell of cordite. I’m sure several will volunteer to be in motion and just wander around in the backfield. Some may never come back in the huddle.
Smarty: But, just to clear this up, the shooters can use their one shot at will?
Sandy: That’s right. Now, there are some restrictions. No head shots, no shooting at the coaches, or the coaches testicles.
Smarty: Do the restrictions apply to the assistant coaches?
Sandy: No, but assistant coaches have become rare and often call in sick.
Smarty: Are there restrictions on the weapons?
Sandy: All pistols will be 357 magnums, with hollow point bullets and silencers. One of the very positive aspects is that most teams have at least sixty players sitting on the bench. This will give the subs a chance to play.
Smarty: Probably the bench sitters will be forced to wander on the field.
Sandy: That’s true. But, in some cases they may play the whole game, while the starters shower and look for jobs. Jobs like prison guards and lab rats.
Smarty: So when a player is shot, can he be replaced?
Sandy: No, and that will shorten the game even more. Also referees will wear flack vests, but can also be shot, making them hesitant to throw flags. Another speed up result.
Smarty: This may lead to other changes.
Sandy: Of course. Football is copying ice hockey rules. Players may continue to fight until they no longer have the will to live. The new rule on brass knuckles is also in effect. However, players have an out. They may enter the Transfer Portal at any point in the game and be carried off the field in armored cars driven by the coaches of the team they’ve decided to play for.
Smarty: Are the ones who enter the Portal eligible to be shot?
Sandy: Absolutely, and probably will be.
Smarty: There’s been some discussion about changing the name from Transfer Portal to the Quiet Lunge.
Sandy: Why is that?
Smarty: Well, Transfer Portal is too often abbreviated to T.P. and some native Americans have objected. To change the subject, care to mention the change in the extra point rule.
Sandy: The extra point will no longer be kicked. Instead, the player formerly known as the kicker will hold the ball close to his or her chest and be tossed over the uprights by four of their teammates.
Smarty: You mentioned his or her.
Sandy: Yes, this is to get more women and the elderly in the game. Most teams have hired very lightweight people formally known as kickers. Hiring anorexics has become very popular. Some are women. Not surprisingly, nursing homes are also often popular.
Smarty: Can the kicker being tossed also be shot?
Sandy: Yes, absolutely. By the way, it’s no longer called an extra point, but a clay pigeon point.
Smarty: What if the kicker doesn’t want to be tossed?
Sandy: First off, he will be given a reluctantly thrown flag for having a bad attitude, and a non-volunteer in the stands will be selected at random and chased onto the field by armed guards who fire warning shots.
Smarty: Lately, we’ve been inundated, or for our listening audience, lots and lots of times, players have been caught giving unsolicited manual and penis massages, usually to young women, after hours, while the women were walking down the street, or making other provocative movemets. Has that been addressed?
Sandy: Yes, it has. There are now strict rules. Unsolicited touching of women who are drunk and follow a player back to the athletic dorm, with or without penis contact, will cause the player to have to skip classes for three days, and promise to be nice.
Smarty: That’s going a bit far, don’t’ you think? And what about something as vicious as rape?
Sandy: That’s more serious and for the first twenty-four rapes, the player will not be allowed to play for six games. More than twenty-four and he will not be allowed to drink alcoholic beverages until after breakfast. This one is called the twenty-four strike rule.
Smarty: Those are stout rules!
Sandy: Yes indeedy. It will teach a lesson.
Smarty: And what is that?
Sandy: Keep your number of rapes below twenty-four and if they follow you back to the dorm, toss them out the window.
Smarty: And what about the coaches cursing on the sidelines?
Sandy: They will have to buy beer for the whole team, and may be castrated and taught to wear high heels.
Smarty: That’s all the time we have for today……Sandy, you going to finish that Scotch and soda? And you got any weed on you?
English is getting more and more confusing for me. I simply don't understand the meanings of some of the words and phrases that suddenly and without warning are in common use. Here are a few that befuddle me:
HATE CRIME
What is a hate crime? What if I shoot a guy, but don’t hate him? How can you tell, unless I shout out, “I really, really hate you,” just before I pull the trigger?
Let’s say he’s of Norwegian extraction and I am not, is hate crime automatic? What the hell! Third Norwegian we’ve lost this week! Form a Congressional Committee!
What if I just didn’t like the way he looked at my girlfriend or I’m offended by the car he drives. Norwegians can be so picky!
Maybe he’s Swedish and I killed him by mistake. I was still hating someone enough to shoot him. Can I have a do-over and find a Norwegian without penalty? Is my sentence dependent on ethnicity and which ethnicity? Says the judge, “The law says if you kill Norwegians I must sentence you to six months in a cold, dark room, but for the Swede, it’s another nine months in a neutral lockup. You just better be glad you didn’t shoot a Cambodian Catholic!”
How is hate determined? “Well,” says the judge, “you have a long history of hating, beginning with oatmeal as a child, the girl you invited to the prom who didn’t show up, plus the neighbor’s cat. Several people have testified you hated your visit to Oslo. This is not looking good.”
You shoot my ass and I don’t care if you hate me or not, I’m gonna shoot back. Wait a sec. When I shoot back, I’ll admit it, I hate you!
Which brings us to:
OFFENDED
Do I have a choice to be offended? I think so, but I’m offended that you ask. And what type of situation puts being offended on the no-no list, or the forget it list? If I choose to be offended how much do I have to be offended to have someone also be offended enough to do something about it? Is just a little bit enough? “Your bowtie offends me. I hate chartreuse.” Now I see double jeopardy raising it’s offensively shaven head. I’m both offended and hating at the same time. Let me amend that: “I’m only slightly offended and cancel out the hate; chartreuse looks good on your ugly bowtie.” Ok, let me restate it totally. “I dislike your bowtie.” Now it’s your turn to be offended, so let’s call it even, or you can offend me by telling me to shut my mouth and keep the game going.
ETHNICITY
You are black and I am white. Well, not exactly. You don’t look black, you look a darker shade of tan and I’ve been on the beach and I’m tan, too. We both need to be tested for blackness to settle the issue. Even when I’m off the beach, I never really look white, maybe lighter tan. My old granny, stuck at home is the only one I know who even looks pale. Oh, matter of fact, I’m offended that native Americans used to call my ancestors Pale Face. I want ceremonial wigwams removed from every national park! Hey, I don't want to see any carved on stone memorials either!
How much black DNA makes me a black? Are you offended that I ask? What a slippery slope! In Nazi Germany, you needed a certain percentage of Jewish blood to qualify for the gas chamber. In the old days of American slavery, you needed a certain amount of black blood to be black. Not enough blackness and you didn’t make the cut and got a get off the plantation ‘free card.’ What direction are we headed when we use slavery and Nazism as models?
Just wondering.
Does skin color count no matter where you were born? Is Elon Musk an African American?
And does your skin color decide your ethnicity? Filipinos and Chinese are the same ethnicity? Nigerians and Congolese? Peruvians and Mexicans? Does culture matter, or are we just slicing the ethnicity cake with a crowbar and passing out messy shares?
ASSAULT RIFLE
If I assault someone with a BB rifle, does that count as an assault weapon? Or does it have to be a certain caliber, holding enough bullets to stand off a pack of starving spotted hyenas? Which brings us to clips. All clips? Ten bullets? Twelve? Thirty-six? The U.S. Army uses any number of infantry weapons, including shotguns, and sniper rifles that hold fewer rounds in the clip.
Are we talking automatic weapons? Already not allowed. So many civilian rifles are semi-autos. You pull the trigger and one bullet comes out of the barrel. True for any semi-auto rifle, including .22s and pellet guns. No modern army I know of uses all one pull, one shot rifles. But, automatic weapons are not unknown among street gangs and other villains.
Discussions of guns and control of guns I’ve read lately have the depth and veracity that compares to nothing more than whether you put your money on red or black.
Use of Words
In the use of words, silliness has crept in like leaves on a Kudzu wine. I read that a male patient at a hospital in Scotland was denied help because he refused to say whether he was pregnant or not.
That pretty much says all I need to say about the use of words. Silliness covers it.
If you paid attention, you know I offered no solutions, only questions and examples, leading to a simple statement: I don’t know. But, I do think modern English is confusing.
By comparison, grammar rules regarding the subjunctive tense are a piece of cake!
Yes dead is dead unless you want it to be something else, but it will cost you.
---Al Most, Attorney at Law, and other stuff
Just because a man has been shot and stabbed it don’t mean a crime was committed. Most likely it was a shaving accident while deer hunting.
---Sheriff Tally Hoe
The devil works in mysterious ways. Can I get an Amen and another slice of that peach pie?
---The Reverend Sally Forth, Preacher at the Eve Was Right Church of the Garden.
The people deserve to know the truth, I guess. Maybe not. We’re still discussing it. And what is the truth, really?
---TV talking head Alice Fair, The Mourning Hour
AnD sO It BeGaN
It was early evening when a figure moved through the shadows of the frigid night, one foot at a time, although he preferred hopping on one leg in time to the music that played loudly in his head that would fit perfectly into a 7 ½ sized hat, if he had been wearing a hat. Instead, he wore an XL black panty hose, with only one eye-hole, a trick he’d learned riding with The Overripe Persimmon Motorcycle Club, when Rocky “Big Eyes” Rhode caught a bumble bee in the eye and needed a flat heat screwdriver to dig it out. Afterwards he was just known as Rocky.
But, back to the avenger: Perhaps he should have cut one leg off the pantyhose to keep from tripping. He was not a quick learner and still limped from the second and third times.
Under his arm was a Salver model 14mQ, loaded with a full clip of 7.66 millimeter, highly polished brass cartridges with steel piercing bullets, made especially for him by the little known Happy As a Fragrant Clown Gun Shop and Ice Cream Parlor in South Philly. The gun was so accurate he could correct a squirrel’s astigmatism at a hundred yards, but it was another learning process. A few squirrels mistook headlights for sunrise. Some of their friends stood on street corners, cups in their tiny claws, waiting for nut donations.
The target, Wiber Willright had a titanium plate in his head from a previous attempt on his life. The first assassin tried to do the job with fossilized deer antlers, mounted on the hood of a black and red 1954 Chevy. The killer didn’t survive the Chevy blowing a rod that pierced his heart. With the new assassin there would be no mistakes. He was a professional and knew to keep things simple, mostly. You find, you kill, you get paid; you spend your money on expensive whiskey and cheap women, or that was the plan. So far he’d found no cheap women and he took this job because he was also running short of whisky.
Willright, lived on Casanova Avenue in a heavily gated community, if you could call one house and sheep farms a community. The gate was so heavy it took two men and a harnessed donkey to drag it open. The donkey would rather have been frolicking with a very cute filly in the back forty, but no one had asked him. Sadly, frolicking was still a distant dream.
Willwright had not previously had a heart condition, but after the near miss, his heart pounded every time the gate creaked open, or he saw deer antlers, or the donkey brayed. Nor was he fond of 1954 Chevys. These days, he mostly sat in his massively fortified home, in front of the TV, on a couch once owned by Roy Roger’s horse, Trigger, doing obscene crossword puzzles, asking himself questions, such as what rhymes with snore and banal pecks?
Not short of ideas and possibilities, his assassin reached the gate and paused to change into this boots with the soles sewed on backwards, so trackers would only know where he’d been, made for him in London in a shop with a sign on the front that said, NO soul resides in this establishment and that means you, you soulless heathen!
Using an old trick he’d learned in survival camp, after he’d been lost for several days, he whistled. Loudly. The donkey stampeded. The men’s attention was on the animal that had mistook the whistle for someone calling the frolicking filly. Raging hormones pulled the gate open by several feet.
The assassin saw his chance, managing to slip through and stumble into the bushes unnoticed.
He quickly and almost silently cocked his Salver model 14mQ, especially designed with a soundlessly clicking clicker. It was then he discovered he’d left the 14 bullet clip on his dining room table, along with his see through socks.
Damn, the boots hurt his feet, chaffed his calves, making him say very naughty things. He regretted not paying the extra $600 for the double padded cheetah skin bouncy heels. Fortunately, he had sprung for the sparking electric laces and internal, automatic athletes foot sprayer..
With no squirrel piercing ammo, he would have to improvise. He tapped the side pocket of his French commando, 1959 Rothschild wine and Brie scented pants. Fortunately, he had brought his self guided Lightening Tomahawk; built in a tiny New Mexico pueblo by who else! Tommy Hawk, the noted rifle stock manipulator and gun sight schemer, known for once selling a gun sight to a blind fortune hunter.
As he approached the house, two robotic pit bulls growled and ran metallically toward him. His electric bootlaces quickly shorted their circuits. They barked no longer, but began to moo and mow the lawn.
One window was open. Unfortunately it was the window to the sixteen car garage. Then his luck changed. Willwright appeared at the window near the eight-foot high custom made sixteen pane beveled front door. The killer had seen doors like this, made by Johnny Appleseed’s great grandfather, the apple tree slayer.
The quiet avenger threw the hatchet-tomahawk, which went through the window, but bounced off the titanium plate in Willwright’s head. Blood streamed down his shirt and he rushed upstairs to change and desperately search for his Ranger Rough Rider flintlock buffalo long rifle, purchased at a cigar store in northern Maine and kept in a locked gun case, inside a locked gun cabinet, in the locked safe room in the basement. He could only find two keys! Where the hell had he put the key to the save room? Then he remembered it was in the Trust and Hope Savings Bank, in a safety deposit box, only available on Tuesday and Thursdays from 9 to 9.15 a.m. “Well, darn it,” he said.
By this time, the avenger had made it through the broken window, using his 4 gauge, stainless steel, handmade window smasher and bottle opener. He quickly retrieved his Tomahawk and began climbing the stairs.
Willwright stood on the top step looking, bewitched, bothered and bewildered. This time the Tomahawk found a perfect resting place in Willwright’s chest. Dang, he thought, as life ebbed; he should have remembered to put on his Kevlar vest when he was changing into a clean shirt.
By the time the time delayed house alarm went off and the cops responded, the avenger was long gone.
Sheriff Tally Hoe and his team of detectives saw this for what it was. Obviously, Mr. Willwright had heard his dogs mooing and gone to an upstairs window to investigate, carrying his high tech hatchet, then had a heart attack and tumbled down the stairs. The Sheriff reasoned that since Willwright was hunting for a possible intruder, “We’ll call this one a hunting accident.”
Alice Fair of The Mourning Hour wanted to know, “What about the broken window?”
“No idea. Windows break all the time.”
Al Most, Attorney at Law and stuff, asked if Willwright had an attorney.
Nobody knew, but Mr. Most thought he might be able to find a distant cousin and help him settle the estate, or join a profitable business venture, turning used inner-tubes into horse condoms.
The Reverend Sally Forth described Willwright’s passing as an act of providence, adding that Willwright never gave a cent to her church, refused to give her another piece of peach pie, and got what he deserved. After several snifters of medicinal brandy, she dropped to her arthritic knees and recanted, ready to do the Christian thing and forgive all number of sins done by people she didn’t know and had never met, but leaving out several of her parishioners.
The avenger? No one knows for sure, but a man, wearing a size 7 ½ hat and carrying what appeared to be a new, custom made hatchet, stopped at the Come And Get Me Wholesale No Tell Gun Shop to buy several boxes of dark, XL panty hose that were on sale, with no questions asked. Limit four.
* Yes, this is satire, a take off on thrillers. If you know any of these people, don't tell me. I don't want to know.*
Harold sat at a table for two in the bright Florida sun. At least he sat there for a while before his thinking cap overheated, a black ball cap. The front read, Love to Hate in red letters. Flashes of sun blocked out the keyboard. The back of the hat read, also in red letters, You’re My Dream Bitch. He found this persuasively obnoxious, and a clever disguise.
Once back in the shadows of a large, green canvas awning, he began to type again, a novel of love and deception. The working title was Hurt So Good.
Harold rather fancied his name de plume, Judy Good. Hard to believe a bachelor, using a woman’s name could sell books, but he already had half a dozen on the shelves, and just knew Hurt So Good would be his best. Couldn’t miss. His technique was to write whatever came into his mind and tickled his fingers. Afterwards, he could make any necessary changes.
His first romantic novel, Countess Jupiter Is Not Pregnant, did very well, as did the follow up, Oh Yes She Is. However the third part of the trilogy, The Count Has His Doubts, slacked a bit, with several wives writing that he/she had ruined their marriages.
But, this next one would be super. Hurt, as he called it, began on the Italian Riviera, with a fisherman’s daughter falling into a net, half drowning before a fabulously good looking millionaire dove off the deck of his passing yacht and saved her.
He was the third multimillionaire to dive to her rescue. Matter of fact, her father had given up fishing completely and was satisfied with just netting. He spoke perfect English, but broken Italian worked better, especially if the yacht flew an American or British flag.
“Help-O! Help-O! Mia Butiful dog-ter is she to drown-O!”
Adolfo Gleason had waited years for a chance like this; in fact he had tossed many a maiden into the briny just for practice. “Scream louder!” His hands cups as a megaphone. “Duck your damn head a couple of times!”
The last one, Gloria Morning, a Bulgarian stripper, actually could not swim and when she yelled and went under, coming up and sloppily paddling like a terrified house cat, the screams were real.
“One of the best!” was Adolfo’s comment, “Really great thrashing,” he said with a glamorous show of perfect, glistening white teeth.
Over supper, he suggested Gloria try it again in the blackness of night.
Against vicious protestations to the contrary, mostly in rapid fire Bulgarian, including an un-translated, “I will strike significant damage to your particulars”, he tossed her overboard. This time the show was really terrific, including the struggle on deck. So terrific in fact, he paid for her year’s stay in a psychiatric hospital, so afraid of water she couldn’t wash her hands without paddling the air and wetting herself. Doctor Leroy Felter found it amusing and loved to see her do her hippy-hop dance in the hot tub, held down by four very masculine nurses. Then, when unannounced, he joined her, well, it was a real show.
One night she escaped, but she didn’t get far. After changing her pronoun, she forgot to change her given name. She booked a room at the Motel de Jour or de Hour, awaking and screaming loud enough to wake the owner, in the middle of a rain storm. He plodded through the downpour and seeing the crazy woman on her hands and knees, ripping up carpet with her teeth, he called the police.
Dr. Felter welcomed her back with a broad smile and his pet name for her, Hot Tubby, and a smiling shriek of “Take Tubby to the Hot Tubby!”
A year later, when she turned catatonic, he pronounced her cured. She no longer feared water, or conversation, or deodorant, or playing I’ve got a secret. She also found a fondness for bondage, and laboratory animals, and humming the Bulgarian Love Chant.
Judy Good (Harold) turned the page and wrote on at a fevered pace. Time to go back to Adolfo and his newly found fisherman’s beautiful daughter, whose name was Triumphina. She had large….let’s see, he thought. What the hell should be large that wasn’t a cliché? Large hair? No, too Texas. Must be Italian. Large spaghetti pots! Readers might see that as a euphemism, but it was good, and he’d save it for later. Ah, big nostrils! Huge nostrils! Nostrils you could put your fist in! Maybe that was overdoing it, but at least sizeable nostrils. Also a large smile! He’d run with that. A smile so large lobsters thought it was a trap! Wolves ran in fear. Let’s give her a snicker, too. Let her snicker every time she smiled, which made her sound like she had a serious sinus problem, but after all, she’d almost drowned so many times, she probably had an Ear, Nose and Throat doc on call.
Ah, but her father was certainly fond of Adolfo. Much better than the last one, Francis of Assisi, whom he had taken to calling Ass-i After being poked in the eye when Ass-i genuflected. But, Ass-i was rich. Very rich. Paid off well when Triumphina reported she was with child. Not a huge lie because although she wasn’t p.g., she did have two kids.
But, Adolfo! What a catch. Rich as a Cardinal, and with a huge yacht which Triumhina’s father liked to gape at out of his one good eye. Adolfo could be the end all and be all and a clear frontrunner on the trail to riches.
How to end this enticing tail? Judy Good pondered it, then smiled.
Trumphina’s father did not bother to tell her that this was the last inning and they were so far ahead Babe Ruth and the entire 1927 Yankees could never catch up.
It was the dark of night and he didn’t notice much of anything, but gasped when he got to the fishing boat and saw his daughter jump over the side, into the net! Who let the net out? Woof Woof, Woof Woof. Why did she jump now?
He climbed on deck and raced to the stern. He’d seen Triumphina jump, but why didn’t she come back up? Her super large nostrils didn’t even blow large bubbles. A hole in the net told the story. He looked again and the two cement blocks that usually held the folded net in place were also missing. Plus, a bit of rope lay near where the net should be.
Then a solid board caught him in the back of the head and he also fell overboard and through the net.
Adolfo stepped out of the shadows, moved closer and looked down at the water. No bubbles, although there was the chance the fisherman’s body would eventually rise.
Of no concern. He’d be on his yacht, half a mile from the dock, and on his way within a couple of hours. No one knew him or about his connections to anyone here. He smiled.
Ah, home at last. The spaciousness was calming. And alone was even better. Adolfo started to call Stevenson to get his ass in there and fix him a perfect Manhattan, and perhaps a few crackers the cook had conjured up, along with a plate of oil cured olives and slices of aged Manchego. He’d forgotten he’d given the crew the evening off. Just as well; if they were questioned, they couldn’t say when he had gone or where he had gone, of when he returned.
Ah, yes, a drink. He poured whiskey over ice and listened to it crackle. Then he heard a noise, just a slight creaking. He went back to sipping. Got to be the boat. It did shake a little bit. Not enough to spill his drink. Took a lot to shake this big bitch of a boat significantly.
Then he heard another noise. A small boat tapped and scraped against the yacht. Must be the crew.
She stood with a gun in her hand, a small black automatic. Gloria Hot Tubby.
“Don’t do it,” he said solemnly, but the ice in his glass did shake a little.
She motioned toward the stairs that led to the deck and pointed to a rope.
The police ruled it an accident. Obviously the man had started the boat, caught his foot in a rope and fallen overboard. The boat was anchored and must have churned in tight circles for an hour or more before someone reported it. Simple. Death by drowning.
Dr. Felter sat quietly in his office. Evening had come, the patients were off to bed, the nurses, except for the ones on the wards sat quietly reading, or sipping coffee. And then he heard a noise…
Judy Good (Harold) reread the skeleton sketch of his story. And with a few changes, it could be really good.
There were no giant holes, just character nudges. Toss in some real romance, and a castle or two in Ireland or Scotland. He could sub a castle for the fishing boat and toss a wedding in there and the mandatory breakup. Then, right before the wedding, when the bride found who she was really in love with…. A Lard reclaiming lost lands. He’d keep the Adolfo name…Yes, an Italian Lard by marriage, living in Scotland. Some scoundrel and scandal never hurt. But, where would he put the yacht/castle?
No real beauties, but that could be overcome. Christ, get rid of the big nostrils and add some bosoms worthy of a salacious mention….Dr Felter would have to go….no, wait a sec, he could be a knight with a large…. ah dungeon…lots of room for whips and chains and swordfights in the stone corridors. Suppose Dr Felter’s name was Sir Buford Longshanks.
He could do this! The story almost wrote itself!
He signed and turned his hat around. The waitress walked over and slapped him hard enough to give him a concussion. “Naughty, naughty lad,” she snarled. “Your hat is an affront to womanhood!”
“Would you like to be in a book? I can fit you right in.”
Marginal Tower
Marginal Tower was a small town…make that a tiny town on the outskirts of nowhere. Even so, it had a football team that hadn’t won a game in years.
No one remembers how Marginal Tower got its name.
The same with the town’s school. Some say it was a French schoolteacher who named it, but he wrote the name in French and a poor translation, combined with spelling errors came out: School for Witless Flesh Eaters.
Time moved on and the name of the school changed from here to there, like the roving arrow on a Weegie Board. At present it was called Marginal Tower High School.
The football team was first called The Warriors, but a one eighth member of a long forgotten Native American tribe was upset. Fourteen law firms vied to be the savor of this vile transgression and the name was changed to The Fighting Cats, until PETA, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, went to court with the argument that when football teams lost, the phrase was: they had been beaten. Fighting Cats who were beaten just didn’t fit well with the PETA advocates. To no avail, the town sought support of another PETA group: People Eating Tasty Animals. In the end, the county couldn’t afford a court battle. The name was changed to the Rickshaws, which lasted until a young female Chinese student at Uptown Tech University, who was studying the ancient Egyptian use of chalk, with a minor in Egyptian worship of sand dollars, decided Rickshaws was a misappropriation of Chinese culture.
This time the county voted on a name change. The biggest vote getter, Dead Fucking Rats, was overruled by the school board. The second in line, Mouseketeers, was vetoed by the Disney Company. TV stations balked at The Walking Dead, even if the football team fit the description.
But, America was changing. The team now had a black quarterback and an Asian tight end. Yes, even with squawks from the homosexual community, the team still used that description. The center position was filled by a native American of the Arapahoe tribe.
The name changed to the Horse Loving Chopstick Tomahawks and in deference to others in the community, the school colors were changed to black and pink, with the school song sung with a lisp.
The football coach was dismissed for uttering, “Thank god they didn’t beat us by more!” This was considered prayer on school property.
The position was soon filled by a rather large woman, Matilda Blattsworthy, who had once played Parcheesi. She lost her position after a domestic argument with her wife that led to an hour-long discharge of munitions, including flamethrowers and grenades and the governor calling out the National Guard. Charges were soon dismissed when Matilda agree to attend anger management classes at the Army’s artillery range, and with the judge’s decree, “Let’s just let bygones be bygones.”
However complains from her neighbors led to anonymous threats of death by liposuction.
Matilda sued the school board on grounds that all events happened off school property and after school hours. She was awarded $250,000 and given the position of guidance counselor. As a result of the cash award, the football team had no money for helmets, which meant they played much more carefully, but still lost.
The Marginals became the team’s unofficial name, which angered some psychologists, who preferred, Logicians Without Portfolio.
English is a funny language, difficult to understand. Lots of homonyms and worse, lots of words that are spelled the same, but mean different things.
Elephants have trunks, so do trees, and travelers, and so do trains on a trunk line.
Which brings up the word line: A telephone line, a party line, drawing a line in the sand, giving your girlfriend a line, standing in line, a fishing line, a clothesline, a beeline, a punch line. Standing in a lineup. Delivering a clever line.
Naughty Words
Naughty words carry their own weight, but if you say them in a more dignified manner….
Quote a Bible verse: Go forth and multiply.
Enjoy intercourse with yourself!
You’re a vagina! Has a certain crowd appeal.
Test a man before you call him an idiot. “You’re no smarter than a toadstool!” See if he stops to ponder the pros and cons.
Drop a brick on your foot? “Coitus!” Draws a crowd of octogenarians faster than free fried chicken.
Words that don’t have an opposite but need one:
Unruly – ruly? He and his wife were ruly, and shared a love of regular verbs, but divorced over the use of pronouns.
Awesome - awesomeless? When the rancher belches with her mouth full, she looks awesomeless, and unsettles the cattle who fear earthquakes.
Disgruntled – gruntled? He smiled a gruntled smile to hide the pain, until the Novocain wore off and he suddenly disgruntled his lunch.
Ineffable – effable? He’s so effable I can describe him in one word: But, let’s talk about you, beautiful.
Inert – ert? Confucius say, golfer who put ert firecracker in shorts, likely to lose balls and have bent driver. That Confucius is such a kidder!
Incorrigible – corrigible? That virgin is too corrigible, unlike her sister who is well known and liked by many.
Disheveled – sheveled? Unlike her unruly hair; her front teeth are are quite sheveled and admired!
Innocuous – nocuous? Nothing’s as nocous as the obvious.
Intrepid – trepid? He is so trepid, he got caught catching a cold.
Nonchalant – chalant? So chalant, she worries about being underdressed in a nudist colony. I agree she’s barely presentable.
Nonplussed – plussed? You can tell she’s been plussed. And enjoyed it. And looks forward to her next plussing, and afterwards a celebratory cocktail.
Overwhelm(ed) – whelm(ed)? That whelmed man can juggle hot coals while Salsa dancing and still remember the name of his arresting officer.
Postpone – prepone? National dog breath week is preponed. When cat owners found out, they turned away in disgust.
Ruthless – ruthmore? “A little ruthmore can go a long way and a buxom Ruth even morer.”
I’ll give you a tip. I’ve only covered the tip of the iceberg. But, feel free to relax and tip back a couple, and try not to tip over your drink.
Now let’s take a look at “draw.”
You can draw a card, or a tree, or draw your gun, or draw a line in the sand, or draw straws. Put your clothes in a drawer, or wear your drawers.
So, is English a difficult language? I’ll let you draw your own conclusions. Please do so quietly so at not to draw attention to yourself.
