The smell of anarchy

I do some of my best thinking in the shower. Just me, hot water, a bar of soap and a wandering mind.

(By the way, when you tell someone you took a shower and you receive a standing ovation is it important to clarify whether or not you removed your clothes before hand? Or is that detail pretty much understood except by most people in Congress who, if their clothes are soaking wet every morning when they arrive at the Immigrant Inquisition, might have difficulty getting re-elected?)

Not so long ago I stood in the shower and started thinking about a sports report on TV. Our big slugger was placed on the Disabled List because he “tweaked his groin.” And while I was soaping my bald spot I had this thought: Do we really need to know a ballplayer ‘tweaked his groin?’ What does that even mean? If it’s what I think it means, wasn’t that a mortal sin back in the day when nuns had to be licensed wrestlers?

An unconnected thought (UT) popped into my wandering soapy mind: To keep from forgetting important meetings and chores, you should write things down on a to-do list, then draw a line through each one when it is completed.

Remember, if you don’t put it on your list you can’t draw a line through it. Drawing a line through an item on a to-do list is one of those joys that separate us from animals, the people who wear pointy sheets to meetings and those who like to find excuses to say groin.

So. One recent day I went to the store for a new brick of brindle-colored, wash-your-mouth-out-with-brown-soap Fels Naptha (good and so good for you.) Also, I was getting the shakes and an eye tic and badly needed to draw a line through something, anything, on my to do list.

I found the soap aisle packed with man-sized bottles of what appeared to be shampoo or hippopotamus glue. The store brazenly called it body wash.

“Where’s the Fels Naptha?” I queried a passing stock boy. He looked at me as if I’d come from the 20th century. The early part. With all the world wars.

“The soap,” I said.

“You’re standing in front of it.”

“No, the bar soap.”

“You mean bar wash? Two aisles over between the car wash and the sump pump wash.”

“I just want to take a shower.”

“With clothes on, or off?”

Impertinent, I thought, for a stock boy. But then I realized I was talking to a millennial. He stepped forward and grabbed a bottle of something called Axe.

“Axe wash?” I protested. “But I don’t own an axe.”

“It’s the scent of Anarchy.”

“Wow. I love the smell of Anarchy in the morning.”

“You’ll need this, too.” He shoved a rough item into my hand. “It’s like a sponge but it’s actually an exfoliating mesh loofa pouf.”

“Pouf?” I asked, horrified. “I have to wash with a…a…pouf?” But by then the stock boy had moved on, as millennials so often do.

So I took the Axe and the pouf home. I removed most of my clothes, stood under the shower and poured some of the axe onto my pouf. (It just sounds wrong.) It was orange, the color of radiator coolant, but it had a scent vaguely reminiscent of a perspiring marimba player in old Meh-he-co.

According to Google, that’s exactly what anarchy smells like. With just one whiff I suddenly felt like overthrowing the government — and might have, if it hadn’t already been done.

Now I use my semi-automatic, gas-operated, clip-fed, dead-skin-exfoliating lavender loufa pouf for overthrowing the K-Mac regime here at home. Hasn’t worked so far; sometimes I feel like K-Mac knows a little too much about what I’m thinking. (Note for to-do list: Stop using my outside voice inside.)

Anyway, anarchy wasn’t built in a day. So I’m giving it a full week. And a half.

Until then, I just dare you to knock this pouf off my shoulder.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2018, all rights reserved.

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, Mockery and derision, News You Can Use (Sort of) | Tagged , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Would it kill you?

Read an interesting article in the latest copy of “Interesting Articles and Ammo” magazine. A woman in Davenport, Iowa was vacuuming the living room carpet when she came up against her husband, seated in his chair, reading “Interesting Articles and Ammo” magazine. The woman nudged her husband’s shoes and he threw her one of those “Woman, did you just nudge my shoes?” looks.

“Hello!” she shouted, her sarcasm sucked away by the roar of her Shark Rotator NV800. “I’m vacuuming.”

He responded “What? I can’t hear you over the vacuum.”

She shut off the vacuum and said “Would it kill you to lift your feet?”

His response was lost in the sound of the vacuum being switched on again. He still hadn’t lifted his feet until she screamed “Lift your dang feet you ink spot between the hams of hell.”

He did so and she vacuumed beneath his feet. When she was done she noticed that her husband’s face bore a frozen, bluish, shocked look of horror, a little like a possum caught in the headlights of a speeding beer truck, post impact.

When the police arrived she told them she was pretty sure the mister was playing possum. One of them said “When they look stiff and cold and dead like that, their playing days are over. If you’d remember that.”

The headline in the next day’s Davenport Slipcover said it all:

Man dies after wife, armed with rotating shark,
Ignores plea that lifting his feet would kill him

The Supreme Court eventually nullified her conviction of Manslaughter By Really Mean Words.  It said manslaughter – literally man’s laughter had not occurred, since the woman’s words triggered no laughter at all. Her only crime, the court said, was trying to be funny without being funny, an all too common occurrence among the country’s estimated 136 million out-of-work comedians (not including all members of Congress and Wolf Blitzer.)

In the court’s minority opinion, Justice Oliver Garagedooropener Homes argued that since nature abhors a vacuum, it also abhors the use of a vacuum cleaner to suck up dirt which — along with bottled water and air pollution — is one of nature’s exclusive franchises (see the windy Wikipedia entry under Tornado). “And by the way,” adds Justice Homes, “Fool with Mother Nature at your own risk.”

The case has highlighted similar would-it-kill-you incidents nationwide. For example, while seated in his Orca-lounger in Daytona Beach, Florida, Dick “The Dick” Dudley rattled the ice cubes in his empty glass and shouted to his shout-worn wife (busily waxing his bowling ball)  “Would it kill you to get me another Rob Roy?”

Wearily, she poured scotch and vermouth over ice, but instead of adding the called-for-bitters, she laid a very hairy eyeball on the glass while muttering “Bastardo!” According to the police report, when she reached for the jar of maraschino cherries her gizzard gave out and she fell over dead.

Hearing the thump on the floor, Dudley released a heavier than usual sigh, strolled into the kitchen, saw his drink and took a sip. It was missing something, is what he told the police. Stooping in disgust to pick up one of a hundred spilled maraschino cherries, he  noticed his wife, apparently taking a nap on the floor. He shook his head and felt sad, he told police while rattling his ice cubes.

After his conviction of felonious dopery, the headline read:

Depraved Dick is Sentenced to
Life of Bitters, Hold The Cherry

Interestingly, the debate has been good for the sucking community. A vacuum cleaner company invented a machine that sucks the shoes, socks and pants off a reluctant feet lifter. Very few fatalities or maimed genitalia have been recorded.

Recently, though, a controversial “Sarcasm defense” has watered down Depraved Dick laws. Avoid a depravity charge by simply uttering “Oops, Just Kidding.”

As a result, it’s now legal to say things like “Would it kill you…

    • if I threw a rattlesnake in your lap?
    • if I squirted you with plutonium 209? (Now available in spray cans. Do not confuse with plutonium 210.)
    • to stop talking about LeBron James?
    • to shut up every now and then?
    • that’s right, every, now and then
    • to get off your butt and go get a new one?
    • to drop dead?
    • to rock my soul in the bosom of Abraham or, if Abraham is unavailable, how about yours?

Oops, Just kidding!*

*So, would it kill you to laugh?

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2018, all rights reserved.

Posted in funny, News You Can Use (Sort of), The human comedy | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Large-fruit paranoia

Into the tire shop, then, to pick up his car with its freshly rotated tires. He waits in the showroom, surrounded by hundreds of gleaming black tires hanging from the walls or poised in garish cardboard floor displays.

The place has one overpowering vibe: the singular reek of rubber gone mad. His eyes begin to glaze over. Boredom, thy name is Hankook Dyna Pro.

To be sure, there are those who rank tires just below (1) sex and (2) sex with tires. But this guy, he’s never been a car man: engines, cylinders, brake pads, four-on-the-floor, cup holders, valves, six lords a leapin’, plugs, glove compartment injectors, mud flaps. Couldn’t tell a tapit rod from a pretzel rod.

No, he is here at the tire-slash-repair shop for one reason: Adam and Eve blew it in the Garden of Eden.

To pay for their sin, everyone must spend Xteen hours/days/weeks in auto shops with a waiting-room TV permanently tuned to Fox news and a customer of questionable thinkity and smellity endlessly reciting an epic pome about the golden-haired Don Donaldo de la Casa Blanca.

The maître du garage, a man with Robespierre embroidered in red on a white patch just under his laughably over-penned pocket protector, enters from the repair shop.

“We must parlez-vous,” says M. Robespierre, “about your rear end.”

A number of WTF thoughts tumble invisibly from the folds of the customer’s gray cells onto the floor of his hippocampus. Fortunately, the hippo is off campus today on a job interview.

“My rear end?”

“Oui,” says the wrench monger (say moan-GARE). “Ze differential.”

He’s been dreading this day of heavenly retribution for years, ever since he lied in the confessional to Father “Holy Moley” Foley about missing his nightly prayers three times instead of the square of the hypotenuse times eleven.

How he wishes that, like other men, he could have an intelligent conversation with a mechanic about his differential.

But instead of drawing on a lifelong, free-will fascination with tires, motors, hoses and dual carbs, he recalls only the memorized-at-yardstick-point screed of an escaped warg rider disguised as a nun: do good (fat chance, bozo); avoid evil (fatter chance); have no fear (just kidding); feel no guilt (don’t make me laugh); have no fun (now we’re talking); I’m watching you (don’t try to hide behind that cardboard Michelin tire man).

His job, his hobby, his eau de cologne as a youth was all about toeing the line of righteousness and praying nightly against wrongteousness. Put another way, his life was ruled by the rigid duality of peanut butter v. jelly. To even hint at a curiosity about, say, cream cheese and jelly would trigger a visit from the Spanish Inquisition.

Ze moan-GARE begins talking about his customer’s differential. “Ze main symptom of ze bad rear end is ze noise. Ze noise in ze rear end is never ze good sign.”

While our man does wonder about the monstrously fake French-Spanish accent of ZmG, he decides getting an explanation might be more complicated than ze differential.

The Robester begins speaking in tongues, using words like clanking, clunking, clinking, clucking, clapper-clawing clod-hopping, Clytemnestra, and Cleveland, painting the picture of a missing gear tooth on, near or just very close friends with the pinion, (pronounced peen-yohn).

“If ze problem is on ze peen-yohn…” he begins, thrusting both arms upward like the pope waiting to catch a holy watermelon from on high…His voice drifts away, allowing time for his customer’s imagination and large-fruit paranoia to fill in ze blanks.

A problem on the pinion. The damned pinion. Whatever the hell that is.

Silently, he curses Adam. Then he curses Eve. He curses his Time-Life Book-of-the-Month Club guide to understanding the family automobile, still encased in its bolo-knife-proof, unopenable, Lubyanka-grade shrink-wrap from 1974.

“Look,” he says, knowing deep down that it is he who is morally responsible for his rear end, just as any man is responsible at the End of Days (of Our Lives) for the differential between heaven and hell. “How do I know if my problem is on the pinion?”

“Ho, ho, honh,” ze moan-GARE chuckles frenchly. “ze problaim, she is always on ze peen-yohn.”

Bottom line, the customer knows the differential is a tangible thing and not some moral abstraction. But he also admits to himself that tangling with a tangible rear-end can only lead to a most dangerous dalliance with fromage a la creme.

His only recourse is to send an urgent text to Madame X, known in the rear-end community as ze dame avec une grande hatpeen-yohn. When it comes to her rear end — so very tangible, but don’t distract her —  she never takes la merde from ze moan-GARE.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2018, all rights reserved.

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, News You Can Use (Sort of) | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

It will heal before your wedding

Q. Sometimes people call those who disagree with them communists. But then you’ll hear them calling the same people fascists. Can people be both communist and fascist?
A. Not if they hope to attend their respective balls.

Q. Don’t the views of one make it impossible to share the views of the other?
A. A normal person might think that. Anyone who has ever read a book might think that. Anyone who has ever vacationed on Neptune might not.

Q. So a fascist is a fascist and a communist is a communist and never the twains do meet?
A. Not quite. Google Stalingrad.

Q. I’m still confused. How do communists differ from fascists?
A. Okay. Write this down.

  • The star of communism is the shlub. Since communists believe everyone is equal, everyone is a shlub.
  • In a Communist society nobody owns anything. On the other hand everyone owns nothing.
  • Freed from the oppression of capitalism, shlubs are assigned cushy lifetime jobs at places like the Iron Cushion Factory or The Noose Works and the popular Polonium 210 Craft Beer Brewery (“The one beer to have when you’re having only one.”)
  • Under Communism, the government controls all production. Theoretically this guarantees material abundance unless some government shlub forgets to push the production button (which is why they have the Gulag).
  • Shlubs are paid in the finest grains of gravel which may be exchanged at the party’s commissariat, run by the proletariat (aka The Pro, who also does tricks with a lariat.)
  • The commissariat is closed Mondays through whatever other days are left that week. It provides everything shlubs need as long as it isn’t edible or nice, lest everything fall down and go boom.
  • In theory, the communist state controls nothing except for the number of breaths you may take, which can be as high as 167 on a good day.
  • Okay, I’m switching now to my fascist pants. The star of fascism is the state, sometimes known as the Glorious State, sometimes known as Strontium 90, sometimes as Whooping Cough.
  • The fascist state feeds on glory and pork rinds, usually through pork rind trade wars (very easy to win), bumper sticker sales and the annual conquest of Poland.
  • The fascist army consists of men of great impotence (sic) dressed in stylish black uniforms (sick) designed by a team of 12-year old hellboys.
  • While communism has no classes (or class), fascists live in a strict class structure:
    1. lower class working stiffs on the bottom;
    2. the educated petit bourgeoise class, co-opted by their bottomless need for not being on the bottom. (Cute note: the working stiffs call the petit bourgeoise teenie weenies.)
    3. Your wealthy business bottoms in first class
  • All are led by the self-installed, craziest bottom of all who inevitably falls head over heels in love with himself, slips on a reichsbanana peel and goes boom.
  • Fascists devote their lives to endlessly pimping the state’s massive glory jones. But since individuals have no value in fascist society, nobody ever gets any personal glory points. As fascists like to say “Whoever dies with the most glory is dead.”

Q. Can we go back to your comment about communists and fascists respecting their balls?
A. No.

Q. What exactly is the alt-right?
A. The alt in alt-right comes from the phrase “ ‘alt or I veel shooot.’”

Q. Is there an alt-left?
A. Yes, they’re known as “The left behind.” The alt in alt-left comes from an old Rooskie saying: Ваш локоть близко, но вы не можете укусить его. It can mean any or all of the following:*

• There is no truth in feet.
• Elder-berry is in the kitchen-garden, and the uncle is in Kiev.
• Nobody goes to Tula with one’s own samovar.
• I’d like to drink honey with your lips.
• That’s where the dog is buried.
• A goose is not a pig’s friend.
• It will heal before your wedding.
• Health leaves you in pounds, but comes in zolotniks.
• When the crawfish whistles on the mountain.
• Beware the goat from its front side, the horse from its back side, and the evil man from any side.
• It makes chicken laugh.
• A tomtit in your hand is better than a crane in the sky.
• Best is the enemy of good.
• A thief’s hat is burning.
• Не that has nо head needs no hat.

Q. I don’t get it.
A. Think of it this way: Your elbow is close, yet you can’t bite it.

Q. Wow. Now everything makes sense.

*Those silly Rooskies: http://masterrussian.com/proverbs/russian_proverbs.htm

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2018, all rights reserved.

Posted in F.A.Q., News You Can Use (Sort of), The human comedy | 2 Comments

Do they think we are stupid?

They want you to believe that the world is round and not flat for one simple reason: The world actually is flat, as more and more people here at the rubber plantation are beginning to find out.

Look,  when tens of people start saying the world is flat, the elitist macadamia nuts, by default, have to say the world is round – as they are now doing to mucho laughter in certain corners of the bouncy room.

We are always thinking about what they don’t want you to think about because it’s what we do here at the Balloon Animal Farm. But it’s not easy, because they never tell you that working up a good think can cause irreparable, male-pattern babboo.

You know, of course, they want you to believe the moon landings were real. Get this: they want you to believe that there were so-called scientists back then who somehow “did” all the ridiculously hard math and science and gym homework required to build a rocket ship to the moon. People watched the live TV video of man’s first steps on the moon and they bought it, hook, line and walleye.

But hold on a sec. Wouldn’t they have had to send a movie crew up there first to film the landing? So how did they get up there? What — they had their own space ship and they flew up there? And who filmed that landing? And how did that camera crew get up there? And so forth and so on and/or etc. The lies just keep on laying eggs. They don’t want you to think about that, but I can’t help myself, even though it’s against the rules here at Whispering Chipmunks, which is why I think about it very quietly.

Oh, and they want you to believe that there is a seed vault hidden on an island in Norway. It stores every kind of seed known to man and some women. When Armageddon happens, all the seed stores around the world will be nuked and farmers will be forced to raise  glow-in-the-dark Oreos.

But, hey, if you’re still alive and hungry, you can just drive over to Norway and get some tomato seeds and lettuce seeds and bacon seeds and have a BLT anytime you want. Or, that’s what they want you to believe.

Well, okay, let’s say you go to Norway (go ahead, use your “Big pain in the ass” sticker and park in a handicapped space.) You go in and ask for a six-pack of tomato seeds. And they say, “Oops, just sold the last one. How about some Brussels Sprouts seeds?”

And that, my friends, is how they finally get you to eat Brussels Sprouts. Jesus continues to weep.

They also want you to believe that the global is warming up, that Antarctica is like ice in a cooler five days after a barbecue, polar bears are waxing their legs, penguins are walking sillier than ever, there’s more rain, fewer umbrellas, the oceans are rising, sharks are putting sunblock on their fins, women are getting hotter, men are going behind burning bushes, footballs are wilting and not as pointy as they used to be, snowmen are getting prickly heat, men are transitioning into women who are getting downright sultry, baked Alaska is now fried Alaska, tuna are melting without benefit of cheese, spicy Indian food has been banned within six feet of a forest, baked beans are banned within six feet of anybody, and the president is six beans short of a three bean salad.

And who do they blame for global sweating? They want you to believe we did this to ourselves. What crap — pardon my Klingon. That’s like saying we’re all to blame for electing a sociopathic billionaire who got a wild hare up his northwest passage, then gave Canada the stink eye for being polite.

As long as I’m on auto think, they want you to believe baseballs are not juiced. They want you to believe we should be sneezing into our armpits – our firetrucking armpits! — and instead of saying “Gesundheit,” we should be saying “Gazebo.”

They want you to believe banjos are not cool. They want you to believe ukuleles are cool. They want you to believe that scientists are not making this up, not even the ones strumming “Ukulele lady” with all the peaches on the beaches under the moonlight on Honolulu bay.

Do they think we are stupid?

Actually, they do. But they want us to believe we are not stupid. Good luck with that.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2018, all rights reserved.

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, Mockery and derision, News You Can Use (Sort of) | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 11 Comments

That is gross, man

Got a new dish-washing scrub brush, and boys, it is a beaut. It’s snub nosed, comes with a shoulder holster and fits my fist like a set of brass knuckles. We’re talking heft and the kind of authority any prison gang would respect.

Did I mention it has a very rugged handle — like what you’d find on a curling stone or the no frills flat iron that Mom used on my First Communion suit with nothing but elbow grease, unyielding battleship iron and the occasional hit from a cold Utica Club and/or an unfiltered Pall Mall.

The business end, though, that’s where the poetry meets the toad. Those bristles are as tough and mean as alligator teeth, so sharp and deadly that Mr. Geneva down at the Convention wept openly when he condemned them as inhumane. I’ve seen up close and personally what those bristly piranhas can do to a pan encrusted with your arrogant, baked-on ziti and I’ve almost been brought to tears myself.

Back in the day, if the cave man had had one of these pluperfect babes — especially after a Friday night mastodon feast on the good stoneware — well, let’s just say he could have saved an epoch of scrubbing and been able to join his Neanderthal guests playing Pictionary on the cave wall with the finger paints.

So, life is grand, eh? Well, in fact, the quality of my new scrubber (I like to call it My Glock) is so high that I am almost embarrassed to use it on your normal postprandial dinner goosh.

The first time I used it, I was stacking dinner plates and pans in the sink. They were not pretty. Marinara sauce everywhere, an errant pea rolling from one plate to the next, half-eaten sausage welded to the edge of a plate. The bottom of a sauce pan covered in burnt cheese, burnt alfredo sauce, burnt Moe Green, and burnt sienna.

I thought “Look at the goosh on that pan. I don’t want my new brush to see that. And where did that green pea come from?”

That is why God made sponges, of course. They do the real dirty work at the sink, leaving the Glock for those special hits that call for a cold-blooded pro. I mean, it could scrape the dub dub off a flubba.

And you know how they say never bring a scrub brush to a gun fight? This brush may be the exception to the rule. I know it would be perfect in a bar brawl. At the very least it could dig a bullet out of an arm or leg, scrape off all the blood and gore and make a perfect charm for a bracelet like one of those made of Swarovski elements.

Or a Christmas gift for the man who — WAIT JUST A SEC. WHAT THE HELL IS A SWAROVSKI ELEMENT? YOU CAN’T JUST PLOP SOMETHING LIKE THAT INTO A PARAGRAPH WITHOUT… HEY. TAKE YOUR HANDS OFF ME. I HAVE A PERFECT RIGHT TO INTERRUPT THIS SENTENCE AND, UH, IS THAT A GLOCK? WHAT? IT’S A SCRUB BRUSH? WOW, WHERE CAN I GET…HEY, IS THAT A PEA STUCK IN THE BRISTLES? A SWAROVSKI ELEMENT? EEEWWWWW. THAT IS GROSS, MAN — has everything, including a bullet wound (and, if still alive and able to recite the abc’s up to j without dribbling or asking what century it is.)

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2018, all rights reserved.

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, News You Can Use (Sort of), The human comedy | Tagged , , , , , , | 3 Comments

It helps if your name isn’t Bob

There are two big things out there now. One of them is the constant need to assure everyone around you that you get it — usually when there are important things to be gotten and the reputation of your getfullness may be getting away from you.

Good news. You can ease the minds of colleagues by simply saying, after the colleagues shut up, “I get it.” Or sometimes, you can simply interrupt them to say “I get it, already.”

Remember, people just want to be certain that everyone is on the same page with it, leaving no lingering doubt. No longer is it sufficiently reassuring to tell people “I hear you.” Exactly what you hear may be ambiguous. It could be anything, from the accidental burrrrippofraaaack of a sudden adjustment way down there in one’s personal Tropic of Capricorn, to the sound of someone hitting someone else in the face with a sopping shower pouf.[1]

When you keep saying “I hear you,” or “I see your lips moving” it may cause others in the immediate got it community to wonder if you really do get it. It’s even worse when you say “I’m picking up what you’re laying down.” What will likely happen is that someone will say to you “See, I don’t think you do get it, Bob.”

It helps if your name isn’t Bob because then you can seize the initiative with “See, (or So,) my name isn’t Bob. That’s your name. I think. And you just don’t get it, do you…Bob…or whatever your name is?”

By the way, here’s a little known fact: You don’t actually have to get it to say you get it. Simply saying you get it is pretty much a prima facie case of simulating getting it or having gotten it. (Select only one.)

Sometimes you may find that someone got it in front of witnesses — who may or may not get it themselves, but who have removed suspicion from themselves as non-getters by bearing witness to the get of the previously mentioned getter who, in fact, may or may not actually get it, especially if someone is bearing false witness against their non-getting neighbor.

Got it?

I doubt it. Don’t you know you can’t bullshit a bullshitter? Go ahead, try it out in the field with any bull.

You still don’t get it, do you? You’re waiting for me to walk away so you can turn to that guy over there and say “Get a load of that biodegradable.” Only to hear that guy say “I didn’t bring my pickup truck. But if I did, I’d be picking up what you’re laying down and throwing you in with it.”

I guarantee that guy’s name might be Bob and he’s one of the ungettabulls of this land (not to be confused with deplorabulls or Ducks Without Lives.)

We live in dangerous times, when getting it is too often not got. Undoubtedly you’ve had the experience of mentioning it with discrete enunciation, only to hear someone say “Were you talking to moi? I missed that, silly. What was it again?” Or “I have beans in my ears and didn’t get that. Could you repeat it? Into my ear-trumpet?”[2]

And have you ever had to grit your teeth when you bleated it at the top of your lungs to the guy with beans in his ears, only to have him respond “That’s it? Duh! I got that years ago. By the way, would you like to buy a couple of magic beans?”

The second big thing out there today only makes sense if you get it. By it, I’m not talking about the it I was just talking about, i.e. the getting it it. I’m talking about the other big it. I do hope you’re getting this because my time is unvaluable.

So here’s the other big thing out there:

Sex.

So, (or Look, or Dude, or So look dude) either you get it or you don’t get it. And if you don’t get it pretty soon, you may never get it. Just sayin’.[3]

1.Yes, sadly, that’s what it’s called. Don’t blame me. I would have called it a “Weird looking spongie thing.”
2. Confusing that with it is like confusing a horse with a llama of a different color.”
3.”If you’re slurping up what I’m ladling into your bowl.”

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2018, all rights reserved.

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, Mockery and derision, News You Can Use (Sort of) | Tagged , , , , , , , | 3 Comments