FAQ: Worried Man Blues

Q. Should I be worried?
A. Yes.

Q. Wow, I thought you’d say no.
A. No.

Q. Yes, I did. And then you said no. Just now.
A. Yes.

Q. So wait…you’re not saying there’s nothing to worry about?
A. Yes.

Q. You know, that reminds me of this grammar lady in Lockport who’s always saying stuff like “Two negatives make a positive but three negatives don’t make no sense nohow.”
A. You forgot the comma.

Q. This may be off topic, but suddenly I am reminded of the saying “Two wrongs don’t make a right.” So how many wrongs does it take?
A. The saying is two rungs don’t make a ladder.

Q. Just free-associating here. What about two rugs? What do they not make?
A. You’ll find that ladder is a suitable answer for any question that asks “What do two what-evers not make.”

Q. Whatever. Whatever. Okay, I see no ladder, so you’re onto something. But just to be clear: I should not be worried? Or I shouldn’t not be worried?
A. No. Yes.

Q. You know, when I was a kid I would tell my mother I was worried and she would say “Everything is going to be all right, so don’t you worry your little jelly doughnut head off.”
A. Classic doughnutpomorphism.

Q. She used to say I was her little creampuff. Or, I was so sweet, she wanted to eat me up. 
A. That sounds like Munchinhousen by pastry.

Q. Anyway, ever since I left home I’ve kept my head on my shoulders and have never worried about anything. 
A. You’re a lying fried cake.

Q. You don’t believe I kept my little doughnut head on my shoulders? Or that I never worried?
A. Is that jelly leaking out your ears?

Q. Okay. I admit that I wonder about worrying. For some reason, that gets me worrying about wondering.
A. I wonder if that’s because of your little head?

Q. I don’t wonder that. And just to be safe I don’t not wonder that. Because my head is no longer small. I don’t want to say it’s big or even very big. That would be immodest. Let’s just say it’s not so little anymore. And it has never been off my shoulders. Or even my neck. Not even once.
A. Pants on fire.

Q. You don’t believe me? Look, if my head had been off my neck, even just once, don’t you think I’d know it? In fact I’d be de–Oh geeze, my pants are on fire!
A. This is a no-pants-smoking zone.

Q. I’m not smoking. It’s this dude behind me in line. Hey buddy, you just set my pants on fire. You want to stand back a bit? You’re just lucky I carry a fire extinguisher everywhere I go.
A. A textbook example of a flaming doughnut hole.

Q. Him or me?
A. Yes.

Q. By the way, have you ever heard that song “It takes a worried man to sing a worried song?”
A. The folk song. Sung by folks playing banjos. With plastic heads.

Q. Right. So here’s something I wonder about: what happens if you’re not worried, but you sing that song anyway? Just for grins.
A. Lightning.

Q. You’re saying you’d be struck by lightning?
A. No.

Q. Then what are you saying?
A. You.

Q. Me what?
A. Pants on fire.

Q. You aren’t saying…
A. Yes.

Q. But…
A. No.

Q. You do know that my fire extinguisher is empty?
A. Yes.

Q. Um, should I be worried?
A.  Very.

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

Posted in F.A.Q., Mockery and derision, News You Can Use (Sort of) | Tagged , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Jiggling my grandmother

Sometimes, I get anxious. Ironically, the condition is called anxiety. I got it one day when I just dropped in to see what condition my condition was in. I was pretty wired so they took me right away and later said “If you were a board game you’d be The Game of Life with the spinner missing its arrow.”

Otherwise, I am completely normal: I walk, I talk, I eat, I sleep, I dream of accidentally on purpose nuclear war and famine and being eaten by a zombie and the rapture happening while I’m in/on the jake. While out walking I sometimes stop and point to the heavens and say “Look! Up in the sky! It’s a bird…it’s a plane…it’s…wow, you know what, dude? I think that’s a rapidly plummeting truckload of North Korean cement.”

And yes, on occasion, I bounce my leg. It’s hardly noticeable unless the front windows rattle or a stink bug falls off the wall or a mini tsunami sends the pea soup over the lip of the tureen. Or maybe you’re one of those superior people who notice every ding in everybody’s dong, but haven’t the ding-dong decency to shut up about it.

“You’re bouncing your leg. Did you know that?”

“I can do both legs at the same time,” I respond teeth-grindingly.

“It’s like a cop tasered your leg.”

“Wow,” I say, “don’t look now, but a truck load of cement is about to turn you into a patio.”

Hearing this, people with their dead eyes and puckered behinds offer you a sweet-and-sour smile of pity. But they always, always take a precautionary peak at the sky, because they have places to go and people to pass judgment on, and a cement bath would ruin everything.

We, the people prone to the occasional leg bounce, are often given friendly advice by well-intentioned loved ones: “Stop bouncing your leg!” Or, sometimes, the abrupt, tough love approach: “STOP THE DANG LEG BOUNCING!” The unloved say: “Quit bouncing your leg, you faroukhead, you’re jiggling my grandmother’s bust of Elvis off the shelf.”

Pardon me a moment. My Smart Ass phone is making a noise like someone hitting a calliope-playing moose over the head with a bag of sonar pings.

“Hello?” I suggest.

“Hello! This is Heather at account services and we’re calling about your credit card account.”

I’m feeling anxious, again. If my leg could talk it would be saying bouncybouncybouncybouncybouncy.

Sigh. I suppose that somewhere in this world there really is someone named Heather who works in some company’s account services department and who places perky-yet-ominous calls suggesting you have a credit card problem but there’s a perky solution that will cost you mere thousands.

I punch the red button, cutting Heather off in mid-exclamation point. I know she doesn’t exist. I’m also PRIT-ee sure I have no credit card problem.

Just as I am also pretty sure that last night’s dream was merely a dream. I’m on a plane and the pilot announces “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a life and death emergency situation. Is there anyone on board who can play the banjo? The five-string banjo. In the Earl Scruggs style. Please, not the Pete Seeger style. If so, see a flight attendant, immediately.”

When pilots make that kind of announcement, first of all, it sounds like they’re speaking into a can of Durham’s Rock Hard Water Putty. Second of all, they’re urgently looking for a doctor or a priest or a stock broker and there’s nothing I can do to help.

But this time I clearly recognize the raison d’être moment of my life. I flag down a flight attendant with the flag knit (crocheted? weaved? shoplifted?) by my mother for just such an occasion. Breathlessly, I blurt “I’m a banjo player. Of the Scruggs persuasion.” And she says “Oh, thank God! Quick, where is it?” I say “Where’s what?” She says “Your banjo.” I say, “Um, it’s back in Baltimore.” And she screams “Jesus wept!”

Moments before I wake up, I notice her name tag: Heather.

I hurry back to my conditioner. I ask what they make of my condition now. They say it’s complicated. If I were a baseball bat, I’d be an ash. If I were a duck I’d be Daffy. If I were a sandwich I’d be a Reuben, hold the cabbage and if Reuben comes in, don’t let on.

“Seriously,” said my air conditioner, “the pilot should have said ‘a life or death situation.’ It can’t be both. By the way, you’re bouncing your leg, did you know 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 , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

Ta Da! You’re back!

Have you ever stood on your front porch of an evening after a trying life and wondered about existence? In other words, have you ever wondered if you really exist or if you exist only in somebody else’s dream? Or maybe you’re a prisoner in one of those snow globes, or even the hallucination of a newt? (Perhaps you’ve done this from your back porch because the front porch was crawling with newts?)

Have you ever taken doubts about your existence to the point where you find a pin (not a bowling pin and never a grenade pin) and jab it into your ample buttovia, reasoning that if you feel pain, it’s proof you’re alive and that you really exist. Which means you have to paint the damn porch and call a newt removal service as you were previously ordered to do by the high command.

But here is a key question. When you screamed in pain, were you, in even a small way, disappointed? Maybe you were hoping — in case you found out you didn’t exist anymore — to take the rest of the day off? And now, because you do exist, you’re maybe just a tad nervous about needing a tetanus shot? And if you do go in for a tetanus shot you’ll have to explain to the doc why you stuck a pin in your butt. And his/her laughter will ring in your ears long after they’ve fallen off in the coffin that you’ll need when you truly do cease to exist.

Now, if you did the pin thing and you didn’t feel anything, before you go jumping to conclusions, have you considered the possibility that you may have a condition know as bulletproof butt (aka BPB). Many sufferers of this rare condition don’t even know they have it because they have never been shot in the butt. Or maybe they have and it just made no impression on them at all. (Telltale signs are usually bullet holes in your pants, in which case you may want to have your hearing checked — although without going into the details as to why.)

BPB not only protects the butt from bullets, but from butt kickings, losing your ass in a poker game and even brass toilet seats in the middle of the Yukon. And yes, it protects against pricks with a pin, a roofing nail, a sheet-rock screw or even Excalibur (the sword, not the I.P.A.)

If BPB is not an issue or if you have recently suffered a humiliating tetanus shot, you might consider seeing a nonexistent therapist. The leading practitioner in this new field is a wealthy (so wealthy), stable genius whose success belies (pants on fire) his humble beginnings in a shit hole (i.e. a lovely shit hole, a very beautiful shit hole. A very very shit hole.)

Look, if you go too long without help, your fears of non-existence will only get sillier. For example, it’s not uncommon for non-existers to lose touch with their genius and/or species and slip into episodes of incognito burrito. Here, the daft bugger assumes the identity of an item of Mexican cuisine but disguises himself as an order of Kung Pao chicken with peanuts. No MSG.

Neuroses that go unchecked get worse. Negative vibes beget other negative vibes. Which beget negatory vibes. Which beget nugatory vibes. Which beget nugat or, what your pluperfect Latin speakers like Cicero and Caesar called nucatum, meaning nutty, as in the film “The Nutty Professor.” Which begat Jerry Lewis, now begone, begorra and bejaysus.

People who didn’t know what to make of Jerry Lewis’s existence in the first place, develop the false belief that if you shut your eyes really tight, existence ceases to exist until you open them. At which point, Ta Da! You’re back in the high life again! Unfortunately, as scientific studies have shown, this works on only three out of ten eye-squeezers. The rest face an uncertain future as defunct Republicans or prematurely ejaculating Democrats.

©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), The human comedy | Tagged , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

F.A.Q. The Fruitcake Incident

Q. How do I get to my grandmother’s house?
A. Go over the river and through the woods.

Q. Which one? I always get my rivers mixed up.
A. Don’t worry. The horse knows the way.

Q. What horse?
A. The one who carries your sleigh.

Q. Why would a horse carry a sleigh? Wouldn’t he just pull it?
A. He would, were it not for the white and drifting snow. Ho!

Q. So…What if I don’t have a horse?
A. Why would you not have a horse?

Q. Um…
A. Because, most people have horses, you know.

Q. That’s not true.
A. All right. Many people have horses.

Q. How about some people have a horse and most people don’t.
A. Well, if you want to get snippy about it. But just out of curiosity: why don’t you have a horse?

Q. A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse. Look, why does everything in life always  come down to who has a horse and who doesn’t?                                        A. Well now, there’s a question for the ages. But not a frequently asked question, mind you. I’m not really qualified to saddle that one up. Perhaps you should try the UNFAQ desk over the hill and very far away.

Q. I mean, why not a…a rhinoceros?
A. You’d take a rhinoceros to Grandma’s house? We’ve already had somebody’s Grandma run over by a reindeer. I don’t think…

Q. And his name is Bob.
A. You’re saying you have a rhinoceros named Bob?

Q. Like in the song. On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me a rhinoceros named Bob.
A. With the big horn and everything?

Q. No. This one comes with silver bells.
A. You’re making this up.

Q. I swear. The thing is, around this time of year you have to tickle his butt with a feather.
A. I shouldn’t ask this. But, why?

Q. To hear the bells on Bob’s tail ring.
A. You know, it’s not nice to fool with the FAQ man. Especially around Christmas

Q. Speaking of whom, here’s my real question: Is Santa Claus real?
A. (Whispering) Keep your voice down. Little kids might overhear and it would break their heart.

Q. Overhear what?
A. (Whispering) You know, about…

Q. I’m not a professional lip reader but did you just mime the words “There’s no Santa Claus?”

Q. You’re nodding your head, so I’ll take that as a yes. But just to be clear, it’s yes, there’s no Santa Claus, right?

Q. You’re shaking your head. So that’s not what you said?

Q. You’re nodding your head. So that is what you didn’t say?

Q. By the way, is that why you’re wearing a Santa Claus suit? And is that why there’s so many little kids in this line?

Q. Look, I don’t want to tell you how to run your Santa Claus gig, but you really ought to think about having two lines. One for Santa’s kids and one for serious adults with frequently asked questions.


Q. Did you just mime “There are two lines?                                                                     A.

Q. You’re miming again. This time it looks like you said “Get this fruitcake off my lap.” Why would anyone have a fruitcake on his lap?

Q. Oh. My bad. Does this mean coal in my stocking?

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2017, all rights reserved.

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

If you know what I mean

K-Mac bought a wrought iron clock with those old-fashioned, black serpentine hour and minute hands for our family room.  I think it’s important to note up front that I, the man in the relationship, was not consulted.

It is a big clock. Imagine yourself standing with your arms outstretched like a scarecrow. That big. Or an inebriated guy (not me) bragging about the length of his horizontal stabilizer. In other words, unbelievably huge. Had he seen it, Big Ben himself would have gone clock shit (following the Darwinian evolutionary progression from bat shit to ape shit to Tyrannosaurus Rex Ryan shit to your cheap plastic shit and so on and so forth shit.)

The first time I saw this mamoo of a clock, it hung timelessly from the wall above the couch. I say timelessly because it is battery operated, but the battery was an off-off-Broadway brand. How off? The clock went tick-tock-ti-ti-t-t. At  precisely 10 minutes to six, it went what scientists call dead.

I asked “How did you even get that thing up there?”

“It wasn’t heavy,” K-Mac said sayfully.

Upon closer inspection, I noted that the wrought iron was actually wrought plastic. The honking couch below it, however, was about as easy to move as a tipped over Jersey cow or a sunbathing Jersey governor.

“Don’t tell me you stood on our brand new couch to hang that?”

K-Mac gently noted that the couch was 17 years old.

“We just got this couch,” I whined. “In April.”

“Of 2000,” said K-Mac.

I groaned inwardly. Women always remember stuff like that.

Anyway, in my basement lair I’d stockpiled batteries of all sizes and shapes against dark moments when our battery-powered lives go stoppity. Because nothing is ever easy, I found no battery for clockus interruptus. For weeks it hung frozen at ten minutes to six (we lost track of whether it was a.m. or p.m.)

Finally, I committed the sacrilege of borrowing the batteries from my boyhood St. Anthony statue (his rosary beads light up within 3 feet of lost banjo picks, etc.) K-Mac and I removed our shoes and together performed a terrifying, bouncey-boingedy-hey-watch-yer-bodiddly dance on those still dangerously springy 17-year-old couch cushions.

Gingerly grasping the clock, grimacing, teetering, tottering, profanefully suggesting Get off my foot! then, Get off my back! then, teeth-grittingly, Blastthatfraddarack, we dinged our 49.5 year marriage, yes, but successfully transplanted St. Anthony’s fire* into that sumbitch.

Immediately, the big hand went around the little hand and it became five minutes to six and then six o’clock. Exhausted, we quietly re-shoed and returned to the time of our fradderacking lives.

Only four days later Daylight Savings time rudely invaded our bumbling pursuit of laughing gas. Although still ticking, our clock now stood a full 60 minutes behind the rest of the cosmos. At ten to six in our family room it was actually, sort of, ten to seven in the show-off, fast-laners house across the street.

We sighed the deep sigh of the time warped, cringing at the thought of reprising our gladiatorial dance of the boingedies. Like a voice crying from the wilderness/family room I loudly demanded why there was no home version of the NFL system where the referee simply announces “Please put 60 minutes back on the clock.”

It gets wrought ironically worse. For six months we lived an hour behind everyone. We weren’t proud, although we confused each other often with existential and geographical questions like “If it’s three o’clock in Buffalo, what time is it in Sioux Falls?” All of our guests those six months came late and left early, if you know what I mean. Because I don’t.

One morning, six months later, Day Light Savings time gave us back our stolen hour without further incident. Sometimes, the best prescription really is to do nothing, say nothing, and keep the Zoloft on automatic refill.

But then the sumbitch on the wall went tick-tock-ti-ti-t-t.

*Long ago, when St. Elmo carelessly lost his new Fire HD10, St. Anthony found it for him and a thankful Elmo gave him his old Fire7 with Alexa.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2017, all rights reserved.

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, News You Can Use (Sort of), The human comedy | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

My beautiful head

In the summertime (i.e. summertime, summertime, sum sum summertime), your trendier fake news publications often wheel out their squeaky cart of dust-covered free books sent by desperate, dust-covered fake publishers in hopes of making somebody’s — anybody’s — list of fake best-selling fake books to be read at the beach.

While the enormous canon of fake rules don’t specifically limit the reading of these books to beaches, there’s always that implied moral imperative not to read them anywhere else — such as on a plane (even if flying to, over or into a beach) or a train (even if this train is bound for glory, this train) or a Zamboni (even if Mr. Zamboni says it’s okay, which he won’t, because he’s very, very late.)

The type of beach also matters. I’m going to go out on a boogie board here and say that the word beach in beach-book jabber implies and actually demands a beach that is attached to an ocean and not a lake. A sea beach will do in a pinch, but you’d still want to avoid what Arlo Guthrie calls “beaches full of peaches who bring their ukes along.”

Given that my blog falls squarely into the round hole of trendy fake blogorithms, I hereby recommend the following fake books for summertime beach reading.

One caution: as I write this in late October, I am morally obliged (by the nun chorus that follows me around, singing the mortal sin blues in Gregorian Chant), to note that summertime has actually passed. Therefore, this is a fake sum sum summertime list of fake bestsellers for fake reading on non-fake beaches.

Granted, it will be considerably cooler at your ocean and sea beaches at this time of year. The bratwurst stands will be closed, all sharks will have been jumped and Ubered back to Mar-a-lago, and Gov. Christie will be lying somewhere else.

I’ve included the first few fake lines for each fake book because there’s no better way to judge a fake book than with a fake judge (and as we all know — the Supreme Court, notwithstanding or notwithsitting, but possibly withlying — there are very few or very many fake judges out there, depending on your definition of out there.)

The Bottle In Front of Me, a detective Johnny Boozer mystery
I don’t want to brag, but I’m not as dumb as I look. Which is how I knew the man with the hole in his forehead was dead and not merely napping alongside the road following an outpatient frontal lobotomy.

The Banjo Player’s Wife
Cindy awoke that morning to Foggy Mountain Breakdown being picked by three fingers two inches from her one good ear. When she turned and saw her husband playing his banjo, fully asleep, yet snoring in that high lonesome sound, she thanked God for the umpteenth time that she wasn’t the Horn of Gondor player’s wife.

The Overturned Turtle
Ed, the box turtle, longed for a tattoo on his belly. “Flip me over,” it would say. Upside down as he found himself yet again, Ed thought about moving forward. Ed thought more about moving forward. His little green feet began pawing the upside down air. It was one of his best moves. In fact, it was his only move. Then Ed saw a woman wearing a “World’s Best Gardener” apron heading his way. Quickly he tried to remember some of his better pick-up lines. And then he remembered. He didn’t do quickly. Not even semi.

The President’s Hair is Missing
When Biff Crackerdog, the White House chief of staff, walked into the Oval Office that morning, he could scarcely believe his ears. O’Toole, the secret service agent, was saying “When was the last time you saw your hair, Mr. President?”

The bald-headed man behind the president’s desk said “I never see my hair. It’s on top of my head.”

“Not at the moment, Mr. President,” smirked O’Toole.

“My beautiful head. So beautiful.”

“Was there anything unusual about it?” asked O’Toole.

“About my beautiful hair? Other than it’s beauty?”

“Can you think of anyone who’d want to harm your hair?”

The president adopted a thoughtful look. “Crackerdog,” he barked, “Get me a Pellegrino water.” Then, to agent O’Toole, he whispered “I can think of someone.”

“Uh, Mr. President,” said Crackerdog. “We’re all out of…”

“Obama!” shouted the president. “I knew I should have changed the locks.”

“And don’t forget the bagels,” said O’Toole, pantomiming a drum roll and cymbal clang, followed needlessly by a cry of “Sha-BOOM!”

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2017, all rights reserved.

Posted in Mockery and derision, News You Can Use (Sort of), The human comedy | Tagged , , , | 3 Comments

Blotting out the sun

I know a guy named Al whose assigned duties include doing the dishes after dinner. (Stay with me, it gets better.) The other night, as usual, Al stacked plates in the dishwasher while ambidextrously whistling the Woody Woodpecker song. All at once, a profound thought jumped through the window, threw him up against the fridge, punched him in the gut and left him blowing tuneless air.

You can compare it to the gut punch that gave Henry Ford the brilliant idea to invent a glove compartment. Or the one that gave his trusted assistant Fred Carr the idea to build a 4-wheel, gas-powered vehicle around the glove compartment and then call it a car.*

At the moment, Al was having difficulty finding dishwasher space for the plates used in that night’s vegan stick surprise. The problem: Mrs. Al had already tossed in 11 plastic containers, mostly empty but each still a-wiggle with piquant eau de leftovers.

Eau de yes, including re-re-refried refried beans (technically, a weapon of mass disgustion); quinoa delight with so much delight it had sprouted polka dots; steamed trouser pie with crust made from Durham’s rock-hard water putty; and steel-cut oatmeal bogwort (an acquired taste that Al tried to acquire on eBay but was outbid by a biker gang seeking breakfast and tattoo removal.)

The containers gave Al’s olfactory sensibilities a beating, causing him bitter regret at donating his gas mask to the girl scouts’ gas mask drive. Then, up against the fridge,  Al realized that plastic containers were grabbing more and more of the really prime spots in America’s dishwashers.

Once upon a time, those spots belonged exclusively to dinnerware made from 100% American organic material such as clay or wood or melmac and cheese. In other words, honorable materials that wouldn’t kill you unless they were smashed over your head. But while plastic’s big selling point has always been its worthlessness as an assault weapon, it’s not without its own inherent lethal properties.

Plastic, as Al told friends (he scored a still-talked-about 76 in reform school chemistry) was invented by the third Polymer of Styrene. He hung out in the cellar of a dank and drear compound near his fairytale castle in the black forest region of Besphynol.

There, the Polymer (his friends called him Polly; so did his enemies) mixed hydrogen and carbon with politics, oil of dead-skunk-in-the-middle-of-the-road, and flubber. The ingredients were stirred, not shaken, then boiled until a thick, scary looking cloud billowed over Besphynol, blotting out the sun (quite harmless, unless inhaled).

The resulting goop was used to produce everything from dinner plates to nerf guns, to the sweat-inducing mattress covers so popular in no-tell motels — and even sweat-inducing presidential candidates with moral compasses of 100% plastic.

“All well and good,” said Al, “until plastic junk started crowding our dishwashers. Suddenly there’s no room for grandma’s porcelain gravy boat, or grandpa’s ceramic hoohah, or Uncle Ned’s cracked earthenware bong.”

Al, not usually the rebellious type, alarmed me when he pulled out a 5-string banjo and started to sing and plunk:

“I don’t care if it rains or freezes,
long as I got my plastic Jesus
ridin’ on the dashboard of my car…**

Oddly (or evenly) (Personally, I’d posit extreme ironicalness) I couldn’t help notice during his playing that Al’s head was made of plastic. That is, the head on his banjo was plastic. Not sure about the other.

“What, then, are we to do?” Al had pleaded pluperfectly, post-plunking. “It’s almost as if no one cares anymore about eating off plates made from good old dirt. Everything today is plastic. What’s next, plastic food?”

I had never seen Al so distraught, so I let the comment about plastic food pass. He’d find out soon enough.

*Ford talked Fred into calling it a “Ford Car With Handy Glove Compartment,” a name that proved too long for the patent form. It became known simply as a Ford. To avoid hard feelings, Ford gave Fred a free pair of gloves, provoking the inconsolable Carr to attempt to fit Ford’s head into the glove compartment. (Hence, the origin of the term “glove compartment head.”)

**Thanks to Ernie Marrs and to Coolhand Luke’s failure to communicate.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2017, all rights reserved.

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, The human comedy | Tagged , , , , , , , | 4 Comments