Sigh ops

I sat on the edge of my bed this morning and thought about the unpleasant, energy-devouring items on my agenda for the day: shovel the walk, mow the lawn, call Putin and tell him communism sucks, pressure wash the outhouse, write Canto XXIV to my epic poem “Term or Whole Life,” and, of course, keep trying to divine what my various devices want with my soul.

Weighted down by my burden, I sighed “Oh boy.”

Almost immediately, K-Mac called out from the vault where she was dusting the nest egg, that I’d already sighed ‘Oh boy’ four times today and I was still in my jammies.

“Oh boy,” I thought. “We’re counting sighs today.”

That’s one of the reasons it’s good to have a handful of other sigh words at the ready for this sigh-provoking world of ours. Otherwise your sigh ends up misunderstood and you end up sighing at your inability to sigh meaningfully and you sink into the dangerous quicksand of sighing “Not quicksand again.”

So I thought it high time to offer expert help with my (sigh)

Guideline to correct sighing procedure.

1. A sigh is not a whine

Normally, a wordless sigh is a discrete sound, originating in the lowest register and reminiscent of the growly rhapsody of sloshing and stumbling along life’s low-zone continuum. Like when a pair of tiny metal balls roll around on the bottom of an empty pizza box — a sound so often spoiled when someone says “Hey, are these your tiny balls?”

Rather, think of a sigh as the slow release of steam from a locomotive, or from a depressed zoo gorilla who stares glassy eyed at camera-aiming tourists asking him to say cheese, to which he responds “Sheesh.”

In comparison, a whine is like the sound you get when the violin section at the symphony is tuning up just as an escaped zoo gorilla comes out of nowhere (actually, the zoo) charges the stage, breaks the maestro’s wand, grabs the first chair violin by his rungs and tunes him to high C above W.

2. The most effective sighs use sigh words                                                           

Sighing without using special sigh words undermines one’s ability to prove that one exists. (It does for me, anyway.) Often, a wordless sigh is misunderstood as a moan, causing idiots nearby to moan “Quit your damn moaning.”

Even a wordless moan (Ernnnnnnnnn) does not give the satisfaction of a sigh enhanced by a message-specific sigh word or phrase such as:

• Oh boy (sometimes “Huh boy,” or “I gotta kill that boy, I just gotta.”)*
• Oh man (Aw man, man overboard, Manfred von Richtofen)
• I’m going to take poison now, I swear
• What crap (break this up every now and then with a snappy modifier: What absolute crap)
• What a leaf blower

3. Keep a safe and neutral sigh word handy.                                                         

Certain verbiage or adverbiage, even adjectivebidge can push some listeners into pre-mature death throes. If, as you begin your sigh, you see apoplexy hovering over your intended target, you can quickly cover by replacing a word like dick with dipthong. Or cock, with cockpthong.

Example: Let’s say you wanted to sigh out that so and so is a complete deck head (nudge nudge, wink wink). Remember the simple rule “i before e, except after c, or when sounded like dick not deck, or whatever.”

4. Punch up your sigh with a famous name from history.  

One of my favorite historical sighs goes “What the Dwight D. Ike is he talking about?”  Or, try these:    

  • Mother of Stonewall Jackson
  • For the love of Cherry Garcia
  • The Monster that devoured Cleveland
  • President Donald Cockpthong 

5. A sigh is not rooted in anger, but in love                                                       

Example: “Oh for the love of God (sometimes Mike)” which is rooted in loving frustration, which is rooted in a loveless, though lovingly appropriate anger, which is rooted in our deep-seated fear of nuns. (Holy Mary, Mother of Larry)

Remember, no quiver of arrows, no arsenal of freedom, no bag of charcoal briquettes, no string of quarterback audibles (Omaha, Omaha, South Sioux City, Fort Calhoun, Omaha) should be let loose without a stinging assemblage of vicious sigh words.

And now, time to get out of my jammies. Hey, who just sighed Huh boy?

*A tip of the hat to Herbert T. Gillis, WWII vet with a good conduct medal.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2019, all rights reserved.

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, Mockery and derision, News You Can Use (Sort of) | Tagged , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Full (as a tick) disclosure

You’re about to do something so bold, so socially weird that, should you be caught, your career — if you have one — is over. If you don’t have one, you will be issued a temporary, well-paying career with good medical and stock options and it will be revoked immediately. Also, no goodbye party.

You begin very slowly, very quietly. But, wait! Someone’s coming. You stop. You shoot furtive looks (glances, if you have them,) in all directions.

Because, if people knew you do what you are about to did, they would likely think you’re a major loon. And they might tell others, or text it to the world or directly to loon central: VPutin@Rrrrroooooskie.com(munist).

So. Here’s the deal. I make goofy faces at myself in the bathroom mirror. I humbly suggest that we all do it. I mean, I hope we all do it. I hope it’s not just me. That could be grounds for  thinking I’m drifting too far from the refreshment stand, or flying without an enchilada.

Raise your hands out there if it’s just me. Ah. I see no hands. Prima facie evidence we’re all either crazy or normal. (Full disclosure: Personally, I’m normal.)

By the way, have you noticed the new trend? Sometimes reporters will pause briefly in their writing and, out of an abundance of caution and a dollop of marmelade, they will admit to readers a potential conflict of interest in the subject at hand.

For example, when writing an investigative piece, say, on the wide-spread corruption in the cracked world of pottery, a reporter might (parenthetically) state (Full disclosure: I’m a little teapot, short and stout.)

Which raises the question “Aside from the mirror in your locked bathroom, or the one on the ceiling in the king-size bouncy castle in your bedroom, when would you ever pull a funny face just for the fun of it?”

Too often, people will answer “How do you keep the mirror from falling off the ceiling and squashing your sensitive parts?” More often, however, they will say “Never.” Which is either a lie or the actual word never, meaning never.

Why? Because normal people don’t spend extended periods of time goofing into their bathroom mirrors. Says who? A voice in your head? A voice in my head?  A voice in the head at Oriole Park? It says “Dude, if they find out down at the frown palace that you are 1. goofing and 2. goofing at your foolish, goofy face, your cheese is grated.”

There was a time when a man or a woman could simply surrender to innocent moments of spontaneous silliness and not appear to be abnormal, or at least not seriously ab.

K-Mac has this thing where she sticks out her tongue, then tugs on an earlobe, making her tongue slide to the right or left depending on the earlobe. She then touches her nose and her tongue retracts. (Full disclosure: The tug doesn’t really make the tongue move. The tongue has its own agenda, as does K-Mac.)

Lately, something called Conversion Therapy has taken hold. In an attempt to cure people of extended self-goofing sessions, a bunch of well-meaning friends will converge en masse into the bathroom of the unsuspecting subject (hopefully, the seat will be down) and perform goofus interruptus.

They begin by saying to the cracked teapot “Everyone in this room loves you. Flat out. Unconditionally. To the death, we love you – or the edge of death, whichever comes last. We love every little thing about your so lovably, lovable self…except for one little thing.”

Now, that one little thing can be as small as a nervous tick that you keep in a small jar under your bed. Or some form of massively, mondo inappropriate behavior as defined by the mondo appropriate sensibilities of your loved/liked/barely tolerated ones.

Look, they are so concerned about your peccadillo they have all agreed to give up a farouking Saturday to break into your head. In no uncertain terms they will demand to know where you got your peccadillo and do they charge for shipping. Warning: If you don’t tell, they will slap you silly.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2019, all rights reserved.

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

Watch your head

Here’s what we know so far:

  • Public confidence in the statement “That could never happen” has fallen in the polls, replaced by the fast-rising, seldom-believed promise “That will never happen again.”
  • Mean people suck and will continue to suck for the forseeable future.
  • Most people wear underwear most of the time.
  • It’s bahda boom, bahda bing and not bahda bing, bahda boom.
  • Bumper-to-bumper warranties seldom cover bumpers.
  • Telling someone “You are something else” is not the same as saying “You are something like a lying piece of intestinally processed breakfast; No, wait. You are a lying piece of intestinally processed breakfast.”
  • The past contains no oxygen. The future contains no oxygen. The present is where they keep all the air.
  • When they say you can’t take it with you, by it, they mean your backgammon set.
  • Trade wars are not easy to win. Or at least not as easy as saying you are a billionaire.
  • The tremendously popular earbnb movement has recently merged with nosebnb and throatbnb. Talks with eyebnb have failed, ironically, because there is no I in ear, nose or throat.
  • Don’t get ahead of yourself. Don’t get left behind. Don’t do anything. Just don’t.
  • The greatest discovery of our generation is that no one ever relaxes when told to “Relax!”
  • The name Bix, as in the late jazzmaster Bix Beiderbeck, is a nickname for Bixx.
  • Watch your head.
  • You cannot eat an after dinner mint before dinner, just as you cannot eat an aftermath mint before math class, an afterdeck mint on the foredeck or an aftershave mint unless you have at least a five o’clock shadow. If you eat an afterglow mint before glowing, I mean what the hell is wrong with you, anyway?
  • Life is short because, think about it, if life were long, somebody (you know who you are) would have complained by now and ruined it for everyone.
  • Life is not just a bowl of cherries. The cherries are the sales pitch, but life is the pits.
  • Yes, you could have been a contender, but you got in the line for bartender, you idiot.
  • Everyone deserves the gift of more data — although oddly, the data doesn’t back it up.
  • The Supreme Court has ruled that the heavily armed “What’s So Funny, Dickweed” corporation may no longer use the motto “Don’t be ridiculous,” which has been ruled the property of the “Nudge Nudge, Wink Wink” club of Bimmington.
  • Scientists say 9 trillion gallons of water fell in Texas last year. Their source was the guy manning the 9 trillion gallon tank on the roof of the airport.
  • “With malice toward none,” means NONE.
  • We don’t need any more courtesy calls from roofing salesmen who just happen to be in our neighborhood at dinner time and who fear they would insult us by not ringing our doorbell to say hello and did we know our roof might fall off, without even thinking we might want to finish our dinner before going up on the roof and saying “Hey, it’s dark up here,” just because you simply feel honor-bound to warn us – strictly as a courtesy from one human bing to another — and, coincidentally, did we know you happen to sell roofs and could install one for us with a 50-year guarantee even though, by the looks of it, we’re not going to need a 50 year guarantee. What’s for dessert?
  • There is no such thing as the deep state. Deep beer talk, however, is deeper than any 3 states plus the District of Columbia.
  • Watch your own damn head.
  • The empty jar doesn’t fall far from the mayonnaise tree.
  • Nature’s most perfect food is Cherry Garcia ice cream. No pits. No calories.
  • You never get used to not living next door to Alice anymore. (Alice? [Alice? Alice?Alice?] Who the fois gras is Alice?)
  • X-Men ask Y. Z-Men ask Y not.
  • There is a special place in hell for anybody who needs one. Just ask at the door.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2019, all rights reserved.

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, funny, Mockery and derision, The human comedy | Tagged , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

No brainer

Haven’t we all laughed, maybe even slapped our thighs until it hurt so much we had to slap somebody else’s thighs, when somebody challenges another’s intelligence with “Where were you when they handed out the brains?”

For those with a low I.Q., the joke implies that the insultee, way back when, was either in the wrong line, the wrong building or simply stuck beans in his ears when word came down that brains were being passed out. (Note: this is a completely separate topic from getting a cracked, unpainted, folded, spindled or bible-thumping brain. See Brain returns and Refurbished brains.)

I got to thinking about the premise of that joke while at the pharmacy, waiting for my oxybozone refill for lingering thigh pain. How is it that somebody misses out on something as crucial as brains — probably the most important handout of body parts, right behind the sexual hard drive install and phone number for tech support?

Is the hand-out system fair and equitable? Is God doing a good job? How do we make that judgement? Let’s look at what the consultants “Booze, Alan and Just Water for Ed” (BAAJWFE) say the system should require for the 360,000 brains handed out worldwide every day:

1.Some sort of large facility – stadium sized, one would think – not only to contain those folks eligible for brains, but also a large storage room (climate controlled? refrigerated? ) for keeping fresh the millions of brains to be handed out. Remember the first rule of brains: “A warm brain is a lame brain. And it probably has mold.”

2.Crowd control measures. The Bible hints at orange traffic cones used at chariot races and fish fry events for crowded sermons on the mount. But has any thought been given to nuns with triple-taped yardsticks?

3.Assigned waiting lanes. You might think an alphabetical system would work, with lanes marked A to E, F to L, etc. But without being assigned some sort of pre-brain intelligence system, people wouldn’t yet know what an A was or a B was and so forth. Instead BAAJWFE suggests a low tech “Next” system staffed by some of the lesser saints who have nothing to do all day but find lost keys or keep ships from sinking, etc. They would simply announce “Next brainless person in line please.”

4.A secured exit lane to alert officials when a brain runner is trying to get away with an extra brain. In such a scenario, extremely polite, non-threatening agents of the Department of Homeland Brain Damagement would sic (sic) a Doberman Pinscher on the thief, seize back the stolen brain in its jaws and, in case of serious slobbering  (by the dog), pat it dry with paper napkins and return it to the central pile-o-brains. (See Brain returns and Refurbished brains. Also Slobbered brain patting.)

5.Easy-to-follow instructions for self-installation of the brain, with staff on hand to prevent backwards or upside down installation, or frustrated jamming of the brain into the ear and other holes.

6. Brain proofing. No one leaves the facility without a one-plus-one brain check. If the answer is anything over seven, the brain is handed off to a Brain Slapper who uses proven techniques to get the answer down to four. Five, max.

Research continues on a controversial system that rates no-brainers on deportment, grab ass, cleanliness of underwear, moral superiority, pushing in line, and Irish sudoku dancing.  Failures are summarily rejected with the phrase “No brains for you.”

People have asked if brain needers would be naked — Garden-of-Eden style — or would they be assigned clothing? There are two schools of thought: if dressed (not necessarily in dresses) there would be fewer distractions and lines would move quickly. And yet, if clothes are given out before brains you might have embarrassing incidents with men wearing underwear on their heads or women wearing nothing but boxing trunks and bow ties.

No, seriously.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2019, all rights reserved.

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, Mockery and derision, News You Can Use (Sort of) | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments

Quoting the Spearman

Q. Right. I’ll say something and you say the first thing that comes to mind. Then, I’ll say something else and you give me your first thought and so on and so forth, yada yada yada, yabba yabba do, boom shocka boom shocka, oob la dee oob la dah, brah la la la la la la la, nee noo na na, noo noo nana.
A. Could you give me an example?

Q. Right. Let’s say I say “East Africa.” And the first thing that comes to your mind is, let’s say, French Cameroon. And so you would say “French Cameroon.”
A. Actually, that would be west Africa.

Q. Right. That was a bad example.
A. Plus, it’s no longer French Cameroon. Hasn’t been since 1960.

Q. Right. That is a while, isn’t it? So. Duly noted.
A. And tell me again why are we doing this?

Q. Right. We do this with all applicants. Gives us a better feel for who would be the best fit for a position.
A. You do know that I’m applying for the job of henchman.

Q. Right. We want those you’d be hunching with to be comfortable with you, just as you want to feel comfortable understanding our hunching culture.
A. Excuse me. That’s henching. Not hunching.

Q. Right. Let me make a note. Hunching. H-u-n-c-h-i-n-g.
A. That would be h-e-

Q. Right. Uh, come again?
A. Henching is spelled h-e-n-c-h-i-n-g.

Q. Right. But that would be henching, not hunching. Eh?
A. Yes. Henching as in henchman. I’m a henchman. A professional henchman, actually.

Q. Right. Let me just check…Hmm. Curious. On our list of job titles, I’m not seeing henchman anywhere. Ooh, but look. Here’s hunchman.
A. Obviously it’s a misspelling. Because who ever heard of a hunchman? Look, I’ve been offered the job of henchman by your president, Bob Bobbington. He said sign a few papers and start immediately.

Q. Right. Is it possible you misunderstood? Did he offer you the job at lunch? He sometimes slurs his words at lunch.
A. Yes. He said henchman. That’s who I am. It’s what I do. We shook hands.

Q. Hello. I’m Carl Zinkenwater. I‘m the hunchman here. I had a hunch there might be confusion over your job application.
A. You’re a hunchman?

Q. I’m the hunchman. There’s just me. Been here 11 years in October.
A. What exactly do you do?

Q. Well, I get hunches. About what the Dow’s going to do. Hunches about our competitors. Hunches about new products. Will they sell? Hunches of all kinds. Because, I’m a hunchman.
A. And I’m a henchman.

Q. I had a hunch you were a henchman.
A. Because I just told you I was a henchman.

Q. What, exactly, does a henchman do?
A. Whatever the boss wants. Usually some sort of dirty or devious task he wants to distance himself from.

Q. Like what?
A. Let’s say there’s someone he wants to fire. But he doesn’t want to do it himself.

Q. He told you he wants you to fire someone?
A. That’s not how it works. He might say ‘Will no one riddeth me of this meddlesome soeth and soeth?’ And the henchman would hear it as ‘Getteth thee rid of soeth and soeth, prontoeth dudeth.’

Q. Did he nameth any nameths?
A. Just Joe Namath. But speaking of football, he did mention the hunchback of Notre Dame getting a little too big for his bell tower.

Q. What? Look, I graduated from Notre Dame. And sometimes Mr. Bobbington inadvertently calls me a hunchback.
A. And the alarm on your hunch-o-meter doesn’t go off?

Q. Well, when I have a hunch that a hunch is not so important I ignore it. One of the professional journals wrote an article about it called “Hunch me no hunches.” No big deal.
A. Excuse me, but would you mind a bit of advice?

Q. Advice? From Bobbington’s henchman?
A. I’m not a hunch expert, but I’m getting a hunch that you are out of hunches, especially the one you should be getting right now that says I’m about to tell you that you are out of hunches and your hunching days here are over.

Q. But soft. What light through yonder window breaks?
A. It’s a little late to be quoting Shakespeare. In fact, it’s always too late to be quoting the Spearman.

Q. Right. So. Let’s pick up where we left off, shall we? I say French Cameroon, and you say…
A. Excuse me, but would you mind a bit of advice?

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2019, all rights reserved.

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

The 7 People You Meet In the 10-Item Lane

1.The con man with a full cart of groceries. The cashier points to the 10-item sign and he whimpers “This is the express lane? Oh no. I didn’t know. Please. I have very painful bone spurs. And, I’m just a few items over. I’m sure these kind people behind me won’t mind.” Judging by their sudden transformation into Incredible Hulkage, they do mind. And they don’t look that kind.

2.The slob who tries to bluff his way through with 20 bags of chamomile Cheese-its. When threatened with a depantsing by those behind him, he claims he didn’t see the 10-item sign because a kid on a bike in the parking lot rode up to him and ripped his glasses off his face and then pedaled like mad for Omaha, a city known for the illicit fencing of previously seen-through eyewear.

3.The bespoke, besuited nudnik with a dozen bathroom night lights. He says the lights are small so he technically has only 6 items. Which means he’ll also take a National Inquirer and three boxes of those yellow Peeps with the label “New, improved moldering.” The grammar lady behind him says “Technically there are 12 lights, which makes you, technically, an idiot.”

He plays the “I’m a whooping-cough survivor” card, but everyone, including the grammar lady, starts coughing and wheezing and choking dramatically. A little girl with a 50 pound bag of dog food says to the nudnik “Must be a really dark bathroom.”

4.The dude with 11 apples, hoping nobody says “Hey, can’t you count?” But nobody does, possibly because none of them feels they count for anything. The cashier, a battle hardened veteran of Granada, grabs an apple, bites off the stem and wings it 40 feet down the cereal aisle, shouting “Fire in the hole!”  Later, when normality slowly emerges from its fox hole, she rings up the remaining 10 apples and everybody lives happily ever after.

5.The ignoramus with 9 bags of M&Ms who grumbles he couldn’t find packs of all-green M&Ms. Everyone seethes while a stock boy books a flight to the distant aisle where M&Ms grow. He comes back after what seems like years with a suntan, a goatee and a Hawaiian shirt tucked into his jeans. He says “We’re all out of green.”

The ignoramus says “You’re not supposed to tuck a Hawaiian shirt into your pants.” The kid snaps “Whose pants am I supposed to tuck it into then?” The stock boy then reveals two packs of all-yellow and all-blue M&Ms. “Because yellow and blue make green,” he says, proudly.

However, this brings the guy’s total to 11. He is escorted to the 157 item line which winds all the way back to the Congress of Vienna.

6.The old fool with a cane and 15 items. He climbs onto the conveyor belt and starts singing as if this is a musical. He tap dances, spins his cane around and pushes his cap forward at a jaunty angle as a full orchestra starts playing in the background. Customers in line throw their hands up and down, in and out, and break into a chorus-line, leg-kick revue.

The cops arrive and the younger cop tells his partner he fears for his life. He tasers 50 thousand watts into the dancing geeze bag. Everyone stops dancing and the orchestra melts professionally away. The fearless coppers drag out the still smoking old fart. Everyone else looks away or pretends they weren’t dancing or are suddenly very interested in the instructions for the Heimlich maneuver posted above the display of Peeps.

7.The lady with trouble (she’s got trouble) on her mind plucks a bottle of mouthwash at the checkout counter and adds it to her 10 cloves of garlic. She is told she is one item over the limit.

“What crap,” she says, sending out little wavy lines of stage-four breath,  knocking down the cashier and two customers behind her. When summoned – along with the chemical warfare SWAT team — the manager asks if she has a coupon for a free bottle of mouthwash when combined with 10 garlic cloves. She does, and even though it’s expired, he passes her through before passing out.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2019, all rights reserved.

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, Mockery and derision | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Hundo P

Q. Is that even a thing?
A. Which that are you talking about?

Q. That thing right there. I mean, if it is a thing.
A. Okay, first thing you need to know about things: you have to distinguish between a thing and a thang. They are not the same. Just because Donald and Daffy have the same last name, they are not the same duck.

Q. How do you tell things and thangs apart?
A. Think of it this way. A thing is a do-dad, a balloon animal, a shell casing, a poo poo platter. It’s tangible. A thang, however, is kind of shapeless, more like a situation, or an argument. Even an accusation. One guy says to another “Say there amigo, just what kind of thang are you trying to lay on me?” Or some guys’ girlfriend says “You call that a thing? I’ve seen longer hyphens, you thang head.”

Q. How about a national emergency?
A. A classic thang. Hundo P.

Q. Sounds simple and yet, preposterous.
A. But be careful. Philosophers believe that sometimes you’ll come across what they call a dang thang. They are hard to describe. It’s basically when an illusionary thing smacks head on into an attitudinal thang. The best example is silly putty. Or a toupee. Or doing the hokey pokey.

Q. So what about that thing over there?
A. You mean that dang wall thang between Mexico and the U.S.?

Q. Yes, it seems somewhat fake. It’s like somebody went to Home Depot and bought a bunch of slats. And then went to a bar and left the slats in the men’s room.
A. It’s what we call an invisible border wall. It’s meant to keep out invisible immigrants who rob, steal, rape and murder.

Q. If they’re invisible, what’s the wall for?
A. One of Einstein’s most important laws of physics states “One invisible thing cannot exist without a second, linked, invisible thing.” See, one offsets the other. For example, Einstein notes that his formula E=MC2 is pretty much invisible. But it is linked to a natural, invisible partner: Rex, the wonder weasel. (Many scientists accept Einstein’s MC Hammer deal, but complain that wonder weasels are completely visible, making the whole thing a thang.)

Q. Do you have some kind of I.D. I could see?
A. Meanwhile, in real life, if you want to stop a horde of invisible thieving, murdering immigrants, you need an invisible wall. A long one, to be sure. It keeps nature in balance with itself. The nice thing is that an invisible wall can be made of steel or concrete or popsicle sticks. It can even be in your mind, if you have one. If not, you can get one on e-bay.

Q. Is that the same as calling it a pretend wall?
A. No. A pretend wall is make-believe. Whereas an invisible wall is an alternate truth. The thing about truth is that if the actual truth is at the gym or has left word not to be disturbed, the alternate truth steps up. It carries on just like regular truth.

Q. What if alternative truth seizes power and has actual truth arrested. Would that be a thing or a thang?
A. Neither. When alternative truth takes over in a naked power grab, it’s called a thong.

Q. Are there lyrics?
A. Only if it’s a thing-thong

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2019, all rights reserved.

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