Fun with legumes

Q. Big debate in the used-car sales director’s office. Isn’t nothingness the exact opposite of being?
A. I get that question a lot. Just the other day a guy in a hardware store asked me if I knew where they kept the nõthingness.

Q. What did you say?
A. I told him it was in aisle 19, but nǭt to bother. I was just over there and they were all out.

Q. All out of nothingness?
A. Nðthing but empty shelves. I even asked one of the clerks there when they expected to restock. Know what he said?

Q. Aren’t I supposed to ask the questions and then you give me the answer?
A. Just take a guess.

Q. Sounds like a trick question. So I’m guessing he didn’t say anything.
A. Wrong. He said nōthing.

Q. Same thing.
A. A lot of people say that. So I always ask them if they think the West Coast offense and the Erhardt-Perkins offensive system are the same.

Q. Um…
A. I rest my case. And now, I’m due for my break, so if you’ll excuse–

Q. Just out of curiosity, if I went to that hardware store, would I find any being?
A. You mean as in “To bean or nőt to bean?”

Q. No. As in being. Not bean.
A. I do believe they are the same thing. But hold on, let me double check. Dum de Dum de Du… Ah. Yes, they are the same.

Q. Did you just hum Dum de Dum de Dum?
A. I did. It gooses my brain.

Q. Okay, so I’m referring to the word being, as in the title of the massively thick and obviously boring book “Being and Nothingness” by Camus. It’s right there on Bob, the sales director’s book shelf, next to the Chilton guide to the 1987 Mercury Thermometer.
A. I’m familiar with “Bean and Nöthingness,” but I’m pretty sure Camus’s last name – Camus — does nȱt rhyme with moo.

Q. Just to be clear, let me double check with my own brain gooser. Inagadda davida baby. Ah. His answering machine says Camus — rhyming with shampoo — is out of the office until the twelfth of then.
A. Ooblah dee ooblah da ooblah donut. Aha. I thought so. The philosopher known as Camus—as in Famous Amos Camus—wrote not only “Bean and Nóthingness,” but also “Musical Fruit.”

Q. Don’t forget, being is one of those multi-vitamin words that can be used as a noun, an adjective or a conjunction.
A. Or a legume

Q. Look, the word being that I’m referring to has two syllables. Be and ing. The be part means to exist. As in “I be,” or “He beez.” The ing part depends on if you’re going to go on existing or not.
A. Funny story. Without the an, bean would just be be. In the old Proto-Germanic tongue which was heavily saturated with garlic and beer, bean comes from the word ungō.

Q. Did you say Mungo? As in Mungo Jerry?
A. Forget him. He’s got women, he’s got women on his mind. In the summertime, of course. Ungō, on the other hand, simply means to un go, as in stop. Many people who ungō the bean go to the hardware store for nØthingness.

Q. I’m just trying to tell you that be is like a cinnamon for am. Like the song “I am, I said.”
A. To nô one there¿

Q. And no one heard at all, not even the chair.
A. But how would one ever know what a chair heard or didn’t? Unless we’re talking about a talking chair.

Q. OF COURSE WE’RE TALKING ABOUT A TALKING CHAIR, YOU STUPID ANSWER MAN!
A. Wow. I hate to say it, but the only piece of furniture I know of that can both hear and talk is a bean bag. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I hear my bean bag calling.

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

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, F.A.Q., Mockery and derision, The human comedy | Tagged , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Warning: Squint your eyes

F.A.Q. Irony(ish)

Q. What is the difference between ironic and ironical?
A. The letters A-L, which is AL.

Q. Wouldn’t that be “who” is AL, since AL is a person, not a thing and therefore deserving of a personal pronoun?
A. You’d have to ask AL.

Q. Yes, but Al who? Or should I say Al whom?
A. It’s Al Bangalore. Who invented the Bangalore torpedo.

Q. I don’t know who invented the Bangalore torpedo. That’s why I asked. And by the way, I believe it should be whom.
A. Whom? Who?

Q. Mr. Bangalore.
A. Oh, AL. Yeah, he invented the Bangalore torpedo.

Q. Yes, so I have heard. Buy why would he want to invent a torpedo? Was he in the military?
A. Whom, AL? No, he had bone spurs which kept him out of the military. And also the American Legion.

Q. Why would owning a pair of spurs made from bone disqualify one from the military?
A. You’d have to ask AL. All I know is how he explained it in his autobiography.

Q. He was a writer as well as an inventor? What did he say?
A. He said he was sitting home alone, waiting for someone to respond to his bone-spur listing on Craig’s list, when he got hungry.

Q. Hmm. Is that ironic or ironical?
A. So, he got half a loaf of French bread, dripped on some olive oil, a little bit of garlic, then larded in ham, turkey, genoa salami and mozzarella cheese. And he ate it. Later on, he called it a torpedo.

Q. Because it would more or less torpedo the gastrointestinal tract?
A. No, because it was shaped like a torpedo. Sort of. If you squint your eyes. From about ten feet away.

Q. It sounds like he was something of a torpedomande.
A. Getting harder to make the case he deserves a personal pronoun.

Q. Remind me. Is Genoa the hard salami or the soft salami?
A. You’d have to ask AL.

Q. Is he still alive?
A. Whom, AL?

Q. Who, AL
A. He’s not still alive. In fact, he was dead the last time I spoke to him.

Q. Is he still dead?
A. Well, that’s a fair question. But I can’t speak for him. You’d have to ask AL himself. Of course, if he is still dead – which, between you and me I think he is – that would be a second strike against his qualification for personal pronoun hood. Right?

Q. Well…
A. By the way, did I mention he called it a Bangalore torpedo because his last name was Bangalore? If he had been Anthony Scaramucci it would have been a Scaramucci torpedo. If he’d been Arnold Portocarrero, it would have been a Portocarrero torpedo. Of course, if he was Jimmy Eat World it would have been a Jimmy Eat World torpedo. Because, no one knows if that’s Jimmy’s first name or last name.

Q. But what about submarine sandwiches? Aren’t they also shaped like a torpedo? In fact, aren’t they made of the same ingredients?
A. Well the way I look at it, a torpedo comes out of a submarine and not vicey- versey. At that point they are two completely different animals. So to speak. It’s like you go to your church and I’ll go to mine, although mine is now a real estate office and there’s no parking at all.

Q. What if I sell a sandwich that I call a torpedo, but in my heart I know it to be a submarine?
A. If you know it in your heart, you should chew a couple of Maalox and stick with torpedos.

Q. Weren’t we talking about the difference between ironic and ironical?
A. Look, it doesn’t really matter. As my Mom used to say “Life is nothing but a giant basket of ironing.”

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

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, F.A.Q., Mockery and derision | Tagged , , , , | 4 Comments

On Pants (with pants on)

Have you ever come across a story in your newspaper so confounding that you decided to have just one more beer and then go out and bark at the moon?

No, same here. I mean, hardly ever.

Before you read any further, take this little test:

  • Do you read a newspaper every day, week, month, year, decade, century, blue moon?
  • Have you ever read a newspaper? While on death row? At a going away party? Your going away party?
  • Have you ever killed a fly with a rolled up newspaper?
  • Do you know what a newspaper is?
  • Have you ever lined the bottom of your parakeet cage with a newspaper?
  • If you have no parakeet, what’s with the parakeet cage?
  • Have you ever killed a fly with a rolled up website?

If you answered “Yes” or “No” five or more times, and/or mumbled something like “I’ll take a Danish and the Fifth amendment, hold the Preamble,” please go away.

If you answered “Does killing a wasp with a rolled-up Sports Illustrated count?” you may as well continue.

And now, the real test.

I read two stories of note recently in the New York Times (considered by many to be a newspaper.)

The first story:

  • “How to rake leaves in a strong wind.”

Without reading further I said to myself “Hmm. First, get a rake. Second, get going and quit whining about the wind; Third, If you need more advice on this topic:  a) Answer why you went out in a strong wind to rake, you bozo? b.) Put your rake down and dial the number for Losers Anonymous–although with a problem like this you’re not likely to remain anonymous for long.”

The second story:

  • “Why do we often dream we’re wearing no pants?”

Here is a textbook example of the left hand not talking to the right hand. Not even texting. As a former, lifetime newspaper reporter (aka Enemy of the Peeps) the real story here is so obvious it makes me shut my mouth wide open and weep—occasionally closing my mouth long enough to sigh one of those great end-of-the-world sighs you can buy on-line if you’re over 21.

A real newspaper such as The Awkward Point Pointer, would have looked at these two stories and assigned an investigative team to the only story worth reading:

  • “How to rake leaves in a strong wind while wearing no pants.”

We’re talking Pulitzer Prize level stuff. Sadly, very few news finders in what remains of the newspaper business have the salary gene (gène de salaire) to afford both a rake and pants — with which to conduct the kind of scientific experiments almost certain to attract sirens.

Think about it, though. How many times have we all seen a pantless (pantsless?) leaf raker in a hurricane or tornado or one of those unsaddled horse latitudes like Mr. Ed or Black Scallion and just walked by without contacting an on-call, emergency pantsmith?

More to the point, have you ever found yourself walking down the street and realized you’re wearing no pants? (Or, as our Estonian friends like to say Nr Pëksid). If so, does a little voice in your head say something like “Uh oh, not again?” Or does the voice say “You’re not dreaming. You really don’t have any pants on today. I’d blame it on the guy barking at the moon.”

Other questions to ask yourself at this point: “How often have you been hearing voices while Nr Pëksid?” or “Notice how that little voice sounds just like Sister Muerte Negra in the sixth grade?” And finally, “Have you ever heard of under pants?” If not, now would be a good time to become one with your Google-fu.

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

Posted in Mockery and derision | Tagged , | 6 Comments

Firetrucking idiot

Police blotter, Awkward Point police

7:49 a.m. Anonymous tip: burning pants lying in road across from Gunther’s Previously Opened Canned Vegetables.  Pants are smoking in clearly marked “Smoke free” zone. Fire department’s answering machine is full.  Tried to leave message on Facebook. Forgot my password. Could not verify that Gunther is Gunther’s first name or last name. Possibly both. Car 54 dispatched.

8:17 a.m. Caller claims Russian-looking man has spread deadly substance on her doorknob. I asked “How do you know it’s deadly?” Caller said she thinks it’s killed her husband who is lying on the front porch belly up with his hands and feet all pointed skyward. I asked “Is he dead?” She said “How would I know? I’m not going out there.” Sent meat wagon to investigate. Note: All of our chemical-biological-radiological contamination suits are currently at the cleaners, following the wildly humorous incident last week at Fogarty’s wake.

10:31 a.m. Anonymous report from citizen, complaining that fire department pumper was out of water on arrival at scene of now flaming pants fire. Citizen notes his taxes paid for that water. Demands investigation. Submitting cell phone photo of no water.

10:53 a.m. Citizen at scene of pants fire reports that Mayor Blumpidge and Fire Commissioner Brad are in a fist fight, one claiming the pants are gabardine the other holstein. 

11:14 a.m. Mrs. Wendell Orton complains that men dressed as firefighters are using her garden hose to put out pants fire near her house. Without asking. She says her hose wouldn’t reach so they unscrewed the nozzle and one of them put his thumb into the hose with the water coming out and it made the water shoot high into the air, like a fountain. She could see a rainbow. Didn’t quite reach the pants.

11:22 a.m. Anonymous complaint: Firemen stole pitcher of lemonade from kids’ stand and poured it on flaming pants which got very flamier.

11:47 a.m. Anonymous tip: Missing water from pumper was used to fill Fire Commissioner Brad’s swimming pool. An unidentified horse is drinking from it now.

11:59 a.m. Complaint: Unidentified Russian-looking man has removed his shirt and mounted a horse.

12:37 a.m. Mayor called Fire Commissioner Brad a firetrucking idiot. Punches thrown.

12:55 p.m.  Reported holdup at Lardo’s grocery. Not sure if Lardo is Lardo’s first name or nickname. Could be his last name. Could be first and last name. Lardo J. Lardo. I made up the J. It sounds better.

1:00 p.m. Complaint From Fire commissioner Brad: Half-naked Russian-looking man stole his completely naked horse. Also, he left something in the pool. Not sure if he’s referring to the Russian or the horse. Possibly Brad.

1:10 p.m. Pants fire out of control. Fire Commissioner Brad orders fourth alarm. Overheard saying “This is the worst pants fire I’ve seen since.” Mayor issues statement, calling them “The worst pants I’ve ever seen.”

1:11 p.m. Eyewitness report: Mayor burns his shoes trying to stamp out flaming pants. Fire Commissioner Brad burns his bridges trying to stamp out the mayor.

1: 33 p.m. Report of half-naked man riding horse through neighborhood. Exact half not stated

1:51 p.m.  Officer Kripke reports: “Stopped and frisked a black African-American black man for walking like a black African-American black man disguised as a Black Russian. Has no passport. He rudely demanded to know if I was going to stop the white man across the street for walking while disguised as a white Russian. Told Black Russian the white man looks nothing like a Russian. “Neither do I,” said the BR. He got a tad shirty and said “You ever see a black man standing next to Putin?” When I inquired ‘Who’s Putin?’ a half-naked white man on a completely naked horse rode by and the BR said “That guy.”

1:58 p.m. 911 call at Lardo grocery canceled. Holdup not an upper case, “H” holdup, just a lower case, life-sucks holdup. Due to cashier in 10-item line finding expired sell-by-date on peck of pickled peppers. Stock boy sent out for fresh peppers, has not returned, causing “holdup.” Customers in line getting impatient, playing grabass, making rude boofing noises, telling lies about the size of their pickled peppers.

1:59 p.m. Officer Kripke surrenders gun and badge and is scheduled for sensitivity training as soon as sensitivity training program is thought up.

2:00 p.m. All Points Bulletin: Be on the lookout for anyone wearing no pants. Also round up usual liars and liar-liars. Detain anyone with nose as long as a telephone wire.

©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), The human comedy | Tagged , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

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