F.A.Q. Adventures in feasing

Posted on May 25, 2016 by PMcG

Q. What is malfeasance?
A. Technically, it’s the act of feasing someone named Mal. Not to be confused with Melfeasance.

Q. Why not?
A. Mel doesn’t like to interact with anybody else’s fease.

Q. Wouldn’t that fall under the category of tough toenail?
A. Apparently you’ve never met Mel.

Q. Are we talking about Mel Gibson?
A. Speaking of malfeasance.

Q. You make it sound like it’s a crime to fease.
A. What do you think the F stands for in FBI?

Q. Farouking?
A. Nice mouth.

Q. Are you feasing with me?
A. You really don’t know anything about feasing, do you?

Q. Why else do you think I came to this FAQing fease stand?
A. Look, I didn’t make up the feasance rules.

Q. Who did?
A. That would be the Feasance brothers. There were four of them, but one is now a sister. Long story. Anyway, she broke away and founded Misfeasance.

Q. Which reminds me. What about nonfeasance?
A. Completely unrelated. It means coming back empty-handed from a pheasant hunt.

Q. I’m confused. Or should I say confeased?
A. Confeased is not a word. Although…now that I think of it, confeased may be the best word to describe you.

Q. Give me some examples of how to use fease in a sandwich.
A. Um…

Q. I mean sentence!  Sorry, I missed breakfast.
A. Just think of fease as the five-letter word that is the new four-letter word. For example:

  • Oh, fease me
  • That fease-head
  • What a fease-knuckle
  • I am feased and far from home
  • Get the fease out (aka GTFE. Say GIT-fee.) Not to be confeased with “get the fease out of here” (GTFOOH Say GIT-foo)

An improper use of the word fease would include:

  • fease and ferrets (making fun of peas and carrots)
  • my dog has fease
  • set your feasers to stun
  • the bees fease
  • the fease knees
  • the fease fease
  • the feaster bunny
  • he won the Nobel prize in Pheasics

Q. What is the origin of fease?
A. Back when the Puritans practiced safe sex by not having any, there were one or two rebels who pushed the philosophy of dangerous sex. This was defined as having sex with someone in the same room as you.

Q. GIT-foo!
A. I Kid You Not (IKYN, Say ICK-in). As it happened, two Puritans were caught being dangerous in the kitchen with the salami.

Q. What happened to them?
A. They were clapped in wooden stocks on the village square. People mocked them, they hurled insults, abuse, unshelled edamame.

Q. Is that where the term stocks and bondage comes from?
A. Everybody knows that. So, anyway, they put a sign above the stocks so people would know what they’d done.

Q. I bet it said something like “She wanna be his dawg.”
A. That’s a negatory. Normally, the sign said Thief, or Adulterer, or Comedian. But there wasn’t an easy way to use just one word to describe their sin without stirring up prurient puritan perfidy. (Known then as pruperfidating.)

Q. Which eventually led to computer dating, right?
A. Must…call..security…So, they wrote just the initials of their sin. Those initials happened to be…

Q. S.I.T.L.L.W.F.M.Y.Y.
A. Say what?

Q. “Sittin in the la la, waiting for my ya ya…”
A.  Earth to Uranus: Your ya ya aint coming. And the sign said F.E.A.S.E.

Q. You mean, of course, For Entertaining A Suspended Endocrinologist.
A. Nope, dope: For Eating A Salami Enchilada.

Q. GIT-foo!
A. Ick-in.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2016, all rights reserved.

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

Baseball pomes

Posted on May 18, 2016 by PMcG

Catcher in the rye
Pitcher in the succotash
Action in the pen

Grounder to shortstop:
“Here I come a-bounding, dude.
Catch me if you can.”

Shortstop shakes his head,
Gloves it on the hop and thinks
“Some balls talk too much.”

On T.V. they spit
And gob like toothless old men.
Their poor mothers die.

He flies out to right,
A wingless, cowhide angel
Screaming “Holy moo!”

Skipper to the ump:
“You have got to be kidding.”
Ump says “No I don’t.”

The mighty Casey,
In a bar after the game,
Keeps on striking out.

You can steal a base,
Rob a man of a home run,
Knock their ace silly

It’s never a crime
To fire bullets at a guy,
even punch him out.

Sure, cut a man down
With your cannon arm, but please
Don’t kill the rally

Slugger bashes ball.
Fielder gallops back, back, back.
Good-bye, Dolly Gray.

Amen

Nihil obstat
Pork and beans
Imprimatur
By all means

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2016, all rights reserved.

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Waiting, as usual, for Godot

Posted on May 11, 2016 by PMcG

Vladimir: How’s everything?
Estragon: How should I know?

Vladimir: I thought you knew everything.
Estragon: I do.

Vladimir: Then let me repeat my question. How’s everything?
Estragon: Let me repeat my answer: How should I know? I may know everything—hey, there’s no may, Jose—but I don’t know how everything is right now. That would take months to figure out. And by then some of the things I said were fine, might not be fine. Maybe somebody has the old roto up their rooter. Maybe somebody’s a liar and his pants are on fire. Maybe somebody’s stuck at the Mordor Holiday Inn with a bunch of drunken orcs in the next room.

Vladimir: It seems like knowing everything would include knowing how everything is now. Otherwise, you’re not the know-it-all people say you are.
Estragon: What was the question again?

Vladimir: I’ll repeat it, although you shouldn’t have to ask. You should know it. First, because I’ve already asked it twice. And second, because it goes with the “everything” gig. Speaking of which, how’s everything?
Estragon: Fine.

Vladimir: Everything?
Estragon: Oh, did you want to know how everything is?

Vladimir: Did you know that sarcasm creates a chasm in your sar?
Estragon: Of course I knew that. I know everything, remember?

Vladimir: Come on, admit it. Nobody knows everything.
Estragon: Oh yeah? I knew you were going to say that.

Vladimir: You did not.
Estragon: And I knew you’d say that.

Vladimir: You’re a fat hea…
Estragon: You’re a fat head.

Vladimir: I said it first.
Estragon: Nope. I was a hair ahead of you. Because I knew you were going to say that.

Vladimir: Oh yeah? What am I going to say now?
Estragon: …to say now?

Vladimir: Ha! I said it first.
Estragon: I thought it first, but I had a popcorn kernel caught in my throat. By the way the g is silent.

Vladimir: Bologna. Wait a minute, what g?
Estragon: Baloney. Rhymes with abalone, Tony.

Vladimir: You know what I think?
Estragon: Of course I do. I know everything.

Vladimir: I think you don’t know anything.
Estragon: Oh yeah? Go ahead, ask me anything.

Vladimir: What’s the capital of North Dakota?
Estragon: Raleigh.

Vladimir: Sorry, the correct answer is Bismarck.
Estragon: Bologna.

Vladimir: Abalone, Tony. Raleigh is the capital of North Carolina.
Estragon: That’s what you asked for.

Vladimir: Nope. You’re just like every other know-nothing on this planet. When someone says North Carolina you think they said North Carolina.
Estragon: Do you ever listen to yourself?

Vladimir: Don’t try to duck the issue. You just proved that you don’t know anything.
Estragon: Wait a second. I know everything, which includes anything.

Vladimir: Except the capital of Montana.
Estragon: You mean North Dakota.

Vladimir: You mean North Carolina.
Estragon: You mean…Hey! Look who’s here! It’s Godot. Hey Godot, you know how long we’ve been waiting for you?

Vladimir: Don’t try to change the subject. By the way that’s not Godot. That’s Rosencrantz.
Estragon: Oh yeah? Sorry to break the bad news, but Rosencrantz is dead. So is Guildenstern, in case you were wondering. Personally, I’m not, because I know everything. Also, I have the Cliff’s Notes for Hamlet.

Vladimir: I’m not talking about Shakespeare’s Rosencrantz. I’m talking about Al Rosencrantz, the plumber. And see that guy getting out of the truck?
Estragon: Isn’t that Guffman?

Vladimir: No. That’s Rosencrantz’s partner, Mickey Guildenstern. The pipe fitter.
Estragon: Nobody names their future pipefitter Mickey Guildenstern.

Vladimir: You didn’t know it was him, did you? You thought it was Guffman.
Estragon: Tell you the truth, he looks a little like the nut-namer, Harlan Pepper. Um, where are you going with this?

Vladimir: YouTube.
Estragon: Hold your water, I got a popcorn kernel stuck in my throat.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2016, all rights reserved.

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, Mockery and derision | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Artsy fartsy

Posted on May 6, 2016 by PMcG

Q. How can I tell if I have a Caravaggio in my attic?
A. Is that the guy who does the Wolf Blitzer impersonations?

Q. No. Wolf Blitzer does those. He’s very good at it.
A. I wouldn’t want to find him in my attic. Guy never stops asking stupid questions.

Q. So. Caravaggio?
A. Gesundheit.

Q. Come on. How would I know if it’s really Caravaggio in my attic?
A. You get a lot of traffic up there in your attic, do you?

Q. The occasional presidential candidate. Sometimes a lightning rod dealer. I know who they are. I don’t know how to tell for sure if my Caravaggio is bona fide.
A. Whoever is up there, ask for some ID. Be sure you don’t take any American Bowling Congress ID cards. You don’t want anything to do with anyone in any kind of Congress.

Q. What about sexual Congress?
A. Isn’t that an oxymoron? Like Jumbo shrimp? Or President Trump? (That last one being both ox and moron.)

Q. So, I was up in the attic this morning and I found one.
A. A Caravegetable?

Q. That’s just it. I don’t know. I read about a guy who found a Caravaggio in his attic and he got $136 million bucks.
A. Caraboogalu had that much cash on him? What was he doing in the guy’s attic?

Q. Gathering dust
A. He’s a collector?

Q. No. People actually collect him.
A. My neighbor used to collect people. He stopped after his third wife took him to the cleaners. Now he collects coins. Well, actually, just loose change. He keeps a little pile of it on his dresser. Very sad.

Q. You do know I’m talking about a painter?
A. Carawayseed is painting your attic?

Q. Not exactly. He’s a painting in my attic.
A. Isn’t that what I said? So, what does he do when he’s a not painting. Is he a singing? A dancing?

Q: All I know is that I found him in a box.
A: In a box? Is he a dead?

Q: A long time dead.
A: So, you’re telling me you found a dead guy named Cowabunga in your attic, which he is now painting? Have you ever thought that maybe you have a few toys in your attic?

Q: Ha Ha. What a kidder. You do know, I presume, that Caravaggio was Baroque?
A: Not surprising. Attic painters get desperate when they’re baroke. Even worse when they’re dead baroke.

Q. I meant the Baroque movement.
A. Ah, the old outstretched hand. Buddy can you spare ten bucks for a double latte and a New York Review of Books?

Q. Look, Baroque artists…
A. Oh, so now he’s an artist. Doesn’t make him any less dead.

Q. …painted what was happening as it happened. Whereas, the Renaissance painters painted the scene before it happened.
A. I’ll bite. What happened?

Q. Revolutionary art
A. Isn’t he the same Art who helped Washington paint the rec room at Valley Forge? I think he even repainted George’s wooden teeth. Or maybe that was the picket fence at the White House. Anyway, he went baroke because it was so cold up there that he froze the hair off his brushes.

Q. Art means different things to different people.
A. Yeah, but if you hung around with Revolutionary Art, you knew you were going to end up dead. Same goes for Washington. And guess what? They’re both dead.

Q. Oh well, I guess I’ll just have to take my Caravaggio to an expert.
A. Or a coroner. By the way there’s an app for that.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2016, all rights reserved.

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, F.A.Q., Mockery and derision | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Another man’s or

Posted on April 27, 2016 by PMcG

Our most frequently asked question of the universe-at-large (remembering to use our inside voice) is a simple one: Is there or isn’t there?

Put more simply, in the universal language of the chainsaw-wielding prophet of the street — he of the plaid Mohawk and lifelong failure to floss or read any of the Great Books, including Fireman Small — is there is or is there aint?

Even in the most basic Dick-and-Jane grunts coming from our idealized image of the cave-like American front room–the haunting flicker of shame from the Not So Smart After All TV; the inane voices of sports announcers relentlessly parsing the slightest change in the facial expression and/or pending bodily function of LeBron James; the empty, clangless clug of an aluminum beer can hitting a growing pyramid in the center of the room; the hamster, belly up and unmoving on the eerily silent hamster wheel; the choking, bitter fumes of rat poison, tar, cyanide, formaldehyde and carbon monoxide smoldering upward from the cancer delivery system dangling from the lips of an old babushka, crocheting her vodka cozies in a dark corner–the words may sound different, but they ask the same damn question: “Who’s got the remote?”*

Our thirst for an answer to what happens after the backhoe moves on to the next plot, is rivaled only by our thirst for beer, especially with some nachos and wings. Yet, to date, the universe has remained silent on the question of life after death–perhaps out of indifference, or perhaps due to a hearing problem. It may explain the recent spike in megaphone sales.

But advanced metaphysicians and metaphysician’s assistants–some of whom have metanurse and would like to meet several more (hence, metafour)–have restated the question with more optimistic lingo. They have posited (in gender-neutral positions) that if there is life after death, then there is no death. (Yay!) Rather, it’s simply a continuation of life, although without breathing, which is why you need a metaphysician.

To date, two diametrically opposed theories have emerged in attempting to answer the Big Unanswered Question. One suggests there is no life after life, nanny nanny boo boo, stick your head in doo doo. The second bets the farm that there is too, you big poophead. They are known in the trade either as “either” or “or.” One must take care, however, for one man’s either could be another man’s or. Or not. Do you feel me?

In spite of the uncertainty, there is a sort of compromise followed by both the eithers and the ors. Its message is contained in the lyrics to an old Delmore Brothers song. Fortunately, I have my banjo right here and will now begin picking, grinning and singing, all at the same time: Be ready to shout “Pick that thing, Pat!”

A one. A two. A-one-two-three-four

Here today and gone tomorrow
Life’s too short to borrow sorrow
Life’s too short for me to worry over you

Hello? Where did everybody go? Was it something I said?

*Less frequently asked questions of the universe include “What’s causing that smell?” “Why isn’t the pizza here yet?” and “How come I don’t fall off the planet when I’m not even holding onto anything? And don’t say gravity because I had to go to court the day we did the gravity unit and when I asked Mungo if I missed anything important he had trouble with the concept of important so I said Mungo you are hopeless and he just grinned because he didn’t understand the concept of hopeless. After that, I sort of let it slide. So sue me, you stupid bag of planets.”

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2016, all rights reserved.

Posted in Mockery and derision, News You Can Use (Sort of), The human comedy | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The banger and the bun

Posted on April 21, 2016 by PMcG

My brother-in-law lives in one of those exclusive grated communities. Every other week huge trucks with tires as tall as a Donald Trump tale unload a small mountain of grated romano or parmesan cheese in the parking lot next to the community pool.

Whenever he wants, he flip-flops over there with his Sponge Bob sand pail and a little red shovel and carves out a bucket-load. By the way, his house sits on a golf course and the sand traps are actually filled with grated cheese.

I don’t live in a grated community, or even one of those new fangled gated communities. I do live in a neighborhood that has a tasteful, discreet sign, unreadable from less than a foot away, posted at the entrance to the development.

It bans all solicitors, door-to-door agitators, Bible thumpers, home invaders, politicians, escaped felons, magazine subscription terrorists, escaped politicians, Bill of Rights thumpers, space invaders, and roofing salesmen who just happen to be in the neighborhood at supper time fixing the roof of some guy four streets over, and they wonder if you’d like a new roof or if you have any leftover tuna casserole.

Has this hard-hitting sign stopped a single agitation? Riiiiiight. Nary a canary, Larry. But I did record this recent conversation with a door-to-doorer on my Smarty Pants fone:

Sign Ignorer: Hello. I’m with the Spanish Inquisition. We’re going door to door, confiscating people’s bangers.
Moi: I don’t have any bangers.

SI: What about the banger in that bun you’re holding?
M: That’s my sausage sandwich. I was eating it when you rang the bell.

SI: And a sausage, as the English would say, is a banger.
M: Those English, they’d say anything. Hey, is Oliver Cromwell still choking on dirt? The correct answer, by the way, is yes.

SI: Sir, I assure you, a banger is a sausage is a banger. I know my sausage.
M: Can a man ever really know his sausage?

SI: I assume you know what goes into a sausage?
M: Let’s see, there’s uh, sauce and, um, that idge stuff.

SI: Lucky guess. Did you know that improperly handled sausage is the leading cause of death in people who improperly handle sausage?
M: Did you know that if you insert a sausage into each nostril you can do a very cool walrus impression? And if you put another sausage in your mouth you can do an impression of a walrus smoking a cigar. See?

SI: You’re not going to eat those sausages now, are you?
M: Mind telling me why the Spanish Inquisition is going door to door threatening a man’s bratwurst? Shouldn’t you be out stretching someone on the rack?

SI: Uh, the rack is in the shop.
M: You’re making this up, aren’t you? You’re not really with the Spanish Inquisition. You’re just…hungry.

SI: Er. Uh. Actually I’m with the…the government. I’m here to confiscate your…buns.
M: I have no buns.

SI: What about the bun that had the banger in it?
M: That was a roll.

SI: A roll is a bun.
M: Says who?

SI: Says Rollo Bundy. He invented the roll and called it a bun.
M: Isn’t that like inventing the puke-wheel and calling it a merry-go-round?

SI: Look I’m a…a federal agent and I demand you turn over your buns.
M: Usually, I love that kind of talk. But, you know, if buns are outlawed, only outlaws can have a beef-on-wick sandwich.

SI: Okay. I really didn’t want to have to say this, but…uh…do you have any leftover tuna casserole?
M: Step this way. Tuna casserole is made to be leftover.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2016, all rights reserved.

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

Speaking of enormous

Posted on April 15, 2016 by PMcG

I see they’re about to start selling us shoes that tie themselves. Seriously. I wonder if they’re going to call them loafers. I also wonder if we’ve gotten just a little too self-ish for our own good.

A guy came up to me last week and tried to sell me a handkerchief that blows itself. I’m not even sure what that means, although I was curious and weak and I bought one. I put it in my pocket and forgot about it. Later I heard the sound of a honking goose coming from my pants. I reached in and pulled out a slimy rag and a note that said “I hab a code. Got any eye boo pope in?”

I complained. The guy who sold it asked if I’d thought of making some chicken soup and pouring it into my pocket. When I shouted “No!” he rolled his eyes and, though I tried not to, I felt lower than a stinkbug’s bowling average.

He offered to sell me a spanking-clean handkerchief that came with a self-spanking, hanky (panky) attachment. But I wasn’t born yesterday. Nor last week. Nor in a year that starts with a 2. Nor in a decade that had fun. Look, I’ve been around the block–in a taxi, yes, but with a scary looking driver. I left a written tip: “Wearing pants might get you a couple of foldos from your next fare, pal.”

Anyhoo, there’s this new selfie based on the premise that the truth hurts — and therefore is often hard to hold onto. For instance, “All men are created equal,” is a truth we hold to be self-evident. Some, however, just can’t get a handle on the obvious. Now they can buy a Self-Evident Truth Holder for bigots (aka BIG SETH). Pathetically, it holds painful truths far enough away from your body that you won’t get any on you. BIG SETH is selling well in Trump country and what’s left of Antarctica.

Have you ever said “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle?” but you never pulled the trigger? There’s this guy in a kiosk at the mall who is selling a gel that you rub on your bald spot and it immediately transforms you into a self-made monkey’s uncle. (Women become a self-conscious monkey’s aunt.) There’s also a reversing goo that will undo the monkey business so you can go back to being just another self-loathing primate in the community zoo. You still have the bald spot.

What will they come up with next? You know that many new cars come with a push button starter. But did you know they’re coming out with a self-starter button that can be implanted in your dead ass?

Seriously. No longer will we have to put up with bosses who holler “Get your butt in gear!” It will be humming and cooking with gas from the moment each morning you step into your self-annihilating cubicle.

Called “Butter Up!” you can set an alarm for whenever you want to get your rump rolling in the morning. In case you don’t, there’s a convenient remote control device for significant others to both open and close the garage door, record as many as 12 shows at once (as soon as they make 12 watchable shows) and hurtle your heinie out of bed. Right about now, those self-tying shoes begin to make sense, no?

By the way, I’m now at work on a pet project of my own. I haven’t yet named it, but essentially it’s a self-steaming, self-esteemer. It’s perfect for inflating the ego into an enormous gas-bag, and, speaking of enormous, very handy for your other implements of self-delusion.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2016, all rights reserved.

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