The rats are dead

So. I went down to the Social Media Blackmarket to procure some followers. As a blogger, I want lots of followers for the simple reason that if you have, say, just two followers and one of them is make-believe, it looks like hardly anybody is reading your blog.

The idea of a blog, as with every phase of life, is to project the bathos-free image of a cool and endlessly wise hummer a-hum with electrically-charged particles associated with the intrinsic spin. For some reason, intrinsically spun scientists don’t actually call it that. They like the magnetic dipole moment. 1 (Not to be confused with magnetic dipole dancing which is a horse — in some cultures an aardvark — of a different color.)

Let’s review: So, a-hum, blah, blah, etc.

Now. The best way to maintain your magnetic dipole is to get lots o’ followers. Look, status seekers no longer rely on tired, flesh and blood toadies, suckups, gofers or reluctant relatives. They have learned that life offers nothing more electrifying than getting your particles abuzz with a magnetic woowoo, and having someone you’ve never met click they “like” you and are following you.2

Sadly, it can all come crashing down the moment you ask each follower (politely, if necessary) to send you a dollar. If the typical rate of response is, let’s say 13 per cent and you have just two followers, you can do the math or have your sharp nephew do it for you. Either way, you’re talking maybe 17 cents and you have to take out for social security and the prohibitive mime tax. Don’t forget a nickel for your nephew.

But let’s say you have 300,000 followers. At a buck-a-head, thirteen per cent is roughly $641. And even after you pay taxes and give your nephew his nickel, you come out of it with, let’s see, three times zero is…um drop the zero (next to the pretense), put your numerator very carefully over your denominator (prohibited in Iowa and Kansas) add the one, carry the dog, divide by Zunar and you come away with…Wow, almost $227 bucks that you can spend on anything.

This raises two questions. First, why would any follower send you a dollar just because you asked them to? The answer is complex but it boils down to this: who knows? In fact, who cares as long as they do. And they do — as many as 25 or 26 (including, unfortunately, the cheapos who will cluck and mewl about getting a receipt.) Still, a tidy profit with or without the nephew.

The second question is where do you get these 300,000 followers? The second answer: It’s as easy as opening a Social Media account and clicking peeps into your cart.

(Not sure if this matters, but a lot of your purchased peeps are simulated real people who have been denuded of their real life numbers, letters and punctuation3 and then run through a people shredder. Take the very real Bob Bobertson of Bimidji, Minnesota. A name snatcher stole his poop and slightly altered it to avoid originality and prosecution. The result: my newest follower, Bobo Schlobertson of Bemidget, Minnieminoso.)

By the way, these fake followers are known as bots. Not to be confused with people who have botulism (not that there’s anything wrong with that.) They include Virtual bots (combining the idea of virtue with a guy named Al) and Half-bots (essentially half-asses, but sometimes confused with complete asses, raging asses, and molasses in January.)

Bots look as real as real can be. According to an expose in The New York Times4, one bot-pushing, name-swiper said “Our followers look like any other followers and are always delivered naturally.” (Less respectable vendors deliver their followers by Caesarean section or by singing telegram.)

The Times guy also said you can’t tell the real from the fake. “The only way anyone will know is if you tell them.”

Curiously, this is also the first law of teaching anything, from Latin grammar, to how to silence your cell phone when it suddenly plays L-O-L-A Lola at a funeral.

Might as well throw in the second law of teaching: “The only way you will know they are listening and give a rat’s ass is if they start laughing hysterically and throw dead rats at you.” Which is encouraging on two counts. One, they are listening. Two, the rats are dead.

1. Actually, there is a third question. Would they send more than a dollar if you asked politely, or implied (whined?) that you need the money to make the bad man go away?
2.They may or may not be armed.
3. Some places have not yet cracked down on punctuation theft, arguing “If you outlaw dangling participles, only outlaws will have dangling participles and guns. (See “If you outlaw guns…”).
4. .

©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 | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The penguin incident

I sat in the Washington office of Dr. Holler B. Snowbody, the Third Junior Deputy Deputy Undersecretary in the Department of Homeland Frisking, Risk Assessment Division, Penguins. I was on assignment for Big Beak (the magazine of birds with big beaks) to get the poop on the 1.5 million extra penguins just discovered in Antarctica, waddling along without so much as a by-your-leave.*

Dr. Snowbody was on the phone with Dr. Hans Hoofing (say HANDZ OOF-ing), America’s chief penguinist in Antarctica (no, no, no, not HONZ. And not HONCE, Say HANDZ.) (I can’t heeeear you.) I couldn’t help overhearing one half of their conversation — coincidentally, the half I was overhearing.**

“Who the hell is in charge of penguins down there, Hoofing?” asked Dr. Snowbody. “I can’t believe that somebody just la de da stumbled over one-and-a-half million extra penguins that no one ever knew about. What? The penguins knew? Here’s a career tip, Hoofing. If you’re going to be funny, you have to be funny. It’s a very unfunny rule.

“Look, we’re supposed to be on top of penguins. Congress gives us millions to keep an accurate beak count. What if we woke up some day and a billion undocumented penguins came paddling ashore in Florida, expecting pastry puffs and daiquiris. Haven’t you ever seen Planet of the Apes: The Rise of The Apeshit?

“Who do we have down there? Neely? I thought he died last winter. Last summer? Right, they found him frozen to a stool at a Tiki Bar. Too much ice in his margarita, I heard. Did we…What? We just left him there? Nobody had a blowtorch? Does his wife know?  And she’s not raising holy hell? How much? In one lump sum? Who the hell approved that? Why wasn’t I informed? I mean when I was in my shoot-the-poop-gimme-the-scoop mode?”

As Dr. Snowbody rattled his desk with a bloviation-device suitable to his rank as a junior deputy deputy, a sheet of paper floated to the floor. It was a partial transcript of an interview between Hands Hoofing and Jens Volvo (Say JENZ) and his brother Vilbo (Look, it’s JENZ, not YENZ). The Volvos, a pair of Swedes from Norway, were on holiday in Antarctica when they accidentally discovered the penguins.

Hoofer: How did you know there were 1.5 million penguins?
Volvo: I take a pencil and paper and I look at the first penguin and I say “One penguin,” and I write down “one penguin.” Then Vilbo takes a piece of chalk and marks the penguin’s beak so I don’t count it twice. Then I look at the next penguin and I say “One more penguin,” and I write down “one more penguin.” Then I have to tell Vilbo to stop eating the chalk…

Hoofer: So clever. And yet, so simple. But how important is it to say the words “One penguin” and “One more penguin” out loud while you’re counting?
Volvo: If I can’t hear myself thinking, how am I supposed to know what to write down?

Hoofer: That reminds me. Sometimes I’ll start counting the number of belt buckles in my top dresser drawer beneath the socks that I wear at weddings and funerals. I’ll sometimes lose count and have to start all over again. Does that ever happen to you?
Volvo. No.

Hoofer: So how did you discover these penguins?
Volvo: Vilbo and I and our cousin Lars were driving around Antarctica one afternoon to see the sights. Coincidentally, we were driving a Volvo.

Hoofer: You know, that might actually be ironical.
Volvo: They are very white, these sights we were seeing, and hard to see. Plus, the cost of parking was outrageous. We did see some stuff that was off-white, maybe even beige. Suddenly Lars shouts from the backseat ‘Stop the car. Back up.’ Well, we backed up and Lars says ‘Have you ever seen so many penguins?’ Well, in fact, we hadn’t. Lars says “If there aren’t at least three billion there, my name isn’t Stan, Stan the Science Man.’ Which, as you now know, it isn’t. He’s still just Lars “Lars, the Swede from Mars.”

Hoofer: Um, how do you know that we haven’t already counted those penguins?
Volvo: Have you?

Hoofer: Uh, no.
Volvo: That’s how we know. Ha! Just busting your icicles. We actually ran their names through a database of penguins already counted. Came back clean.

Hoofer: So clever, so simple.


**I have not ruled out ironical

©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 , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Just some guy in the stands

Q. I’m hearing a lot of talk about duality and dualism. I get that dualism is when you have a sword fight at dawn. But what is duality?
A. You’re getting the term, duel confused with the term, dual. They are two completely different aardvarks.

Q. Like an orc and a warg rider?
A. Excuse me?

Q. Oh, and sometimes it’s pistols at dawn. So here’s what I wonder: to get into a duel do you always have to slap the other guy across the face with a glove? Or can you just use your bare hand? And as long as you’re doing that, can you just punch him in the face? I know, I know, he then gets his choice of weapons, right?
A. Let me explain the dual that is spelled d-u-a-l instead of duel, spelled d-u-e-l.

Q. What about the dool spelled d-o-o-l?
A. Let’s start with something very basic like the co-eternal binary divide between two moral opposites.

Q. Where did you learn to talk like that?*
A. So, basically, in a discourse on philosophical duality, everything that happens in life is either light or dark. Right or wrong. Black or white. Good or bad.

Q. Chocolate or Vanilla?
A. The classic moral dilemma. Nobody said philosophy was understandable.

Q. But then, where does Cherry Garcia fit in? It’s nature’s only perfect food.
A. Perfection is beside the point, except, of course, when perfection is the point. If you follow.

Q. I think I’ll just grab an Uber.
A. Just remember the basic law of duality: ak-SENT-you-ate the positive, e-LIM-in-ate the negative and don’t mess with Mr. In-Between.

Q. Who gets to say what is POS-i-tive and what is NEG-a-tive?
A. There’s a committee. Very distinguished. Very positive. Appointed by the Koch brothers.

Q. But what if their stinky is my stanky?
A.  You’d be messing with Mr. In-Between. Also, the Antonym Police.

Q. What about Mrs. In-Between?
A. We don’t talk about her. Faced with the moral dilemma of guitar or mandolin, she ran off with a dueling banjo player.

Q. So what’s the point of reducing everything to just two choices?
A. It makes life easier. You don’t have to agonize over 17 flavors of ice-cream or what to get people for Christmas. It’s either socks or underpants. And political parties are easier, if not completely meaningless. No more Whigs, Tea Partygoers or Bernie Sanders. Just good old fake Republicans and Democrats.

Q. Speaking of stinky or stanky.
A. Keep in mind, one of those choices is always the wrong choice — from the stand point of the right people — or the right choice from the standpoint of the wrong people.

Q. How ingrained in life is duality?
A.  Oh, it’s spreading like blood on a toga. Consider the classic version of duality at the start of an NFL football game where the choice is heads or tails.

Q. Yeah, but sometimes people don’t have a tail. Or if they do, they can easily spot it by standing in front of a shop window, pretending to admire the goods. In the reflection they see the tail behind them. Sometimes it’s hard, though, especially if it’s a toy store and the goods are little toy trucks and cars and trains.
A. Yes, well, let’s just say I’m flipping a coin at the Super Bowl.

Q. Oh, and sometimes there’s a tiny rubber Tyrannosaurus Rex just about to eat a tiny plastic guy out for a walk. And then, here comes a tiny plastic school teacher firing a tiny plasma cannon. It’s a good thing you can still legally get those at tiny outdoor stores.
A. Do you want heads or tails?

Q. Are you the Super Bowl referee or just some guy in the stands flipping a coin?
A. No, I’m the referee.

Q. Wow. How did you get a job like that? And do you have to supply your own coin?
A. Uh…

Q. I really love it when the ref says “Heads, it is.” He always sounds like Yoda.
A.  As in “Nuts, you are.”

*From Wikipedia.Hope you didn’t think I knew what I was talking about.

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

Posted in F.A.Q., Mockery and derision | Tagged , , , , , | 4 Comments

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. 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