A flat iron will do the trick

Posted on December 31, 2014 by PMcG

I have very few complaints. Nothing that a million dollars couldn’t resolve. The only real annoyance I can think of—and it’s such a piddling, nitpicky issue that I’m embarrassed to admit it—but I haven’t yet received my million dollars. And the system is so poorly run that there doesn’t seem to be any place to register my complaint.

I mean, you can’t just walk out your front door like some people (not me) and grab the lapels of the first person who comes along and say “Excuse me, but I’ve been waiting for delivery of a million dollars. It hasn’t come and I’ve been waiting patiently for years. Years! Do you understand?”

Alas, they very seldom understand and usually call the people with the nets. It’s probably because they already have their million and just assume that you have momentarily forgotten where to get yours. Or they just don’t care. If you press them (a flat iron will do the trick, but in a pinch, a rolling pin comes in very handy) they get shirty. Even pantsy.

They will say something like “Look, nobody told me where to get mine. It took a lot of my sweat and natural hypocrisy to get my mil. Why should I help you? What’s in it for me? By the way, in case you haven’t noticed, my large, odious butt could stand a thorough smooching.”

For some reason I am reminded here of what that shepherd boy in Bethlehem, the one with the drum, said to one of the three kings from Orient-R (Fourth planet in the Almond Joy galaxy).

You’ll recall that everyone was packed into an abandoned Sno-Cone stand in the middle of a rare Bethlehem blizzard. The place overflowed with kings, cows, donkeys, camels, oxen, shepherds, angels, lambs, a reporter named Jonesy from The Daily Bethlehamster, blinding halos, massive (really massive) stinkbad and a nice young couple hovering over a baby in a manger.

The shepherd boy pulled out a snare drum and was only halfway through his first set when one of the kings hollered “Hey kid! Enough with the rum pum pum pum. Play something I can whistle to.”

The shepherd boy asked the king for a small donation to help him buy a floor tom and a hi-hat. The king looked down from his camel in stupefication.

“Look, kid, I don’t carry cash,” he said stupeficatiously. “What king does? All I have with me is this tub of myrrh. Ask the big shot two camels over, the one with the gold.”

It was then that the bearded man kneeling next to his wife beside the manger threw the shepherd kid a sympathetic look. “Life Lesson Number 179, grasshopper,” he whispered. “There’s nothing like a million dollars to turn you into a cheapskate.”

The boy, nodding toward the baby, said ‘You think he likes my playing?’”

“What’s not to like?” said the man. “But consider Life Lesson, Number 16: more cowbell.”

By the way, this true story from the Gospel According to Jonesy, was penciled in as one of the four principal gospels way back then to be included in something called the New Testament.

Trouble is, a copy editor at The Bethlehamster, where the story originally appeared, had never heard of myrrh. So he changed myrrh to mermaid.

Sadly, a guy named Bud of Assyria—a major distributor of tree goo who was known on the street as The Myrrh Man—slapped Jonesy with a libel suit. He claimed the mermaid reference ruined his reputation and that people on the street now called him Louise.

By then, the deadline for cool gospels had passed, and with it the chance for a Fab Four of gospels according to Matthew, Mark, Luke and Jonesy.

Ultimately, the copy editor was given over to the Royal Ticklers for “The Treatment.” Disheartened, Jonesy fell in with some Pharisees and ended up selling previously owned aqueducts.

But, I digress…

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2015, all rights reserved.

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, News You Can Use (Sort of) | Tagged , , , , | 6 Comments

When she is ten times better at it

Posted on December 18, 2014 by PMcG

You’ve seen it happen again and again. Someone throws a fish to a seal, he goes “Ork ork,” catches it in his mouth, swallows it and comes back for another.

Yet if somebody throws a fish to a man, it slaps against his nose and falls to the ground. In disbelief he barks “You think I’m going to swallow that raw? What if I choke on a bone? What happened to the tartar sauce? The lemon slice?”

Within this little scenario lies the one core truth about life not covered by The Laws of Physics or The Rules of Duck, Duck, Goose.

Consider the seal. Not a seal embossed in red wax on an important document such as the Magna Carta, or a note from the chief prosecuting nun to your mother. Talking here about your basic, orking type seal, a meat-eating, marine mammal looking for a few good fish (i.e. Semper Fi-sh)

Interesting point: Most seals have no more than a fourth grade education. They simply cannot comprehend that diphthong has an “hth” in the middle. (Easy fix: think of the word dipong and imagine marine-eating mammals whose initials are HTH parachuting into the middle.)

Seals do their best sealing in cold places like Antarctica, our upstairs bathroom and Minot, North Dakota. In that city the mayor is actually part-seal and part-ice-sculpture.

Seals are often slick, quite naked and unpretentious—except for those few who pretend they are spiritual counselors to the Kardashians. While seals bark like dogs, they are known for their cat-like refusal to grant interviews and, of course, their well-knotted macramé plant hangers.

It is often remarked of them “Give a seal a fish and you feed him for a nano-second. Teach a seal to fish and he will say ‘Stop, already. I’m a seal for God’s sake. Just keep tossing me them flounders.’”

In comparison, consider Mankind–with a capital M. Both the he and the she version of Mankind are mammals, but no matter how many years of schooling the he version has, he likes to pretend he knows nothing four to five times an hour. The she version desperately hopes no one she knows is watching or thinking she is with Mr. He-He.

He-Man is full of contradictions. He thinks of himself as slick, but wears a corduroy suit. He loves sushi, but won’t swallow a raw salmon whole. He brags about big balls, but prefers golf to bowling. He wants to impress the chickie babes, but he has the moves of a Zamboni.

The divide between seal and man is wide. Essentially one barks like a seal and the other is a seal. Mr. Seal is comfortable in his own skin, while He-Man is comfortable only in a gorilla suit (if unavailable, the top coat of a garden mole named Maurice of Lichtenstein.)

Seals accept their lot in life and they get it (i.e., a lot of fresh fish.) Sadly, by shutting his mouth at the wrong time, He-Man, doesn’t get it and waits in line forever at McDonald’s for the sullen, world-hating guy who does the fish sandwiches to move his buns.

It may be that She-Man also doesn’t get it, but fish mongers will not toss a fish her way. Probably out of some misguided sexist stereotype that presumes She-Man would be no better than He-Man at catching fish in her teeth.

Or, more probable, that she would be ten times better at it. And, it goes without saying, just a tad less likely to be a chickie babe.

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

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

Apostles playing shuffleboard

Posted on December 9, 2014 by PMcG

Persuaded by several factors, I decided to sell my Nobel Prize (NOZE).

Factor One: I’d gotten all the glory I was ever going to get from it. My wife was proud, but she wasn’t going to get up every day saying “Wow, you won a Nobel Prize.” I know, because I asked her and she said “Hah!” Then she got up and said “Back to the real world. Your turn to make the bed.”

The guy across the street thought I’d won an award for the most original door-knocker. A close friend said “I won a prize once for belch-singing the entire national anthem without barfing.”

Factor Two: My NOZE fell off the wall in the bathroom where I had hung it above the shiny white stagecoach. Police found evidence that the little brass nail which held the NOZE to the wall had become despondent and leapt to its death. The unsupported NOZE fell into the dust.

Police found the lifeless and badly bent brass nail next to a still stinking stinkbug. It was pinned beneath the weight of the NOZE medallion with its bas relief sculpture of Alfred Nobel. Ironically, the only damage was a slight divot on Nobel’s golden NOZE nose.

The dying stinkbug told police he’d overheard a bitter argument between the brass nail and the medallion.

“I invented dynamite,” the bas Nobel boasted. “What did you ever do with your life but hold up a cheap Wal-Mart reproduction of The Last Supper—probably the one with half the Apostles still playing shuffleboard downstairs in the barroom and the other half upstairs at the supper table throwing bread sticks at each other.

“Or wait. Maybe you spent your life holding up a Popular Mechanics calendar filled with naked popular mechanics.”

The brass nail cried out “Why don’t you shove some TNT up your nose and blow it.”

“That was so funny I forgot to explode,” said the bas Nobel. “Seriously, I’ve seen sharper toenail fungus. Let’s face it, you don’t have the brass to be a man-sized nail. You’re just a flat-headed carpet tack.”

Factor Three: I have never liked talking wall-hangings, especially the arrogant ones–although I make an exception for my singing walleye trophy.

Factor Four: While stopped at a red light I noticed a sign on a light pole:

Sell us your NOZE

We are currently buying Nobel Prizes
in your neighborhood. We will
pay cash–even if it’s too talkative
and/or arrogant. Get a FREE, no-obligation offer.
(Sorry, we do not buy singing NOZEs)

A man came out to the house and I showed him into the bathroom. Most people, he said, kept their NOZEs in the bathroom. Too many bad experiences with guests admiring a host’s NOZE in the living room or library and the bas Nobel saying something like “Psst. Step closer. BOOM! Scared you, didn’t I? Piece of advice: Never stand too close to the man who invented dynamite.”

The guy then offered me fifty bucks for my NOZE.

“But…but this is a Nobel prize for literature,” I said.

“Do you write literature?”

I told him I wrote lawnmower manuals in Haiku. Everybody in Copenhagen loved them.*

“Give me a break,” said the bas Nobel suddenly. “Anybody can write that crap.”

“Eat me,” I said.

His reply?

Haiku schmykoo, dude.
I invented dynamite.
Here, pull my finger.

Factor Five: I have never cared for wall hangings that eat me.

“Fifty once,” said the guy. “Fifty twice…”

“Get it out of here,” I said, pocketing the cash. “I’ve gotta make the bed.”

*See the Nobel Prize-winning “Haiku, haiku very much,” posted on September 24, 2013.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2014, all rights reserved.

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

Irish in the powder room

Posted on December 2, 2014 by PMcG

At a party last week, I ducked into the powder room because I do unannounced freelance inspections on behalf of one of the bigger gunpowder companies. Fortunately, it was unoccupied at the time. It’s sooooo much easier that way.

I happened to notice over the back of the hard, white appliance that shall not be named (WATSNBN Say: Watson Bin)) a framed needle-point version of an Irish blessing. It was the same one we had in our house when I was a kid.

May you always be upwind of
whatever is blowing your mind.
May the sun shine warm upon you and
may you not be naked because
our hottest friend,
Mr. Sunny,
can do some serious
deep frying of
your walleye platter,
–if you’re walking a mile
in my flip flops.
May the road rise to meet you,
which it surely will if you
come home drunk
and stumble over a banjo left
thoughtlessly in the street,
in which case
the road will say
“Oof!
Has your nose
always been this flat?”
Oh, in case the rain is
falling soft upon your fields,
may you have a good umbrella
and decent shoes.
And may you remember to take
your mudsucking shoes off
before you come in.
And may you don’t make me
say that a second time.
Until we meet again,
may God hold you
in the hollow of His hand like you
were Jiminy Cricket.
And may he whisper
in your ear that
one more
cricket peep
out of you and
it’s hand clapping
time.

Actually, the blessing in our house was a lot more religious—not surprising because my father was God’s Right Hand Man. As such he was given a 1954 Nash, the secret recipe for Rob Roys, and a stare known to cause incontinence at 40 paces.

My mother cooked and cleaned religiously and took afternoon naps while the potatoes were boiling. Every now and then she prayed out loud that Jesus, Mary and Joseph O’Hara! would give her the strength to keep from hitting one or more of us over the head with a shovel.

Our blessing wasn’t in needle-point. It was in red paint on the back of a stolen Keep off the Grass sign nailed to the wall over the Watson Bin. I mean, I’m pretty sure it was paint.

May your good life
lead you to God
and may God lead you to heaven
and in heaven,
may a kind soul direct you
to the place where they keep the beer.
If they are out, or if they only have Bud Lite Lime
may that kind soul draw you a map
to the closest beer store.
And if that store happens to be in Hell,
may your beer run be quick.
And if the devil hears you are buying up
all the Hop Devil I.P.A.,
may God divert his attention
with trash talk about
the last football game between
Satan’s Fallen Angels and
St. Michael’s Upright Angels
who also fell,
but didn’t whine about it
and got back on their feet
and kicked some bad angel butt.
And while God has the devil’s attention,
may you sneak the I.P.A.
back to heaven.
And later, may you hear
very clearly
when God says
“Don’t try that stupid trick again
hambone,
because if you’d paid attention
on the newbie tour
you’d know
we have our own distributor!
Hellooo!
Maybe you didn’t notice, but
This is heaven!”
And may you understand
soccer rules because
here’s a nice little
yellow card
for jerking my beard.
It’ll be hellfire red
the next time.

Those Irish. What would powder rooms be without them?

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2014, all rights reserved.

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

The head of a toad

Posted on November 26, 2014 by PMcG

I’m going to be blunt: no sugar-coating, no waffling, no pancaking, no sausaging, no baconing, no bear clawing. And political correctness be damned. Oh, and no napkinating.

So. The truth is (and this hurts) we own a stupid toaster.

I’m not saying “We have a stupid TOASTER.” That might imply “We have a normal toaster that makes very nice toast, it’s just that on the counter top where one might expect to find a gun cabinet, or a multi-tap draft-beer dispenser, someone (not me) put a stupid TOASTER.”

I’m not saying we have a STUPID toaster, easily misinterpreted to mean that instead of spending money on personal body armor or the NFL courtroom package or a trip to the Mall of America, someone (not me) bought a STUPID toaster.

I’m not saying that, even though it does look like I just said exactly that (an optical illusion.) So what am I saying? Stand back. This is going to be loud:

WE HAVE A STUPID TOASTER, IN FACT, A VERY STUPID TOASTER!

With our toaster-oven one lays slices of bread into a miniature tanning booth. One turns a dial to settings labeled, inexplicably, in both English and French: toast (grillage); bake (cuisson); hot (sacre bleu). Unfortunately, the font is so impossibly small that the settings can be read only by a flea on a seeing-eye dog. Warning: the hourly rate for a multi-lingual flea/seeing-eye dog combo is ridiculous.

I once could see the small things in life, having followed my mother’s advice to carry a pocket knife and always keep my eyes peeled. It got so I could read the Gettysburg Address engraved on the head of a toad in 4-point Arial Narrow. Being nearsighted, though, meant I couldn’t read the bumper sticker on a car 15 feet in front of me that said, I think

Toad head engraving hurts the toad (unless dead) (i.e., the toad)

One day, as an adult looking to the bigger things of life, I arranged with a passing surgeon/street performer to give me a free juggling lesson and to remove my cataracts, all in exchange for a previously-spun hula hoop and a beer to be named later. Result: I am now officially a farsighted visionary.

True, my nearsighted Gettysburg Address vision is gone (unless I’m actually in Gettysburg and have the Google maps ‘toad app’ two inches from my nose.) On the other eyeball, if I’m in Buffalo and I stand on a fruit cake tin, I can see Seattle. Warning: requires the purchase of a fruit cake, ironically illegal in New York state.

Did I mention that our stupid toaster takes forever to convert bread into toast? When you know it takes forever, you lose track of time, thinking you can do other things while forever is running its course. Like looking under your bed for someone who is hiding (not me), or reading the New York Times’s gripping “36 hours in Daugavpils, Latvia.”

When the aroma of smoking garage shingle reaches your nose you rush to the kitchen crying “Stupid toaster!” and, for good measure, “Grille-pain stupide!” But not even marmalade and a big yellow road grader can keep blackened toast from tasting like burnt Daugavpils, Latvia.

Admittedly, waiting forever for toast is not a huge world problem–certainly not in the top five. And I know that my sense of forever is not the same as the forever of someone enduring three years in a cell on Devil’s Island. Still, three years on Devil’s Island waiting for a side of toast does change the conversation.

Therefore, we now throw it open to an inquiry into when-oh-when will millions of boys and men stop wearing their baseball caps backward in their solidarity with the non-conformist call-to-arms for individuality. Hands?

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2014, all rights reserved.

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, News You Can Use (Sort of) | Tagged , , , , , , | 7 Comments

The Pope of comedy

Posted on November 21, 2014 by PMcG

Today on Talking With Famous Bob we welcome best-selling author Knute Knudeknick.

His last book “God Made The World Flat So It’s Easier to Vacuum,” tells of a boy growing up poor on a throw-rug farm in North Dakota. When his father, a third generation rug planter, loses a crop of room-sized rugs to an infestation of rug rats, he advises his son to go into hardwood flooring. Instead, the boy makes it big in the cutthroat world of indoor-outdoor carpeting.

Mr. Knudeknick’s current bestseller ranges far afield from the warp and weft of carpet husbandry. It’s called “God Wants Funnier Jokes.” But while topping the bestseller list, it also has sparked bitter controversy.

In religious sects that espouse self-flagellation and the practice known as “Walking around with a stick up your sigmoid colon,” the telling of a joke is considered the immoral equivalent to having sex in the same room as your partner.

Last week, The Rev. Tindal Melancholy, Pompatus of the Church of God the Frowner, condemned Mr. Knudeknick’s book. “What God really wants,” he said, “is no laughing matter.”

Famous Bob: Mr. Knudeknick, do we really want a God with a sense of humor?
Knute Knudeknicker: It’s funny you should ask.

FB: Oh? In what way.
KK: Um…that was a joke.

FB: Yes?
KK: You asked about humor and I said funny. Just a little, um, play on the title.

FB: Aha.
KK: Oh, and my name is actually Knudeknicker.

FB: Of course it is. It’s right here on the book jacket.
KK: You left the e and the r off the end.

FB: What are you saying?
KK: You left the e and the r off the end.

FB: You mean…oh the end of your name. Aha. Yes, I see it. Knudeknicker. You’re absolutely right. Which is to say you are no Knudeknick.
KK: No.

FB: Although you do look just a little…
KK: It would be like me calling you famous Bo.

FB: Come again?
KK: Famous Bo.

FB: And who would that be?
KK: That would be you without the b at the end of Bob.

FB: I’m sorry. I don’t follow
KK: I was trying to make a comparison to your mixing up my name…

FB: With what?
KK: With Knudeknick. Which is not a real name.

FB: You mean Knudeknick is what authors would call a gnome doubloon?
KK: No, it’s just not my name.

FB: And what is your gnome?
KK: Knudeknicker.

FB: Of course it is. It’s right here on the book jacket.
KK: And spelled correctly.

FB: So tells us, Mr. Knuderknickle, how do you know that God wants funnier jokes?
KK: He’s been watching a lot of cable and doesn’t find those comedian specials funny. Too much reliance on the F-bomb, the MOFO-bomb and the D-Head bomb.

FB: You’d think God would have the Dish.
KK: Oh, they’ve got everything up there. Cable, The Dish, FIOS.

FB: When you say up there…
KK: The main control room. Unbelievable gizmo stuff. Those techies up there are in heaven. Literally.

FB: So God wants funnier jokes–funnier than what exactly?
KK: Funnier than hell. He thinks our collective sense of humor is declining and that we need to laugh more, stop taking ourselves so seriously. He thinks comedy should be a vocational calling like the priesthood. But with women as well as men.

FB: In such a brave new world would there be a Pope of comedy?
KK: Nothing that formal. But comedians would have to wear funny hats.

FB: Does God really have a sense of humor?
KK: He allowed Joel Sweeney to invent the five-string banjo, didn’t he?

FB: I mean, is he funny?
KK: Oh, God, he’s funny. He loves jokes about animals that walk into bars, especially when two bears walk into a bar. I’ve seen him laugh so hard that amazing grace came out his nose.

FB: Does he tell jokes himself?
KK: Oh sure. Here’s one: Say, Bo, where does the milk of human kindness come from?

FB: Did you call me Bo?
KK: From holy cows. Sha-boom! Hey, you’ve been great. I’ll be here all week.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2014, all rights reserved.

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, Mockery and derision, News You Can Use (Sort of) | Tagged , , , , , , | 9 Comments

The head scratch thing

Posted on November 18, 2014 by PMcG

I sat at my brilliant idea machine trying to coax a brilliant thought from its keyboard. I had a good one by the ankles, but the little booger was holding on for dear life and I just couldn’t budge it.

Why are some ideas so reluctant to surrender to the light? Are they afraid of being judged bad ideas? Or good, but not brilliant? Do they fear being labeled stupid?

An idea is a lot like a sheet of paper going through a printer. Sometimes you feed in a blank sheet and it goes in and up and over and through and you can hear the magic words dancing across the page.

But sometimes ideas get jammed in the gears. You can just feel the thing balling up as the back-end of your mind pushes blindly forward, wrinkling, tearing, knocking down the dancing words, getting them all bent out of shape.

There are two ways of resolving a jammed printer problem. One, you yank on the page and pull out a shredded mess. You moan “Is nothing easy?” Hearing no answer, but knowing what the answer is, you ball the page and toss it to the waste basket. He stops, he pops. An easy three-foot jumper! The crowd goes…

But it bounces off the rim and rolls under a table next to a large, dead, spider. Because you fear spiders, even when dead (them, not you) you figure the paper ball can just stay there.

Or, you could lift off the top of the printer and gently tug at the scrooched up page. Maybe you’ll free it, maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll tear it in half and laugh at yourself right there on the spot. Right.

Maybe you should go for a walk.

Now, if it’s a jammed mind–an idea that, let’s say, hits a deer on your neural interstate–you also have two choices. One, you say screw it and use the cutting edge of your brilliant mind to cut the thing off at the knees. Half a loaf is better than none, right? Do this too often, though, and you may have to send your mind off to be sharpened. Who knows if you’ll ever see it again?

Or you can simply let go of the ankles of the brilliant idea, put your fingers on top of your head and scratch. You might try ceremonial language like “Hmmm.” And definitely go for a walk.

That’s what I did. I examined those ankles very closely. Here’s what I had so far: Put your wallet in the freezer every now and then. The next time you think you’ve lost your wallet and you’ve looked everywhere, you can say “Wait, I didn’t check the freezer.” This gives you an extra place to look.

I did the head scratch thing. I went Hmmm. I mean, you can see how close I was to snappy profundity. Yet, something was missing. It needed maybe a tad more Parmesan cheese, if you know what I mean.

So I did the hard thing. I let go of the ankles and went for a walk. I found comfort knowing that brilliant idea guys from the past like Erasmus of Rotterdam, Augustine of Hippo and Slick Dick from Passaic had faced and overcome similar challenges.

While out, I stopped for some freshly ground Parmesan. Then I realized I didn’t have my wallet, so I walked home empty-handed. In the kitchen I retrieved my wallet from the freezer, stuck it in my back pocket and sat down at my brilliant idea machine.

But my left rear rump–my wallet rump, if you will–went numb with the cold. Which made me realize that the brilliant idea I had by the ankles was basically half-assed.

I tossed the wallet into the microwave, sat on a heating pad and thought, screw it. And screw Slick Dick from Passaic.

At least I didn’t waste any Parmesan cheese.

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2014, all rights reserved.

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