Quick idiot check (slow idiots also welcome)

Posted on July 8, 2014 by PMcG

Often you hear the phrase “Stop acting like an idiot,” or “You sound like an idiot,” or “You look like an idiot.” If you’re not an idiot then these phrases serve as friendly warning signs that you may be drifting into idiot real estate and should immediately cease and desist.

If you are an idiot, however, you may not know what the word desist means. What idiot would? (We’re assuming here that even an idiot knows what cease means. If not, see Quick moron* check.) In fact, both cease and desist mean “to stop.” So when you’re told to cease and desist you’re being told to stop and to stop.

Some idiots may find this perplexing — although, only those idiots who know what perplexing means. Other idiots will wonder why the phrase “cease and desist” even exists when it would be so much more efficient to say “Stop, or I’m telling my Mom.”

Here’s a quick look at the three most common idiot–provoked responses. If you see yourself in any of these scenarios stop and stop you idiot.

“Stop acting like an idiot.”
• In the theatrical sense this is what a director might say to a temperamental actor cast as Abraham Lincoln with an interpretation of the role that borrows heavily from Daffy Duck with a brogue.

• You ring the neighbor’s doorbell at 3 a.m. and ask to borrow his lawn mower. You’re acting like an idiot because you live in a fourth floor condo and your neighbor already has a restraining order against you.

• You climb up onto the edge of your cubicle at work and try to set a new world record for the number of cube edges you can cross without falling or getting fired. You’re acting like an idiot because you already own the world’s record (three) and you left your thirty foot balancing pole at the unemployment office.

“You sound like an idiot.”
• At a party, the conversation turns to politics but a guy with cheese curls in his ears mistakenly thinks it’s about pollen and ticks. When he starts talking about the time he had to remove a deer tick from his nether lands, the conversation stops. You sound like an idiot when you say “Dude, where’d you find the cheese curls?”

• To impress your friends while at a major league baseball game, you buy a round of drinks for all 22,000 fans there. They don’t accept your Sears card for the $165,000 tab but, coincidentally, one of your friends has exactly $165,000 in quarters and dimes. You sound like an idiot when you say “Can you spot me five bucks for some nachos?”

“You look like an idiot.”
• You show up anywhere, any time dressed as a mime. You look like an idiot.

• You’re running late and don’t have time to change, so you arrive at work wearing your pajamas with fluffy white sheep against a powder blue sky. By chance it happens to be dress down day. But with your unclipped big toe poking through a hole in one of your pajama feet, you look like an idiot.

• It’s Halloween and you’re invited to a costume party. You and your wife decide to dress up as each other. Your wife does such a good job impersonating you that she looks like an idiot.

*Moron and idiot are measures of stupidity. Basically, an idiot is too stupid to come in out of the rain; a moron is too stupid to know it’s raining. In contrast, a fool and a ninny are both too stupid to know that the internet is not a bag for hauling in a lot of fish on a ship called Inter.

©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 , , , , , | 1 Comment

Wisdom without wis is just dom

Posted on July 2, 2014 by PMcG

Any guru will tell you that wisdom begins with your rummaging through the front hall closet of your brain, searching for a particular piece of junk but stumbling over something completely unexpected and going “Hmmm.”

If that statement doesn’t speak volumes then perhaps the front hall closet of your brain has been remodeled into a powder room. Not only does this seriously weaken our metaphor, it raises this question: exactly where in your oblongata do you keep your figurative “coats and hats” and all that other emblematic flotsam you’ve stuffed between your ears since forever?

At the very least it calls up the unseemly spectre of dozens of “strange coats” — which may be defined here as stray thoughts, ranging from unlikely get-rich-quick schemes to fantasies involving Rachel Ray — dumped on your allegorical bed during parties. Often, after the last “guest” has taken a coat and left, you find an inebriated uncle, naked and snoring away on your personal pillow.

Keeping the metaphor alive, the naked uncle represents the naked truth. The snoring is the brain’s “can’t-handle-the-naked-truth alarm.” The pillow can be tricky to interpret. It may be the large shiitake mushroom, covered with onion dip, that you swallowed whole during the party. Or it’s the memory of swallowing the car dealer’s kowabunga and buying the five-year extended warranty that covers everything but parts, labor and anything involving the engine or glove compartment.

Anyway, we were talking about wisdom and the front hall closet. I’m addressing this to men, by the way, because women were out in their gardens the day the wisdom truck came down the street; most of the men were in the house in their underwear, belching, scratching and watching “Fast and Furious 6” and liking it.

Let’s say that you and your first wife — who, by sheer coincidence happens to be your current wife — are invited to a wedding that you really don’t want to go to because you can’t remember who the people are who are getting married and couldn’t care less.

Weddings require you to dress up: collared shirt (worn fewer than seven times since last ironing); never-worn birthday gift tie with tiny red and blue poison dart frogs that sometimes seem to move; formal church pants whose pockets are stuffed with olive pits wrapped in crumpled tissues (from the last wedding, or possibly post-funeral reception); a dark, muted-plaid sports coat, so named because someone is sure to look at you and say “Hey sport, whose coffin did you steal that from?” Finally, you must don the appropriately colored (i.e., black) wingtips.

So often in life, it comes down to the wingtips — the largest species known in the feets taxonomy. Bigger than a breadbox, yes, but not so big they can’t fit into a pair of Winnebagos.

Let’s say you’ve put on the left wingtip but you’ve looked everywhere and can’t locate the right one. Hence your foray into the “front hall closet” where you dig through a “box” of old ice skates, gloves, golf balls, mufflers, hundreds of loose Legos and, voila! a shoe.

The good news: it’s a black shoe and it’s for your right foot. Bad news: it’s not a wingtip. It’s a sharply pointed Italian crotch-kicker that secures to your foot with a shiny buckled strap. Sadly, it hangs by a thread.

And here is where the seeds of wisdom (the Legos) blossom into a sublime truth worthy of Confucius or Gimli, son of Gloin. As bold as it is ridiculous, this truth cannot be denied. You’ve been to weddings, you’ve been to funerals, you’ve been to branch bank openings and all of them can be summed up in one undeniable reality:

Nobody ever looks at or gives a crap about a guy’s shoes.

You smile as you slip on the deadly stiletto-shoe and fasten the buckle with electrician’s tape. Not even your current love interest notices as she reviews your uniform. “You look like the pro at a Zombie country club,” she says, “but at least you’re dressed.”

Now, if some guy at the wedding should say “Do you realize you’re wearing two different shoes?” you can offer the perfect comeback: “I’ve got a pair just like these at home.”

Even more perfect, you simply let the stiletto do the talking.

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

Posted in News You Can Use (Sort of), The human comedy | Tagged , , , , | 2 Comments

For the One Hundredth Time…

Posted on June 26, 2014 by PMcG

Dear Hint of Light Guy: I see it’s been a hundred years since you started writing this humor blog. When will the humor kick in?
–Humorless

Dear Humorless: Not 100 years, 100 posts over one year. Just as a fine wine needs time in the barrel to convert sugar into alcohol, humor needs time in the medulla oblongata (make sure you were born with an oblong medulla; round ones don’t get it) to convert capicola, ham, salami, baloney, onions and other hot electrons into amusing subatomic sandwiches. Warning: If consumed in quantum states (think North and South Dakota, but with people instead of fire ants) there is a risk of everything being defracted, usually into a toilet, at 3 a.m. Which is so typical of the dysfunctional Lepton family that the electrons married into. By the way, this fits in with what scientists call the Pauli Exclusion Principle which basically states that you say goodbye and I say hello.

Dear Mr. Hint: Have read all 100 posts. Just so we’re on the same page, when you say humor, you mean, like, funny. Right?
–Potential Laugher

Dear Potential: Did the Leptons put you up to this? Because I don’t have to do this, you know—expose my vulnerable self to the world only to be made fun of. I could be in a law office billing hours to the VA. I could be driving a nice, cool ice cream truck, wearing a white suit and a white cap with a shiny black peak. I could be hosting a party for the surviving Kardashians (speaking of middle-of-the-night defractions). But no, I have chosen to write a humor blog—not because of its monetizing potential, but because I care. AND I need the monety.

Dear Dr. Light: My medulla used to be oblong, but some time ago a truck hit my motorcycle with me on it. In my most recent X-Rays it’s taken on more of a rhombus shape. Yet I find every word you write to be hysterically funny. I especially liked the blog about that rhinoceros running for Congress.
–Reconstructed brain

Dear Brain: Thanks for the compliment, but I’ve never written anything about a rhinoceros running for Congress. I think you may have me confused with the blog “A Hint Of Rhinoceros.”

Dear Hinto: Your delivery boy has thrown your blog into my bushes again—the third time this month. This morning, however, he outdid himself, tossing it up onto my porch roof. I climbed out the bedroom window to retrieve it and found my brother-in-law who has been missing for 13 years. I hurried back inside, closing and locking the window. Please tell your delivery boy to aim for the bushes from now on.
–Mondo Madman

Dear Mad: We’ve spoken to the delivery boy. He’s just gone in for Tommy John surgery, and as you know, it takes about a year to recover from that, so your roof should be free of blogs for some time. By the way, in an emergency, please feel free to call our brother-in-law removal service. (Offer void where prohibited.)

Dear Light dude: I write a blog called “A Hint Of Rhinoceros,” and I notice that you recently published a post about a rhinoceros running for Congress. That would be me, Bob The Rhinoceros. You gave the impression that a rhino could never get elected to Congress. Admittedly, I lost the election to a blind hamster, but only because of the negative tone of your blog.

How about we agree to keep out of each other’s territory. You stop writing about rhinos and I stop writing funny stuff. To prove my sincerity I’m sending over three of my best rhino-walks-into-a-bar jokes. They are really funny. Just change rhino to horse, or bear or something like that.
–Bob the R

Dear Bob: Sadly, I didn’t find your rhino jokes funny and I think it goes to the idea that people just don’t believe a rhino would walk into a bar. Charge into a bar? Maybe. Whereas a bear walking into a bar seems reasonable vis a vis farcical comedy. Besides, it occasionally really happens. Just ask U.S. Senator. James J. “Fuzzy” Bear (D) Alaska. And once again I deny having written anything about a rhinoceros running for Congress. (Charging? Maybe.)

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

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, Mockery and derision | Tagged , , , , | 3 Comments

Being Perfict

Posted on June 24, 2014 by PMcG

Friends, we must stop our mad obsession with perfection. Because, let’s face it: we all have moments when we’re neither the whitest shorts in the basket nor the sharpest knife at the crime scene.

A tiny example: let’s say that while attempting to form Spock’s “Live Long and Prosper” V-sign with your fingers, your concentration slips, triggering a tiny misfiring along the neural pathways. Your big toe suddenly stands up straight and—depending on the length and sharpness of the nail—it pokes right through your sneaker. If you happen to be in the frisker line at the airport, you get arrested for failing to put your deadly feet into one of the plastic bins–but not, of course, in the same bin as your belt or underpants or those of the guy behind you.

Here’s a slightly less tiny example: The other day this guy I know (not me) was neatening up in the kitchen and came across a lemon wedge that someone (not K-Mac) left untended on the counter. My friend popped it into a baggie and was about to put it into the refrigerator when it slipped from his hand to the floor.

Many people might have shouted “You little snot,” and scooped the lemon off the floor with prejudice. Or they may have hollered “You puckering, citrus weenie, you don’t deserve my refrigerator.” In fact, if you were to get a book from the library on appropriate things you can say at times when your perfection is challenged, you’d find both of these epithets verbatim in the chapter on dressing down uncooperative fruit.

Instead, when my imperfect friend (not me) dropped the lemon, he blurted “Oooh, sorry bud.” He picked it up, checked to see if it needed any lemon aid and then escorted it to the fruit vault.

Just then, someone (not K-Mac, gosh, no) came into my friend’s kitchen (not my kitchen).

“Who were you just talking to?” someone (not K-Mac) asked.

“Um, no one,” said my friend (not me).

Someone looked at not me with knowing eyes. “Did I hear you apologizing to a lemon wedge?”

Jeezy weezy, you show compassion to one little lemon wedge and suddenly you’re a mental case.

Anyway, this same friend of mine was at the optometrist for his regular eye exam recently. He’s staring through a contraption that is a cross between a periscope and the Green Giant’s sunglasses. The eye guy is busy sliding lenses into and out of the contraption to find which ones make the letters on the wall-chart clearer.

At one point the eye guy says “Now how does it look?” My friend looks for the letters but can’t find them.

“Ah,” says the eye guy. “And now?”

He still sees nothing.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.” He’s beginning to get worried.

“And now?”

“I can’t see anything.”

The eye guy says “Hmmm.” And my friend is also doing a Hmmmmm, but with more m’s and a sweat chaser.

Just then, a jam-up on one of the outbound neural pathways of my friend’s brain clears. He opens his eyes. Literally. Suddenly he can see all the way to Sunday and he passes the exam (luckily there were no essay questions.)

So what happened? For the answer look to good old Jeremiah, the bullfrog in the King Jimbo Bible who said something like “Zeke, there are none so blind as those who will not see.”

Translation: Keeping your eyes shut does make it much easier to avoid seeing the road sign that says “Perfection: One jillion miles.” But remember, friends, maintaining eye contact with reality makes it a lot easier to see the taco stands and to keep your imperfect butt from developing secondary and even tertiary cracks.

Of course, there are always naysayers. For instance, someone (not K-Mac, no way) who heard this sad but true eye exam story told me “Someday you’ll look back and wish you’d kept this to yourself.”

©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), The human comedy | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

Redskins name change solution (win-win)

Posted on June 19, 2014 by PMcG

One year ago, with great humbility, this blog proposed a sober and rational answer to the heated question: should the Washington Redskins change their name? It seems apt to restate that plan before someone else steals the idea and wins the Nobel Prize.

Brilliant Redskin re-branding concept from Bob, in marketing

Chief: Found an ingenious way to get out from under the offensive nickname “Redskins” but actually keep it and offend no one. We’re talking win-win (And I’m talking bonus. Ha Ha. Just kidding.)

Concept for commercial:
Dawn. Sun rising over a farm field somewhere in America. Sound of a rooster cock-a-doodling. Close up of the field. Hand-held camera moves straight down a garden row to a potato still attached to its root. We hear a slightly out of breath voice.

S.O.B. VO

It’s a…a potato!

On screen we see that this isn’t an ordinary brown or white potato. It seems vaguely mauve, leaning slightly toward fuchsia with a rosy hint of embarrassment. Suddenly a whistle is heard and a foot in a black high-top comes swinging through the shot and kicks the potato up and out of the field. We see it sailing high into the air and straight through the uprights of a football end zone. We are suddenly in Fed-Ex field and the stadium is packed with a screaming, frenzied crowd.

Into the frame steps Homer Simpson (if available. If not, Sammy Baugh, if alive. Or Roger Goodell, if mortified.) He turns and stares into the camera:

Whoever

It’s a Redskin potato, boys and girls. A Washington Redskin

As the marching band plays “Hail to the Redskins,” a manly male voice (I’m thinking you, chief) sings these new lyrics

Manly Male Voice (Chief?)

Hail to the Redskin
potatoes for victory
spuds in the deep fry,
tubers for old D.C.

Chorus:
Mashed or boiled or French fried,
how ‘bout hash browns?
Baked, au gratin, creamed,
You’ll gain a few pounds

So put…
the starch…
back in your shorts…
yams of Washington!

Closing shot:
We hire an actual American Indian who watches the scene unfold. Then he turns to the camera and a tear runs down his cheek to his mouth where his tongue slurps it up. The camera backs out and we see the Indian holding a redskin potato covered in melted butter. (Important we do this with great respect and/or slapstick.)

Concepts for new Redskin Logo
• Mr. Potato Head wearing a helmet, a la the Oakland Raiders pirate
• A closeup of a redskin potato with laces
• A quarterback’s arm, rearing back, about to throw a large, steaming redskin

Stream of conscious thoughts for cheerleading
Our cheerleaders would be known as the Sweet Potatoes and their costumes would have two big yams over the uh, the uh…and you’d have, um, two mascots, one a French Fry and the other a large bottle of ketchup and they would chase each other during the game, and here’s a thought: as the teams come out on the field a helicopter shaped like a potato drops millions of freeze-dried redskin potato flakes. Cleanup not a problem. We rig a Zamboni with a potato scraper. The crowd will eat it up (Get it?)

Proposed Redskin Potato Cheers

P-O-T-T-A-T-O
We’re the Redskins, Go Go Go!

One potato, two potato,three potato, four
Unless you brought a peeler, you aint gonna score

Your defense is au rotten/Your offense has been creamed
We’re the redskin potatoes/You’re chicken almandine

Apple peaches pumpkin pie
Stick a tater in their eye

Big Spud! Hold that line!
Make them for their Mom’s opine!

Slather ‘em with sour cream, Cover ‘em with chives
Anyway you eat ‘em you aint leavin’ here alive

Redskins, Redskins you are tops
Just like a quart of potato schnapps

Miscellany:
• Instead of a coin toss at the start of the game, we have a tater-tot toss
• When a player is injured, the cart that hauls him off the field is shaped like a baked potato wrapped in tinfoil. The injured player is placed into the potato and covered with a blanket made up to look like shredded cheese and bacos.
• We get the NFL to add a new personal-foul penalty for mashing: Fifteen yards and loss of gravy.(Ha ha, just kidding)
• The press notes we hand out to the media are called “Peelings.”

The Redskin Stops Here
Here’s where you, Chief, launch your new chillaxin’, home skillet image as D.C. BossManKool. Before every game we get a former Redskins coach—Norm, Marty, Joe, The Ball Coach, The Zornado, and The Name That Shall Never Again Be Uttered—to the come out on the field for a special, no-hard-feelings presentation.

You have a large red rose in your lapel. Just as you are about to hand over an engraved plaque, your red rose squirts mashed potatoes into the face of the coach. You toss off your glasses, rip off your suit (a specially made, tear-away Armani) and you stand naked except for a red potato peel thong.

Electrically, you launch into an outrageous Ray Lewis hip hop grind to show the crowd you are far off the chain, perhaps so far that you are actually up in the Kool Aid.

The French Fry and Ketchup mascots and the Sweet Potatoes and the Redskins marching band all come out onto the field and start crackalackin’ with you.

Then William Shatner (if still alive) (even if not) gets into the emo and announces to the crowd over the PA “Yo. Are you ready for some pommes frites-boule?”

I know that’s a lot to digest in one memo (Ha Ha. Get it?) Let’s discuss–B.I.M.

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

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

Monetize this

Posted on June 10, 2014 by PMcG

In the old days, the really old days when men were men and Tyrannosaurus Rex ate them like jelly beans, they had no credit cards. They had no money at all, not even pocket change. They didn’t even have pockets.

That meant no pennies to buy penny candy—a major blow to the penny candy industry. It meant no quarters to call a lawyer and no dimes to drop on organized cave criminals in exchange for soft time with a caged lion, from whose paw you once removed a thorn and a significant amount of toejam.

Things changed when an unnamed guy stumbled on a bright nugget of gold. He looked at it then stuck it in his belly button and walked around feeling shinier than thou. “Bellybutton struttin” thus became the first cool way to meet women. (Note: it worked better on innies than outies.)

Suddenly everyone wanted a gold nugget. But you either had to stumble across one of your own or get a gold-painted nugget of questionable origin from vendors known as “phonies” for the phonebones they were always packing. (Note: Women were not fooled, especially when some of the “phony” nuggets proved to be bio-degradable in the heat of the night.)

Men soon discovered you could use gold nuggets not only to attract women but to buy stuff like snakeskin cowboy boots, beer, and a complete set of socket wrenches. To pump more gold into the economy, an industry sprang up to make gold from ordinary metal, like lead. These were the first alchemists. Their motto: “Get the lead out!”

Alchemy, by the way, gets its name from an illusionist known only as “Chemical Al, the bellybutton’s pal.” Al also did card tricks and balloon animals. He was the first man to attempt to saw a woman in half, but was persuaded by her armed husband to “Drop the saw, step away from the woman.” Which he did. Ironically, he was accidentally sawn in half a few years later during an overly enthusiastic cake cutting incident at his 39th birthday party.

History eventually discredited alchemy as “morons goofing morons.” Its purveyors were burned at the steak dinner they were tricked into attending. Served only zwieback and haggis, they still had to pay the full 50 clams a head, tip not included. (Clams replaced gold when people realized they could eat the clams and then use the shells to buy stuff.)

Alchemy has resurrected itself today under a new name: monetization. Instead of chemically altering lead to produce fake gold, people now mount a social media campaign to monetize their gig (aka: their thing, their deal, their bag, their stuffed parrot, their parked gum, their after-dinner mint, their planet, their dooh-dah their rama-rama-ding-dong).

To the uninitiated, mounting a social media campaign is like mounting a rhinoceros at high speed while naked. It can be done but you’d need someone to design the rhino, someone to host the rhino, someone to optimize the search for the rhino if it escapes (bet on it), and someone to charge you rhino-sized money because that’s how they have monetized their gig.

One way people try to monetize themselves is by starting a blog, attracting followers, and then boring them to death. Some simply beg followers for $1,000 apiece with no prospect of ever paying them back.

A small fraction of bloggers, however, figure they have something worth selling and spend their energy attracting more followers, polishing and promoting their product and inviting followers to lively informational sessions. While they are at these sessions, the bloggers strip their homes of anything not nailed down.

©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 , , , | 2 Comments

F.A.Q. How to sell your personal papers

Posted on June 5, 2014 by PMcG

Q. I see where Tom Wolfe sold his papers to the New York Public Library. I have a stack of old papers for lining the bottom of the bird cage. I haven’t needed them since my parrot ran off with the dog. How much do you think I could get for them?
A. Tom Wolfe’s personal papers are not the same as your old newspapers. While they have some things in common—both started out as innocent trees and ended up defiled by parrots and/or librarians—Mr. Wolfe’s papers contain no ads for snow tires. That’s a major rule.

Q. See, my dog Bob brought the paper in from the driveway every morning. The parrot trained him. Every day I’d hear the same thing. “Awk. Get the paper Bob. Awk.”
A. Personal papers include intimate letters to friends and lovers, book outlines, manuscripts, amusing death threats, even cocktail napkins with entire novels scribbled on them. In Tom Wolfe’s case, it sometimes took two napkins, a large tablecloth and a lobster bib. Like the one at The Last Supper (the tablecloth, not the lobster bib.)

Q. The thing is, the parrot liked to read the sports section. Everyday it was the same thing “Awk. Cubs lose again. Awk.” By the way I have a bunch of letters from my parrot’s lawyer…
A. Those would be your parrot’s personal papers. But it doesn’t matter unless you’re famous or a New York Times bestselling author or an undiscovered genius who got discovered and talked about his papers to Letterman.

Q. That’s exactly what I did. Only, it was Conan.
A. You’re saying you’re an undiscovered genius?

Q. No, I’ve been discovered for some time now. That’s how I met Conan.
A. He discovered you?

Q. Hiding in his dressing room, yes. But my discovery as a genius was a selfie. One day I was looking within, trying to find out who I was and if I was wearing underpants—I mean, in the existential sense. I already knew who I was in the epistemological sense because I have a driver’s license with my picture and it looks a lot like me with or without undies.
A. So, during this self-discovery process you discovered you were a genius?

Q. Crazy, huh? One more question. Lets say I’m in the mafia and somebody delivers a package and it’s a dead fish wrapped in a newspaper.
A. Like the scene from The Godfather, when Clemenza says “Luca Brazzi sleeps with the fishes?”

Q. Badda boom, badda bing. Anyway, let’s say I retired from the mafia and need some fast cash. See, the parrot ditched Bob in Buffalo and he got picked up by the dog catcher and my mafia Visa card with Marlon Brando’s face on it is maxed out.
A. Let me get this straight. You’re just another broke and failed parrot-slash-dog owner in the mafia who discovers he’s a genius and then Conan invites you on his TV show after he finds you hiding in his dressing room.

Q. Pretty much. Except for inviting me on his show. And being on TV.
A. Have you considered going back to your home planet?

Q. Look, I’ve still got that newspaper the fish was wrapped in. Would the New York Public Library buy that?
A. What happened to the fish?

Q. Let’s say I ate the fish but kept the paper.
A. You ate a raw fish?

Q. You never heard of Italian sushi? A New Jersey roll?
A. Look, the New York Public Library is not interested in that kind of paper.

Q. Let’s say I still had the fish.
A. On ice?

Q. Um, not the cold kind.
A. Awk! Get the net. Get the Net. Awk!

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

Posted in Absurd and/or zany, F.A.Q., News You Can Use (Sort of) | Tagged , , , , , | 3 Comments