From April 24, 2023
Prairie dogs seem to be catching on as pets. The one in this video is quite a little charmer.
But how does the cat know that this is NOT a prey animal? I’d love to know how a cat can understand a thing like that!
Category: Just for Fun
REPRINT Fantasy by Y.B. Sane Already Rated Best of 21st Century
From February 5, 2015
New York Times best-selling author Y.B. Sane has done it again: his newest Young Adults fantasy, The Spiritual Spirits, is a triumph.
Join Rubella, the 9-year-old Invincible Female Warrior, as she slashes and thrusts and kung-fus her way through rank after rank of able-bodied adult male bad guys in her quest to save the world called Oith from sure destruction.
And if that weren’t enough, the publishers, Coldsore Books, have provided a game and contests accessible via a special website you can find out about after you buy a copy of The Spiritual Spirits. You can also, on the website, discover your own Spiritual Magic Number, which will prevent anything bad from ever happening to you.
But it’s the story that’s really compelling. An evil conspiracy called The Choich has vowed to conquer all Oith and then destroy it. Their first attack wiped out all but scattered opposition. These few brave souls have rallied around the wise, loveable sorceress, Genderama, and, guided by her loveable wisdom, have identified the young Rubella as a spiritual powerhouse able to give the Choich a dose of its own medicine.
We especially marveled at her many rescues of her 21-year-old male soul-mate, Loola, whose penchant for swooning makes him easy prey for the enemy. However, Loola is able to tap into the Power of the Earth Spirit–but to tell you any more would be to spoil it.
The American Library Assn. has already named The Spiritual Spirits one of its Top Ten Young Adult Fiction Novels of the millenium.
A Satire That Backfired REPRINT
From April 21, 2013
Writing satire isn’t as easy as it used to be.
Sometimes I like to write a Bible hoax, in which I present a “new Bible translation,” full of over-the-top crazy poppycock, written for the purpose of exposing the foibles of liberal churchmen’s ceaseless efforts to make the Bible say what they want it to say.
A few years ago I published a piece on the “New Utopian Translation,” the NUT Bible for short. It was, of course, chock-full of inane heresies. Imagine my surprise when I got a phone call from a pastor out in Washington state, who read the thing, took it literally and seriously, and was angry enough to give a sermon about it. He got a lot of funny looks from his congregation! And the next day, his daughter made a report about it in school and nobody believed her. The poor pastor launched a frantic internet search, couldn’t find a word about any NUT Bible, and finally called me, begging for confirmation so his flock wouldn’t think he’d flipped his lid.
As I patiently explained to him that the article was a hoax, written for satirical and humorous purposes, he suddenly said, “Oh, no! Oh, what have I done? I see it now! N-U-T–that spells nut! Oh, oh, oh!” He was a good sport about it, though: admitted it was all his fault for getting too worked up to see the now-obvious absurdity of the piece.
This sort of thing happens every time I do this. I get peppered with reader emails demanding more information, denouncing the villains who bowdlerized the Bible, or even thinking I was endorsing the blasted thing, and denouncing me. But as one reader said, the last time I published a hoax (a couple of weeks ago), “Well, how was I supposed to know? That stuff you made up is no crazier than the stuff I’m hearing from the pulpit in my church!”
I think he needs to change churches.
Is ‘The Lying Tart’ Haunted? REPRINT
From March 1, 2020
Forget Chapter CCCXLVII. I already have.
In Chapter CCCXLVIII of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Violet Crespuscular takes us to Scurveyshire’s favorite tavern, The Lying Tart, which is said to have acquired a resident ghost. It has been seen by many patrons while availing themselves of the tavern’s commodious outdoor facilities (“I cannot bring myself to write the word ‘outhouse,'” Ms. Crepuscular confesses).
The apparition takes the form of a headless lady in a flowing white gown , sometimes accompanied by a huge black dog named Chips. She has been seen walking between the tavern and the stables, parading back and forth along the edge of the roof, or skipping directly toward the observer, carrying her head like a basketball. The game of basketball has not yet been invented. She always vanishes just before getting close enough to grab you.
Constable Chumley investigates. His report is grim. “Thy flivven craiths yon cocksie fairn,” he reports grimly. Lord Jeremy Coldsore, justice of the peace, takes notes.
“What’s he sayin’, ol’ hoss?” wonders the American adventurer, Willis Twombley.
“He says she doesn’t have a coccyx,” Jeremy translates. “That’s bad!” mutters Twombley.
Trade at The Lying Tart has begun to fall off, threatening the shire’s economy. It is widely believed that The Lady in White is looking for company. No one wants to be that company.
“This is the work of Black Rodney,” opines Johnno the Merry Minstrel, who is somewhat merrier now that his gizzard has grown back. His opinion is confirmed by the discovery of several cuss-bags in the landlord’s stock of ale. The landlord has tried to cut his losses by offering free beer to the first customer who succeeds in having a conversation with the ghost.
Here Ms. Crepuscular breaks in with a recipe for toothpaste-flavored biscuits. It is clear she doesn’t know what to do about the ghost.
A Minor Hiccup at Quokka U. REPRINT
From May 23, 2020
G’day! Byron the Quokka here–and that’s the great Alvin Kasavubu’s blue bike in the background. I am jumping for joy because I found it!
Mr. Kasavubu very kindly agreed to be our first celebrity lecturer here at Quokka University. He is one of the world’s foremost experts on how to keep frogs from jumping off your head once you put them up there, and we were all very excited to have him.
Well, he showed up on his bicycle; and imagine our dismay when his bike went missing! I hope nobody thinks any of us quokkas tried to steal it. After all, our feet can’t reach the pedals. Anyway, poor Mr. Kasavubu, when he’d finished his lecture and wanted to go home, couldn’t find his bike. Was he ever upset! And we all had to go looking for it.
Happily, it wasn’t stolen, after all: somebody just moved it. We suspect wombats. They can’t resist a bit of joy-riding. If we ever find out who actually moved the bike, we’ll have to put them on academic probation. If we can figure out how to do that.
But at least we had the lecture, and a very interesting lecture it was!
We are well on our way to creating one of the world’s great universities.
Here’s Dave to Start Your Day
Your day will definitely be better than his.
Doggone Couch Cover! REPRINT
From April 14, 2023
It’s getting so you can’t enjoy a nice roll on the couch without getting caught in something that some careless take-ya-for-granted human leaves lying around. And then they have the gall to laugh at you! Wait’ll the next time I have to pee, chuckles…
Animal Antics REPRINT
From November 13, 2019
All right, I finally broke down and watched this video. I had been avoiding it because I don’t approve of apex predators, like hammerhead sharks, as entertainment. I think the diver’s striped wet suit is to make the sharks think he’s some kind of sea snake.
But the rest of the clips are fun. The bear opening the car door, the raccoon performing a high wire act on the bird feeder, the cow nursing baby goats–just gotta love ’em. Unless it’s your car that the bear climbs into.
Coldsore Hall’s New Roof REPRINT
888
Invoking a little-known law enacted in the year 636 by the Saxon warlord Bobby the Nit, Lord Jeremy Coldsore has drafted Professor Saltinus Facehead’s Egyptian diggers to put a new roof on Coldsore Hall. So begins Chapter CCCXLVI of Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney.
Constable Chumley explains the law to Prof. Facehead.
“In yon fillid wi’ King Bobby,” he says, “we fraith the bowyers aw’ mickle groith.” The professor nods sagely, although the constable’s quaint rural dialect eludes his best efforts to understand what has been said. He replies in archaic Portuguese. It is the constable’s turn to nod sagely.
Although the diggers speak no English, and their Arabic is not that hot, either, they throw themselves enthusiastically into their work and in a mere two days, Coldsore Hall has a new roof. The entire population of Scurveyshire assembles to admire it.
“It’s a miracle!” gushes Lady Margo Cargo. “I wish they’d do my roof like that!”
But when a moderate breeze springs up, the new roof seems to take wing and fly off toward the sunset. It will take some doing to get it back.
Here Ms. Crepuscular breaks in to report on the status of her Pulitzer Prize nomination, filed by her excitable neighbor, Mr. Pitfall.
“I am afraid Mr. Pitfall made an error and submitted the nomination to something called the Patzer Prize Committee,” she writes. “This group hands out prizes for poorly-played chess games. I cannot explain why they have decided to award a special prize to my epic romance, Oy, Rodney.”
The prize awarded is a rusty wheelbarrow. “I’ll have to find space for it on my mantle, somehow,” Ms. Crepuscular says. “It’s going to change the whole look of my living room. Given Mr. Pitfall’s current state of excitement, I dare do nothing else.”
Here the chapter breaks off for want, she admits, of inspiration.