Tag Archives: general silliness

A Celebration Spoiled (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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We skip over two chapters dealing with scrubbing all the mud off Lady Margo and putting her to bed, and notifying Lord Jeremy Coldsore that his fiancee has returned from wherever she was. She has not told anyone that she was in the Plaguesby jail. Those two chapters were very badly written.

In Chapter CCLXXVII of Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Lord Jeremy has proclaimed a holiday to celebrate Lady Margo’s return. This time he first consults the Wise Woman of the Woods before proceeding with his plan.

“Go right ahead, my lord,” says the Wise Woman of the Woods. “This time absolutely nothing will go wrong. Your troubles are over!”

And so all of Scurveyshire gathers on the village green to play swallow-the-pebble, to drink copious quantities of ale, and rejoice for Lady Margo and her upcoming wedding to Lord Jeremy and his friend, Willis Twombley, the American adventurer who thinks he’s Sargon of Akkad. Lady Margo believes them to be the same person and gets flustered when she sees them both together.

The merriment is interrupted by the sudden arrival of an ominously tall figure clad in an unimaginable (I wish she would stop using that word!) black cloak, out of which peers a dreadful papier-mache skull.

“Hear me, Scurveyshire!” bellows the stranger. “It is me–I mean I–Black Rodney! Woe to all of you! From now on, no happiness will ever be allowed again in Scurveyshire! You are hereby cursed, all of you!”

For Lord Jeremy, this is just too trying for words. “This is just too trying for words!” he exclaims, “and it’s time we put a stop to it.

“We have an ancient law in Scurveyshire, you villain, dating back to a time before the Romans came and made a hash of things. A native king named Porky decreed a law that anyone who brings bad news should be immediately put to death–a law which I, as justice of the peace, do now invoke. Black Rodney, I sentence you to death!”

“It’s about time!” mutters Twombley. He draws his Colt revolver and shoots the black-clad stranger where he stands. As the figure collapses on the sward (“I am so happy I finally got to use that word!” remarks Ms. Crepuscular, in an intimate aside), no one hears Jeremy mutter, “It really ought to have been a hanging, old boy.”

But wait! As all gather round the fallen sorcerer, it is soon discovered that the black cloak and the dreadful mask are… empty! Empty!

“I break the chapter here,” explains Ms. Crepuscular, “to heighten the suspense.”


Nude Bus Driver Wins Powerball

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You know that old saying, “Never trust a nude bus driver”? I mean, gee, look what shape his bus is in! Maybe he can fix it up, now that he’s won $459 billion in the New Jersey Powerball. Like, he now owns the place… the whole state…

Sorry for the click bait, but I’ll do just about anything to try to boost my readership. Ever since they started Daylight Saving this year, my numbers are way down. And anyway, if you don’t think a prodigy like the one described above can happen, then you don’t know New Jersey.

P.S.–Remember, all the post you missed are waiting for you in the blog archives.


This Helmet Will Give You 3 Wishes!

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I saw this guy walking around in Keyport today. He leaned over the bulkhead and fell into the bay, but I was able to retrieve his helmet. As he climbed out of the water, shaking himself vigorously, he offered me $20 to give him back the helmet. I was going to give it back anyway. When I held it out to him, he snatched it away.

Only then did I remember where I’d seen that helmet before! It was in a Kolchak: The Night Stalker episode. If you wore it, it gave you three wishes–and then turned you into a monster.

“I’ve still got one wish left!” he snarled at me. “But as long as I’ve got the helmet and haven’t made the third wish, I won’t get turned into a monster.”

“What were your first two wishes?” I couldn’t help asking.

“First I wished to be handsome,” he said, “and then I wished to be smart. That’s two wishes!”

“Any idea when they’ll be granted?”

Well, that riled him. “What a rotten thing to say!” he cried. “I wish you’d just leave me alone!”

Uh-oh.

I suddenly found myself at home, leaving this man alone. Obviously his final wish was granted.

Poor devil!


Learn How to Be an Air Traffic Controller in Just Ten Minutes!

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Babylonian scientists have invented a way for you to learn incredibly complex and difficult things in just a matter of minutes.

“If only we’d had this way back when, our civilization would still be here!” exclaimed project director Dr. Nebuchadnezzar McCoy, professor of Twiddling Studies at Humbaba University. “We could have had air traffic controllers and airline pilots before we had airplanes!”

The way it works is “simple,” he said. “We just slide a cassette into your head and it transfers the information directly to your brain–hardly takes any time at all. The only tricky part is making the slot in your skull in such a way that nothing falls out.”

Dr. McCoy credits student Sharezer Shubbalub with the original idea for the project, which he first tested on the fish in his mother’s aquarium. “Imagine his surprise,” said McCoy, “nay, his sheer astonishment, when suddenly he had a neon tetra who knew all about organic chemistry! I mean, it’s just like one of those computer whaddaya-callums–you know, you stick ’em into the computer somewhere and it like does something or other.”

But young Mr. Shubbalub is modest. “If I hadn’t figured this out, somebody else would’ve,” he said. “I’m just glad it wasn’t an Assyrian. This is the kind of achievement that could only belong to a Babylonian.”

“It could be the start of a complete comeback for our whole civilization,” added Dr. McCoy.


The Return of Lady Margo (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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Violet Crepuscular opens Chapter CCLXXIV of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, with a Homeric flourish: “Just as rosy-fingered Dawn was parting the velvet curtains of the night, Lady Margo Cargo has arrived at the front door of her palatial country house. I have always wanted to use that particular Homeric touch. If only I could find a way to use ‘the wine-dark sea’!”

If you are wondering what became of the two intervening chapters, I cannot find them in my copy of the book. No pages have been torn out. It’s a mystery.

At the end of her strength, after having to hop on one foot all the way, and struggling out of the dreaded Scurveyshire Fens after escaping from the Plaguesby jail, Lady Margo finds she cannot stand up to open the door. She has to wait for two hours on the stoop before Crusty the crusty old butler opens the front door and finds her.

“You stupid old cow!” he cries. “Where have you been? We thought you were under the vicar’s backyard wading pool. What a nuisance you are!” The warmth of his greeting quite overcomes her. She is covered head to foot in thick black mud, so the fact that he has recognized her is a point in his favor.

“Help me into my bath, Crusty,” she gasps.

The bath being upstairs, lugging her up the grand spiral staircase practically kills him. With his last ounce of strength he rolls her into the tub, then crawls back to his butler’s pantry to recover. “I’d like some water, Crusty!” she cries. But he’s too worn-out to pay any attention.

“I really must pause here,” Ms. Crepuscular confides in her readers, “to confide in you, dear readers! My neighbor, the erratic Mr. Pitfall, now insists that he and I are man and wife. Really, it’s just too much! I am sure I never married him, but now he’s in my kitchen breaking dishes! Something tells me his eccentricities may be getting out of hand. Steps will have to be taken, I fear.”


A Provocative Thought

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We’re hearing a lot of alarums and excursions about measles and the need for everyone in America to get a measles vaccine, pronto.

But has anyone taken the trouble to wonder: What if you’re, like, real, real small? Say, the size of a dried pea? What then? How do you vaccinate a patient who’s that small?

We always talk about “measles.” It’s hard to see how such a tiny patient could ever carry a full crop of measles. Isn’t it much more likely that he or she would have room for only one measle? But is there any such word as “measle,” the singular form of measles? Has anybody ever had just one measle? We might even say “one measly measle.”

Are all measles pretty much the same size, or do they scale themselves according to the size of the patient? Someone knows.

Have you ever heard anybody say, “I have a measle”? I wonder what the treatment is, for just one measle.

Somebody’s gotta think of these things…


Wow! More False Facts!

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What’s that you say? You’ve run out of Acme False Facts? Well, then, you’ll be happy to know the new set is to be issued next week. In the meantime, here are a few samples for you to try out.

Acme False Facts help you to establish yourself as a wise and knowledgeable person without going to the trouble to learn anything. All it takes is a bold front! Deliver your Acme False Fact in an authoritative tone, and don’t be afraid to back it up with imaginary sources. Whatever you say, say it with conviction! That’s what makes college professors and TV news anchors so successful.

Here you go. Try these:

Harcourt W. Smirch was President of the United States for seven weeks in 1839, but no one noticed.

According to the latest Plummer Poll [there’s no such thing, but people will be afraid to challenge you on this], 16.3 percent of Americans with eight or more years of college go on to be superheroes.

The world’s oldest baseball cards were manufactured in Persia in 1782. Today a Faraz Azwad, shortstop, Ecbatana Willies card sells for $902 million.

The Greenland beaver went extinct in May of 1952, but is now making a comeback, according to a UNESCO report.

Remember, say ’em like you know them to be true and only a thorough ignoramus would doubt you. And if anyone does dare to question you, just look at him a certain way and ask, in as condescending a manner as you can, “Are you in the habit of denying established facts?” That usually shrivels ’em up pretty fast.


The Survivors (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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In Chapter CCLXXI (nothing happens in Chapter CCLXX) of Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Lord Jeremy Coldsore is a bit cut up about having sent sixty men under the vicar’s backyard wading pool and getting back only one–Constable Chumley, whose explanation of what happened to the others is cloaked in his quaint rural dialect which no one understands.

All alone, in the dead of night, Johnno the Merry Minstrel sneaks out of Coldsore Hall and takes up a position near the wading pool and next to the full-size concrete Iguanodon pull-toy, which is too massive to be pulled away just now. He is wearing his special dancing pants and carrying his harmonica. “What he is about to do,” writes Ms. Crepuscular, “requires inimaginable courage.” Is it me, or is she getting rather too fond of that adjective?

Johnno, dancing all the while, strikes up a special tune known only to the merry minstrels of Scurveyshire and handed down for untold generations. This song is believed to have magical powers. It is called “The Old Oaken Bucket.” Only the merry minstrels know how to dance to “The Old Oaken Bucket.” Johnno dances, plays the harmonica, and sings, all at the same time. It takes much practice.

After several hours of this, the sinister rubber pool humps up and down, emits a terrifying burping noise–and out from under it, by twos and threes, hobble Constable Chumley’s lost bearers and askaris, seeming none the worse for wear. However, they now speak in an unknown language which is not pleasant to hear. “It is an unimaginable”–there she goes again–“babble which no one in Scurveyshire has attempted to speak since they all hid themselves under baskets to get out of having to help build Stonehenge.”

After a few moments of confusion, the survivors rush en masse to The Lying Tart, break down the door, and help themselves to the landlord’s stock of second-rate Scurveyshire Ale. They’re still at it when the next day breaks. When the villagers discover that their stout lads have returned alive, there is much celebration. When they discover that they can no longer communicate with them, it takes some of the edge off their rejoicing.

For a music video of Johnno performing “The Old Oaken Bucket,” contact your Congressman.

 


Shocking! ‘Bugs Bunny: the Cover-Up’

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On the morning of June 17, 1938, an insignificant little man named Humphrey Bunney walked into the 15th National Bank in Puny City, Oklahoma, and finding no one there, totally destroyed the building, then rushed out into the street and tried to shoot everyone he saw. Although he failed to hit anyone, he did give residents the scare of their lives. Within hours of his getaway, Bunney topped the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted List. But, amazingly, he was never seen again.

Except by untold millions of people all over the world!

Now it can be told: Clifton Falafel’s new book, Bugs Bunny: the Cover-Up, “will forever give readers everywhere incurable heeby-jeebies,” predicts Publisher’s Weakly. The Cleveland Fishwrap says, “Read this, and you’ll never set foot outside your house ever again!”  And TV personality Dr. Dipp says, “No one is safe! Especially you.”

Humphrey Bunney eluded capture by going underground (literally–he dug a hole and climbed into it) and re-emerging as the famous cartoon character we have come to know and love as Bugs Bunny. But while we’ve been chuckling over his antics in Loony Tunes and in the Sunday color comics, “Bugs Bunny” has been up to serious mischief. Just to name a few of his crimes documented by Mr. Falafel: the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Jimmy Carter presidency, the complete disappearance of the whole country of Czechoslovakia, and a movie called Gigli.

Published by Global Warming Press, Bugs Bunny: the Cover-Up costs a trifling $89.95 and is available wherever carbon credits are sold.

 


Yet More Unimaginable Peril (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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“I write this chapter under some duress,” Violet Crepuscular confides in her readers, introducing Chapter CCLXIX of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney. “My neighbor Mr. Pitfall has forgiven me for poisoning him, but I fear he has developed some rather strange ideas about our relationship. I have written this chapter to distract him.”

Deeming it a potential public relations bonanza, Sir Henry Smedley-Foover has lent one of his life-size Iguanodon concrete pull-toys to Scurveyshire Village as a sacrifice to whatever entity lurks under the wading pool in the vicar’s back yard. Its enormous weight has required the combined efforts of every able-bodied villager to haul it into position by the wading pool.

“O, evil entity that lurks under this wading pool,” Sir Henry intones, with the whole village looking on and the vicar complaining about the damage to his lawn, “accept this sacrifice of our deluxe Iguanodon pull-toy, retail value 1,458 pounds and 13 shillings, and release your captives!”

“This is stupid,” mutters Willis Twombley, the American adventurer who believes himself to be Sargon of Akkad. Lord Jeremy Coldsore shushes him. “It’s the only way we’ve got to get Lady Margo back!”

For a full six hours, nothing happens. Just as everyone is preparing to go home before being called upon to drag the Iguanodon away, the pool gives a noisy shudder and out from under it struggles Constable Chumley–alone, without his bearers and askaris. He does look considerably the worse for wear.

“Constable!” cries Lord Jeremy. “Where the deuce is everybody else?”

Chumley replies in his quaint rural dialect which no one understands. “They be fair luftin’ all aboot yon cleefer blawn, m’lord!” he gasps. “Us fennies a reet great meshter.”

“I think he’s trying to say that unimaginable perils done ’em in,” says Twombley.

“But where is Lady Margo?” wails Jeremy. “Have you not rescued her?”

“Throck us nigh bittle ‘ee, m’lord!” The constable faints.

Meanwhile Lady Margo has finally emerged from the dreaded Scurveyshire Fens, never having been under the pool in the first place. Hopping all this way on one foot has gravely depleted her strength.

“I’m sure to be late for my own wedding!” she gasps.

At this point Ms. Crepuscular is interrupted by a peremptory pounding on her door, and most retreat to her hiding-place behind the sofa.


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