Tag Archives: general silliness

Is This Woman Quite All There?

Jim Bowie must have known some unusual people in his life. Here he is with a woman who wants to hang on to his leg. If my wife did this, I would think there must be something wrong with her.

It may be that there are little-known nooks and crannies of society wherein leg-hanging is not  considered eccentric. I don’t get around that much: who knows what the big swells get up to, when they go to Davos? I’d hate to think Jim Bowie was a globalist. Then again, maybe the woman in the picture is just drunk, and with no lamp-post handy, a stationary human leg will do. And Mr. Bowie puts up with it because he’s kind.

Yeah, that’s probably it.


Jackalope Population Explosion!

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This candid photo of a mother jackalope fiercely defending her young was taken by an amateur washing machine repairman in Ongs Hat, New Jersey. He had a narrow escape.

We are getting jackalope reports from all over the country now, a strong indication that the jackalope population has increased dramatically. Scientists believe it’s because of Climate Change and transphobia. What the jackalopes themselves believe is a secret.

They look cute and cuddly, but don’t get too close! A pack of hungry jackalopes can skeletonize a grown man in less than 60 seconds. I have always wanted to use the word “skeletonize” in a sentence, and now I’ve done so.


The World’s Oldest Board Game?

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What is the world’s oldest board game? The photo shows a game board found in a Sumerian tomb at the ancient city of Ur. It’s thousands of years old; but scientists at Games Is Us say they’ve found a game that’s older than that. No pictures are available, but we are told the board is similar to the one in the photo, but instead of symbols, the squares on the board show really scary faces.

“We don’t know what the game was called,” says Project Director Burkan Hare, “because the people who played it in ancient Andorra had not yet learned how to write, there’s no rule book. So for the time being, we’re calling it ‘The Ancient Game That Nobody Knows the Name Of.'”

Relying on shrewd guesswork, the staff at Games Is Us have devised rules by which the game is played. “We found the board under a tomb with about a dozen human teeth scattered around the board, so we think it was basically a tooth-pulling game. You throw dice, and move, and every time your man lands on a scary face–all the squares have scary faces on them–the other player pulls one of your teeth and keeps it. The player who winds up with the biggest pile of teeth wins the game.”

The Ancient Game That Nobody Knows the Name Of will eventually be produced for today’s highly competitive board game market. Hare smiled, displaying a really nice set of dentures.

“We’ve already got a can’t-miss slogan for it!” he said. “‘Winning this game is like pulling teeth!'”


Unimaginable Peril (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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In Chapter CCXLVII of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Violet Crepuscular confesses that she has been having difficulty imagining an unimaginable peril of any kind.

“Last night,” she confides in her readers, “I had a most unsettling dream in which I was walking, with a man who worked for the gas company, over an endless field of light bulbs which burst under our feet. I woke in a cold sweat; and that very morning, the light bulb in my writing lamp expired with a loud pop! It took me half the day to put in a new one. This is why I have had so much trouble describing the unimaginable peril under the vicar’s backyard wading pool.”

Moving on to Chapter CCXLVIII, Ms. Crepuscular dodges the issue by writing a flashback of Lady Margo’s fifth birthday party. It is hoped that she remembers that she has stranded Lady Margo somewhere in another dimension–or wherever it is you go to, under the pool.

“It’s such a lovely birthday cake, Mummy!” squeals the delighted little girl.

“Don’t call me ‘Mummy,’ Margo. A mummy is a dried-up Egyptian cadaver. You must learn to speak as befits our class. ‘Mater’ is the preferred form of address.”

Margo’s father, Lord Fopwell, an amateur entomologist of some standing, gives his daughter an unexpected birthday present: a jar full of newly-hatched mantises, tiny little things prowling around in search of prey. As soon as she unwraps her present, little Margo screams and drops the jar. Tiny mantises are all over the floor. Mater screams and runs outside.

Here we are interrupted by an angry reader who demands, “What the devil is this? Where is the unimaginable peril?”

I try to soothe him. “I’m sure Ms. Crepuscular will get to it in the next chapter. Look, she even says so, right here in this footnote: ‘I promise to take up the matter of the unimaginable peril in my next chapter, once I am over my disquieting experience with the light bulbs.'” The reader’s wrath subsides.


Beware! Coyotes!

Patty found this anti-coyote warning and thought you should see it, too.

Read the whole thing carefully. You need to know this information!


The Search Party (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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In Chapter CCXLIV of Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Lady Margo Cargo mysteriously disappears on her way to her wedding to Lord Jeremy Coldsore. In Chapter CCXLV, Ms. Crepuscular devotes 40 pages to the replacement of the light bulb that burned out while she was writing. This is high literary art, if you like that sort of thing.

In Chapter CCXLVI, the American adventurer Willis Twombley suggests forming a search party. “It ought to be pretty easy to track down an old lady with a wooden leg,” he says. Lord Jeremy does not like to hear his bride described as an old lady with a wooden leg, but he lets it slide. And Sardanapalus Tingleworth, the man with one buttock who has been blamed for all this, volunteers to lead the party. This persuades Lord Jeremy not to have him executed on the spot. Scurveyshire’s local hangman, Will Slopp, is disappointed.

Lady Margo’s trail leads from her lavish country house to the vicar’s back yard and peters out a few yards from the vicar’s wading pool. This is where Crusty the Butler found Lady Margo’s upholstered wooden leg. It is evident to all that Lady Margo has been sucked under the wading pool.

Twombley checks his revolver to make sure it’s loaded. “We gotta follow her under the pool if we want to get her back,” he says.

One by one, the members of the search party suddenly remember important errands that they have to do, make excuses, and leave. Soon it’s only Lord Jeremy, Twombley, Crusty, and Mr. Tingleworth standing in front of the pool.

“I don’t like that name, ‘Sardanapalus,'” says Twombley. “It sounds like an Assyrian name. Maybe I better just shoot this varmint.”

“Please, sir! It’s not an Assyrian name at all!” cries Tingleworth. “Besides, I volunteer to search for Lady Margo under the pool.”

No sooner does he say this than a huge, slimy, black-and-blue tentacle shoots out, lashes itself around Crusty’s legs, and whisks him under the pool.

“I am running out of patience with the vicar’s hemming and hawing about getting rid of this blasted pool!” declares Lord Jeremy. In his heart of hearts, he is reluctant to follow Lady Margo and her butler into unimaginable peril.

“And here I must end the chapter,” writes Violet Crepuscular, “or I won’t have anything to write about in Chapter CCXLVII.” We suspect she has not yet decided how to imagine an unimaginable peril.


The Man with One Buttock (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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In Chapter CCXLIV, or somewhere, of Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Lady Margo Cargo finds herself sitting in the midst of a dense stand of bulrushes. Her upholstered wooden leg is missing. She does not know how she got there. All she can remember is taking a shortcut through the vicar’s back yard on the way to her wedding, suddenly feeling dizzy–and now she’s here, wherever here is. And somewhere in the distance, an unpleasant nasal voice is singing “It Isn’t Monday Anymore,” the same line repeated over and over again.

“I shall be late for my wedding!” she exclaims.

Meanwhile the disappointed groom, Lord Jeremy Coldsore, orders the arrest of the man with only one buttock, whose appearance at the wedding, contrary to the warning by the Wise Woman of the Woods, has brought a curse upon what should have been a festive occasion. The man with one buttock, who hadn’t meant any harm and only stopped by to see what was happening, tries to escape; but with only one buttock it is difficult to get up any speed. Constable Chumley collars him and drags him back to the scene of the unintended crime.

“Yare’s a fritten poor zeedem,” explains the constable.

Taxed beyond his powers of emotional endurance, Lord Jeremy, in his capacity as Scurveyshire’s justice of the peace, is in no mood to be merciful.

“What’s your name, villain?” he growls.

“An’ it please your honor, sir, I’m Sardanapalus Tingleworth, sir–and I didn’t mean no harm!”

“Sophistry won’t save you, rogue! I sentence you to death! Sentence to be carried out immediately!”

“Oh, I say!” interjects the vicar. “That’s a bit harsh, what?”

But here the chapter breaks off. Ms. Crepuscular’s one light bulb, she informs her readers, has unexpectedly given up the ghost. She is already having second thoughts about naming one of her characters Sardanapalus. It is bound to offend the American best man, Willis Twombley, who already has an itchy trigger finger.


Zero Mostel as… Tarzan?

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Sometimes all it takes is just one wrong decision to overturn a zillion-dollar dream.

In 1969 Jidrool Pictures, according to my exclusive Hollywood sources (they’ve excluded practically everybody), raised $75 million to break into the big time with what was intended to be the biggest, best, and most bodacious Tarzan movie ever–Tarzan’s Revenge. Loosely based on two great novels, David Copperfield by Charles Dickens and Tarzan at the Earth’s Core by Edgar Rice Burroughs, Tarzan’s Revenge would feature state-of-the-art special effects and a script to knock your socks off.

And best of all, they hired a truly gifted big-name actor to play the title role.

Zero Mostel.

“He was a star!” explained ex-producer Monty Gavone. “Fiddler on the Roof! The Producers! Zero Mostel! He couldn’t miss!”

But as co-star Raquel Welch remembered it, “No matter what we did, it just wouldn’t work. Zero looked just awful in a loin cloth. He looked awful riding on a dinosaur. He looked even worse swinging through the trees on a vine. And his Tarzan ape-yell sounded like he was selling fish on some street corner in New York.”

One by one and two by two, the investors demanded their money back. The last straw was when Mostel accidentally shot himself with an arrow and then fell off the tree. The injuries weren’t serious, but they were serious enough to convince Mostel to quit. And by then the project had such dismal prospects that no one wanted to take his place in the role.

“Even Cecil Kellaway turned us down,” Ms. Welch recalled.

Today, the few surviving feet of footage (is that how you say it?) from Tarzan’s Revenge repose in a CIA vault, ready to be used against our country’s enemies.

 


The Game That Turns You into Another Species–for Keeps

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Now’s your chance to avoid being swept up in the latest board game craze, Profumo–the game that permanently changes you into a member of another species.

For those who get turned into cats, I suppose it’s not so bad. But there have been many complaints about people being turned into much less desirable species–bedbugs, flatworms, crabgrass, etc. No one is quite sure how Profumo works, or even how to play: it seems the rules were written by a person who was quite mad at the time. All we know is that it has been shown to be very dangerous to spend more than 20 minutes or so trying to play it.

Sponsored by the Democrat National Committee, manufactured by Cthulhu Brothers Inc., Profumo costs $12,385 per copy and is available at most disreputable stores–the kind of store you may be able to enter easily enough, but coming out again is problematic.

And now it’s time for me to enjoy a cigar before I begin the epic work of trimming our Christmas tree.

I’m hoping no one gives me a copy of Profumo as a present. A man in Lima, Ohio, was transformed into a yak just by unwrapping the game.


Where Is Lady Margo? (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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Chapters CCXLI and CCXLII are taken up with author Violet Crepuscular’s current personal problems, which she insists on sharing with her readers. We gather she has heard from an old high school boy friend, whom she hadn’t heard from at all in over 40 years. He phoned her from a state prison somewhere in Utah and invited her to come and see him. “He wants me to sell my house and donate the money to his legal defense fund,” writes Ms. Crepuscular. “I don’t know where he got the idea that I own a house.”

As if that weren’t distressing enough, she laments the disaster of the “tricky tray” she organized for her chapter of the Daughters of Wombat–does anybody out there know what a “tricky tray” is?–and apologizes for all the injuries incurred. It takes her halfway into Chapter CCXLIII of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, to pick up the thread of the narrative.

At last we have the wedding! Lord Jeremy Coldsore is to be wed to Lady Margo Cargo, the richest widow in all of Scurveyshire, in an outdoor ceremony at Gibbering Jessie Park (where they hold the annual crab races), the vicar officiating–he is temporarily free of conniptions–and the American adventurer, Willis Twombley, serving as best man and a kind of co-groom: Lady Margo believes he and Lord Jeremy are the same person.

Everything is ready! All that is lacking is the presence of the bride. She is already three and a half hours late, and the vicar’s cheek has begun to twitch.

Suddenly Lady Margo’s crusty old butler, Crusty, comes running up to the wedding party, gasping frantically and brandishing Lady Margo’s newly-upholstered wooden leg.

“She’s gone! She’s gone!” he cries. “I’ve looked everywhere, I’ve turned the whole house inside-out for her, and I can’t find her! Lady Margo is gone!”

Lord Jeremy is exasperated: he needs this marriage to keep creditors from seizing Coldsore Hall. “Oh, bother!” he hisses under his breath. “Only place in the whole dashed world where a man can’t have a bally wedding!”

The vicar topples over, and begins to make noises reminiscent of a steam locomotive about to give birth to several little locomotives.

“Where could she go, and leave her leg behind?” Twombley wonders.

At that moment one of the small crowd assembled, but not invited, for the wedding, is exposed as a man with only one buttock.

“The curse!” cries Jeremy. “The curse has struck! We couldn’t avoid it, after all!” He then faints, falling down beside the vicar.

“Gettin’ kinda crowded down there,” Twombley muses.


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