Hey there! While still recovering from staying up much too late because of Super Bowl LVIII, I thought I’d start throwing together an edition of the newsletter and then I could rest — on my laurels.
Now, I don’t mean “throwing together” in the sense of something being done haphazardly… which makes me wonder: what does the inclusion of “hap” add to the already-foreboding warning of “hazard”? A quick search uncovers that “hap” means “chance,” so that’s why we see it in “happenstance” and “mishap.” Therefore, technically “haphazardly” means an action’s outcome includes a chance of chaos — but that doesn’t rule out the chance it could also result in perfection, no?
I’ll leave it to you to judge where this edition falls on the scale of Half-Assed-to-Brilliance.
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Let’s start with the apolitical content:
A Swine Idea (Jan. 30, 2024)
I saw an article about the latest trend in Japan — cafés with little pigs roaming around instead of cats. While the cat café trend has started to catch on in the States, I’m not so sure if the pig thing will translate.
This did remind me of my one visit to a pig farm, many years ago, in Norwich, New York. While the sight of an 800-pound sow was rather unnerving (think Jabba the Hut on an only-slightly-reduced scale), the opportunity to handle tiny little piglets was a joy. I recall cuddling one of those pink wonders, marveling at its cuteness right up to the point where it peed all over me.
That’ll Leave a Punctuation Mark (Jan. 31, 2024)
The first of two grammar-related posts; see next item.
The Wages of Syntax (Feb. 5, 2024)
This one I actually wrote before the one above, but submitted for consideration at an online humor publication. It was rejected / I was dejected / And, in that gloomy fog / I posted it on my blog.
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And now for the politics…
Diss-Border (Jan. 28, 2024)
Trump and his sock puppet, Mike Johnson, are stalling any action on border security until after the election. Shameless.
It’s Now or Never (Feb. 6, 2024)
Trump flattered his flabbiness by comparing his looks to Elvis’s. I don’t think Donnie realizes the most apt comparison is with Elvis circa 1977…
Immune River (Feb. 7, 2024)
This claim is winding its way through the justice system, and at the moment this edition of the newsletter is being shared we all await a response from the Supreme Court. The only person who should be in “PRISON” is the one loudly protesting the possibility of ending up there.
No Love Supreme (Feb. 9, 2024)
Here’s another something I submitted to yet a different publication that was not so much rejected as eviscerated. But, I blame myself — it was an attempt at both-sides-ism (although inspired by Nikki Haley’s Nevada caucus loss to “none of these candidates”) vs. my usual blatantly anti-Trump screeds, so perhaps doesn’t carry quite the same oomph (which is a literary term for pungent scribing) as my usual jeremiads.
Wasn’t that a song? “Jeremiad was a bullfrog" — ?
NATO Not So Great-o (February 13, 2024)
And one final one I squeezed (squoze?) off during a lull in the action.
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CONTEST UPDATE: I mentioned in the last newsletter I was waiting to hear the results from the 2024 Erma Bombeck Writing Competiton. I *just* received the email announcing the winners — AND I WON (nothing). But my congratulations to those gifted humorists who won/received an honorable mention/were finalists. I’m unable to share any of their names because I can’t make them out through the tears I am currently shedding.
Here’s my entry:
Briefs Encounter
Recently, my wife called to me from upstairs: “Please come here, I have something important to discuss with you.” Hmm… Important was normally reserved for discussing a shortage in our finances, or a troubling medical diagnosis, or how I’d again loaded the dishwasher incorrectly.
Dropping what I was doing (nothing), I scaled the stairs at a leisurely pace. “What’s up?” I asked, feigning concern. She was in the laundry room, so I discarded money and health as concerns and anticipated something appliance-related. My assessment proved correct once she pointed to two piles of panties.
“I bought some new underwear, and want you to understand how they should be washed and dried,” she responded, with a deadly serious look. “These,” she said, indicating one pile, “need to be washed in cold water and not go in the dryer.” “These,” moving to another, indistinguishable pile, “can be washed in warm water – although I would prefer cold – and should be dried on the ‘delicates’ setting.”
Failing to recognize the gravity of the situation, I heedlessly asked, “Why are you telling me all this?” I don’t know how to classify a facial expression exceeding “deadly serious,” but that’s what I was now looking at.
“I do your laundry all the time, so you should accept some responsibility for doing mine,” she answered. I pointed out that I had done her laundry before, to which she countered, “Yes – and I have many ruined pieces of clothing as a result.”
I sensed this was no longer a constructive conversation, so I proposed a fair resolution to the kerfuffle: “Well, maybe I should just do my laundry, and you should do yours. Then neither of us will have anything to complain about. Problem solved!”
Nope.
Her now-apoplectic visage prompted me to make another attempt at de-escalation: “I’m glad to do your laundry – but I don’t see any difference between these piles.” Displaying only the slightest hint of vexation, she stated the no-dryer pairs had two stripes on their waistbands, whereas the dryer-approved pairs had three stripes. “Got it!” I exclaimed, hoping this enthusiastic acknowledgment masked my inability to keep straight what I’d just been told.
After apologizing for any misunderstanding, I said I would, with grace and humility, wash her lingerie while always following her instructions to the letter.
I then left the bedroom, headed downstairs, grabbed my keys and wallet, and drove to the mall to purchase a stockpile of identical replacement undies. These are now hidden in my sock drawer, in anticipation of any calamitous laundering outcomes.
God help me if I ever have to figure out where to stash a collection of underwire bras.
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OK, all done for now. My best to you and the ‘boo of your choice on Valentine’s Day. If you are bereft of companionship… hey, I love ya!
JB