Thank You and Good Grief

I am VERY GRATEFUL to the bunches of you who come to read my pieces. And I love your comments. The comments are usually funnier than what I write. So I gotta keep writing so I can keep getting comments. It's a vicious circular.

Anyway, I usually don't comment directly on your comments. It's mostly for lack of time. See, I am reading, and commenting to when appropriate, 63 other writers. I just thought it was better for me to comment on your stuff than to comment on your comments. If you have any comment on this, comment away. (And now "comment" is becoming a funny word, like "ursine.")

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This may not get a foothold in The Old Folks Home where I live, but the younger set seems to be asking: "Is Bladder Worship Wrong?" I mean, I'm seein' it on bumper stickers and T-shirts, so I suppose it's a legitimate question.

What it seems to stem from is the emphasis on urine tests in all forms of athletic endeavor. The Piss Police are all over the place, saying "Pee in the bottle, son. It won't hurt a bit." And son is saying to himself, "Will my bladder, that I adore, betray me this time? Will they find out I have eaten the yellow snow?"

It turns out that eating the yellow snow is not a crime. It's just piss-poor form.

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The farmer, the wife and the 18-year-old daughter are in a snit. They all hate doing dishes. So Papa says, "Okay, the next person that says a word has to do the dishes." So they retire to the living room, reading, knitting, nodding off, beating off, whatever farm folks do.

Outside, a trucker has a breakdown. Seeing the farmhouse he goes thence and knocks on the door. He can see people but they don't stir. He opens the door, goes inside, and says, "I wonder if I can get some help?" They ignore the trucker. So he grabs the farmer's wife, takes her in the bedroom and has his way with her.

He starts to go back to work on his disabled truck and thinks, "Whoa. That young chick was pretty nice." So he goes back in and diddles the daughter.

The trucker then leaves and starts to work on his truck engine. His screwdriver slips and he skins his knuckles. So he goes back to the farmhouse and says, "Anybody got any Vaseline?"

And the farmer says, "I'll do the dishes!"

(A-one, a-two, a-three: GROAN.)

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One of those cosmetologist types came to The Home this week, waning to exfoliate us all. You know, strip off our dead skin cells. She apparently didn't know that dead skin is food for carpet beetles, and a lot of them are our pets. She was just another dumb-butt, peddling cruelty to animals.

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Ultraspy says:

Is it my imagination, or do buffalo wings taste like chicken?