How to Break Up a Picnic

Speaking of food, I gotta tell you this story of not long ago when I was evil. It is okay to be evil when you're 74 332/365ths like I am. Nobody will hit you because you look so frail and beat-down. Besides, it was only a practical joke invented to piss people off, at which I am pretty good.

This Congressman I worked for is now out of office but he has this former administrative assistant who keeps track of everybody who worked for the Congersperson. This year he suggested we get together for a reunion picnic. I hate reunion picnics because of all the ants, yellow jackets and flies they attract. And dogs, like old Maggie Hipsalot.

So, since I hate picnics I volunteered to help. I said, Why don't I send out a notice to everybody tellin' 'em what to bring? "Golly, Ol' Hoss, that would be fine and just dandy," he says.

"I will send it in your name so they will know how official it is," said Hoss.

Well, you know how this went down. Normal people would tell the reunionists to bring table service and their favorite hot dish, or rolls, or sodie pop, or their favorite dessert, or a pile of snacks like Spam-and-Velveeta canapes. Here's what Ol' Hoss told every one of them suckers to bring:

"Graham crackers, marshmallows and Hershey bars."

People who went to the reunion said just about everybody told the organizer of this thing: "Up yours, and here's one for the horse you rode in on."

I don't know. I didn't go. I hate s'mores.

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My buddy Oz of Australia keeps finding these one-liners that make me giggle:

"Don't be sexist. Broads hate that."
"I used up all my sick days, so I'm phoning in dead."
"Five out of four people have trouble with fractions."

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My favorite word today is radiator. N., smellier than thou. Def.: The gentleman in the elevator with a body odor so vile it is safe to let go of a seeper.