And so, (on January 15, 2011 -- nearly five weeks after its embarkation), the HMS "A Parson of Interest" has passed from the British Registry and sunk to the depths without so much as a ripple. I'm disappointed that it didn't work out, but what-er-ya-gonna do?
(Note: This is the point where a collective sigh of relief should be inserted. The elephant has finally left the room.)
So much for Ms. Welch, Turkish prison and the Jeopardy Seniors' Tournament. They'll have to float around in the North Atlantic for a while longer.
___________________________________________
Inexplicably, (and unfortunately), it appears to be my destiny to shout down empty rain barrels. Accordingly there may be a new incarnation in the far distant future, (With a new name, a new address and a revised manner of distribution).
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Sunday, January 2, 2011
"1776"
The first Broadway-type show, (involving professional actors), that I ever saw was a Bi-Centennial production of "1776". It was the national touring company version performed in a huge outdoor amphi-theater. It featured pretty much the original N.Y.C. cast, except that Peter Graves, (of, "Do you like gladiator movies, Jimmy"?, fame), played Jefferson and someone other than Betty Buckley played his wife. It was a pretty good show, nevertheless.
The very very very first full-fledged musical I saw in person was "Bye Bye, Birdie" in Misawa, Japan. It was a 1970 USO production staged by members of the Kansas State University Drama Department. Those kids sang their hearts out. "Hi ya, Hugo. Hi ya, Stupid. Wudge ya wanna go get pinned for"?"). It was impressive!
You don't find many people humming songs from "1776" in the elevator these days. In fact, there may not have been even one memorable tune in the show, (in the sense of having an impact on the "popular music" scene, that is). But there were some good ones! There was a spot-on ditty delivered by John Adams -- mocking the manner in which many lawmakers routinely make important legislative decisions. It's called, "Piddle, Twiddle & Resolve". (Call me cynical, but I believe that there's yet another ".. iddle" word that could be appropriately inserted into that song title). And, for sheer melodrama, you can't beat "Molasses to Rum" -- condemning the hypocrisy of Northern politicians and merchants regarding the issue of slavery, (sung by Rep. Rutledge of South Carolina).
But for sheer pathos, the nod goes to the ballad, "Is Anybody There?". Throughout the production, the Clerk reads a series of field dispatches, (from General Washington to the Continental Congress). He paints a rather pessimistic picture of the war's progress and pleads for increased support from the seemingly ambivalent Congress. (They've pretty much written off the general as a "Chicken-Little" type, playing on their ignorance and fears). The tone of his communications can be expressed in the plaintive inquiries, "...Is anybody there? Does anybody care?".
(Note: Some things don't change very much. There's still a lot of that type of questioning going on -- even today! Is anybody ... ? Does anybody ...? Perhaps it's time for a reality check or a New Year's Resolution!)
Later in the story, Adams is extremely frustrated because he can't seem to convince enough of his fellow delegates to get on-board the Independence Express. Despite John's best efforts, he must face the fact that the legislators are uncomfortable with his nagging and simply don't have the time (or inclination) to look at the twenty-seven eight-by-ten color photos, (with circles and arrows, and a paragraph on the back of each one saying why they should rebel). Potentially, Jefferson's, "When in the course of human events .........(Yada, Yada, Yada) ........ and our sacred honor", creation could have been written for naught. "What a bummer!", John wonders.
At the very point when his morale is at its lowest, Adams throws a one-man "pity-party", (Nancy couldn't attend), in the bell tower of stately Independence Hall. He softly sings, "Is Anybody There?", (echoing G.W.'s lament). "Does Anybody Care?". The irony, of course is that the difficulty was all his doing -- his being so full of himself, and having such unrealistic expectations. Adams had no one but Adams to blame.
But all's well that ends well, (as it usually does on the Broadway stage and in Hollywood movies).
Fortunately, the salt peter arrives from Boston, Franklin awakens from his nap and Caesar Rodney rides in from Delaware, (toothache and all), to save the day. The "Ayes" have it, and the measure for independence passes. A-mer-ica, A-mer-ica, God shine his grace on thee ... etc. etc. etc.
The very very very first full-fledged musical I saw in person was "Bye Bye, Birdie" in Misawa, Japan. It was a 1970 USO production staged by members of the Kansas State University Drama Department. Those kids sang their hearts out. "Hi ya, Hugo. Hi ya, Stupid. Wudge ya wanna go get pinned for"?"). It was impressive!
You don't find many people humming songs from "1776" in the elevator these days. In fact, there may not have been even one memorable tune in the show, (in the sense of having an impact on the "popular music" scene, that is). But there were some good ones! There was a spot-on ditty delivered by John Adams -- mocking the manner in which many lawmakers routinely make important legislative decisions. It's called, "Piddle, Twiddle & Resolve". (Call me cynical, but I believe that there's yet another ".. iddle" word that could be appropriately inserted into that song title). And, for sheer melodrama, you can't beat "Molasses to Rum" -- condemning the hypocrisy of Northern politicians and merchants regarding the issue of slavery, (sung by Rep. Rutledge of South Carolina).
But for sheer pathos, the nod goes to the ballad, "Is Anybody There?". Throughout the production, the Clerk reads a series of field dispatches, (from General Washington to the Continental Congress). He paints a rather pessimistic picture of the war's progress and pleads for increased support from the seemingly ambivalent Congress. (They've pretty much written off the general as a "Chicken-Little" type, playing on their ignorance and fears). The tone of his communications can be expressed in the plaintive inquiries, "...Is anybody there? Does anybody care?".
(Note: Some things don't change very much. There's still a lot of that type of questioning going on -- even today! Is anybody ... ? Does anybody ...? Perhaps it's time for a reality check or a New Year's Resolution!)
Later in the story, Adams is extremely frustrated because he can't seem to convince enough of his fellow delegates to get on-board the Independence Express. Despite John's best efforts, he must face the fact that the legislators are uncomfortable with his nagging and simply don't have the time (or inclination) to look at the twenty-seven eight-by-ten color photos, (with circles and arrows, and a paragraph on the back of each one saying why they should rebel). Potentially, Jefferson's, "When in the course of human events .........(Yada, Yada, Yada) ........ and our sacred honor", creation could have been written for naught. "What a bummer!", John wonders.
At the very point when his morale is at its lowest, Adams throws a one-man "pity-party", (Nancy couldn't attend), in the bell tower of stately Independence Hall. He softly sings, "Is Anybody There?", (echoing G.W.'s lament). "Does Anybody Care?". The irony, of course is that the difficulty was all his doing -- his being so full of himself, and having such unrealistic expectations. Adams had no one but Adams to blame.
But all's well that ends well, (as it usually does on the Broadway stage and in Hollywood movies).
Fortunately, the salt peter arrives from Boston, Franklin awakens from his nap and Caesar Rodney rides in from Delaware, (toothache and all), to save the day. The "Ayes" have it, and the measure for independence passes. A-mer-ica, A-mer-ica, God shine his grace on thee ... etc. etc. etc.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Sphincter News You Can Use
Life can be a real adventure for us post-post-post adolescents. Having passed our prime, we speed along the highway of "reduced potential" at a break-neck speed. "Look! There's a sign post ahead. You have just crossed over into the (anatomical) Twilight Zone". What I'm referring to is the reality that, at this stage of our development, some of our more fundamental body parts tend to fall down on the job, (and by "fall down", I'm not referring to the consequences of the Earth's gravitational pull on our dangly outer parts).
No, I'm talking about our mysterious internal gears, valves, levers and pumps -- especially the ones that are truly essential, but which routinely become less efficient following an ill-advised all-nighter at Taco Bell.
Not too long ago, I was sipping a Bailey's, (shaken, not stirred), and watching the CBS comedy "The Big Bang Theory", (TBBT, if you will). Suddenly my ears alerted to something very interesting, and I learned an important anatomy lesson which, during any normal week, I surely would have missed. This is because we bowl in the Thursday Night Fellowship League, but this was Thanksgiving night, so we took the week off. (Note: Bowling is yet another post-adolescent activity involving gravitational forces impacting non-dangly objects).
Well, the televised football game was rather boring so I channel-surfed for a while -- way up past ESPN and back down again to channel 10. Not to brag, but we have digital cable at our house, and we get scads of channels -- dozens even -- which means we can watch, "Everybody Loves Raymond" and "The New Adventures of Old Christine" ten or more times every day.
Back to the anatomy lesson. The geeky guy on TBBT, (in the interest of clarity, I should specify "the incredibly obnoxious geeky guy" on the show), stated something that caused me to feel much better about the precarious state of my innards. He said that the human body has fifty sphincters. That's FIFTY -- five-oh, half a hundred! (Side Note: To completely avoid any confusion, I probably should have referred to the TBBT character as the tallest and thinnest of the incredibly obnoxious geeky guys on "... Bang ...").
Before I heard that most welcome news, I believed that my body was batting one-for-three in terms of fully-operational sphincters -- clearly an unfavorable state of affairs. In actuality, however; I am relieved to know that I'm forty-eight for fifty -- operating at ninety-six percent of capacity. Heck, they don't function that efficiently at Three-Mile Island (and never have). Furthermore, 96% is a borderline A+ at college -- except at the Harvard School of Business, of course, where raw scores and percentages don't matter. At the Ding Dong School on the Charles, Sissy, Buffy and Reggie can get an "A Plus Plus" just for attending class.
So, sphincter-wise, I'm now able to clench with the best of 'em. And, except for male-pattern-baldness, the trick knee, the lame arm, the paunch, the lazy ear, (and that nuisance rash we don't ever mention), I'm feeling great about the state of my health. And I owe it all to The Pilgrims, Les Moonves and Jim Parsons -- the tallest, thinnest, (and most talented), of the obnoxious geeky guys on "...Big Bang...". Thanks, JP.
___________________________________________________________________________
There, you have it -- a thirteen hundred word sermon on the subject of "Sphincterdom", and, despite having tiptoed ever so near the line of impropriety, I didn't cross it. Lots of hints and pseudo-visuals but nothing too graphic. Aunt Penelope could peruse this narrative before, during or after dinner at the cotillion, and it wouldn't be a problem.
(Note: Yes, I counted them also. It's only six hundred and twenty-four -- not 1300).
(Yet one more clarification: Like your's, my gut instinct says to spell it "innerds" (not innards) because inner is a word meaning "not outer". But once again, my squiggly red spell-check line rules the day. I dare not go against Bill Gates and his cohorts).
No, I'm talking about our mysterious internal gears, valves, levers and pumps -- especially the ones that are truly essential, but which routinely become less efficient following an ill-advised all-nighter at Taco Bell.
Not too long ago, I was sipping a Bailey's, (shaken, not stirred), and watching the CBS comedy "The Big Bang Theory", (TBBT, if you will). Suddenly my ears alerted to something very interesting, and I learned an important anatomy lesson which, during any normal week, I surely would have missed. This is because we bowl in the Thursday Night Fellowship League, but this was Thanksgiving night, so we took the week off. (Note: Bowling is yet another post-adolescent activity involving gravitational forces impacting non-dangly objects).
Well, the televised football game was rather boring so I channel-surfed for a while -- way up past ESPN and back down again to channel 10. Not to brag, but we have digital cable at our house, and we get scads of channels -- dozens even -- which means we can watch, "Everybody Loves Raymond" and "The New Adventures of Old Christine" ten or more times every day.
Back to the anatomy lesson. The geeky guy on TBBT, (in the interest of clarity, I should specify "the incredibly obnoxious geeky guy" on the show), stated something that caused me to feel much better about the precarious state of my innards. He said that the human body has fifty sphincters. That's FIFTY -- five-oh, half a hundred! (Side Note: To completely avoid any confusion, I probably should have referred to the TBBT character as the tallest and thinnest of the incredibly obnoxious geeky guys on "... Bang ...").
Before I heard that most welcome news, I believed that my body was batting one-for-three in terms of fully-operational sphincters -- clearly an unfavorable state of affairs. In actuality, however; I am relieved to know that I'm forty-eight for fifty -- operating at ninety-six percent of capacity. Heck, they don't function that efficiently at Three-Mile Island (and never have). Furthermore, 96% is a borderline A+ at college -- except at the Harvard School of Business, of course, where raw scores and percentages don't matter. At the Ding Dong School on the Charles, Sissy, Buffy and Reggie can get an "A Plus Plus" just for attending class.
So, sphincter-wise, I'm now able to clench with the best of 'em. And, except for male-pattern-baldness, the trick knee, the lame arm, the paunch, the lazy ear, (and that nuisance rash we don't ever mention), I'm feeling great about the state of my health. And I owe it all to The Pilgrims, Les Moonves and Jim Parsons -- the tallest, thinnest, (and most talented), of the obnoxious geeky guys on "...Big Bang...". Thanks, JP.
___________________________________________________________________________
There, you have it -- a thirteen hundred word sermon on the subject of "Sphincterdom", and, despite having tiptoed ever so near the line of impropriety, I didn't cross it. Lots of hints and pseudo-visuals but nothing too graphic. Aunt Penelope could peruse this narrative before, during or after dinner at the cotillion, and it wouldn't be a problem.
(Note: Yes, I counted them also. It's only six hundred and twenty-four -- not 1300).
(Yet one more clarification: Like your's, my gut instinct says to spell it "innerds" (not innards) because inner is a word meaning "not outer". But once again, my squiggly red spell-check line rules the day. I dare not go against Bill Gates and his cohorts).
Sunday, December 19, 2010
What To Do ... What To Do ... Merry Christmas, Will Ya?
You'd think that the Christmas season would be a wonderfully uncomplicated time of year, but that's not usually the case. The holidays are fraught with recurring dilemmas for which there are no easy solutions. Here are some:
(1) Knowing how not to burn the house down, (I think a number of you lucked out last year). Use your head; water the tree often, and don't overload the electrical outlets!
(2) Deciding on which gift card to give to sweet young Isadore, your camel-smoking, coffee-drinking, Goth-wearing nephew -- the one you wish would join the army, (or at the very least read a book or wash his hair once in a while).
(3) Coming up with a convincing, left-handed compliment to give to Uncle Sid regarding that increasingly-grotesque outdoor lighting display, (of which he is so proud).
(4) Figuring out how many things you can buy for yourself -- but then pass off as thoughtful presents for your unsuspecting spouse. (Examples: Giving a diamond-studded corkscrew to your "tee-totaller" husband, or a $10 Denny's gift certificate to your anorexic/vegan wife.)
But the most perplexing issue is what to do about those, "Our Family: This Year in Review" summaries which all-too-many people enclose in their cards.
"On his way back from Stockholm, where he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Physics, Herman, our oldest, stopped off in Paris to redesign the lighting system for the Eiffel Tower, (pro-bono, of course). And, Diana, who used to be "the runt" of the family litter, is now a statuesque 5'10". And since she is no longer working for "The Clintons", she's decided to accept that job offer from Donna Karan. And Christmas came early in August when "Tabatha", our registered Abyssinian, delivered a litter of ten which we sold for $600 each".
Meanwhile, we recipients of this chronology are left stymied. Should we acknowledge these glorious achievements, or should we line the birdcage floor with the parchment and forget we ever read it? Us "Ordinary Joes", -- we who measure whether or not our year was a success in terms of the number of "comfortable" bowel movements we managed to achieve, (100 is a good benchmark), are left in a quandry. What to do ... What to do?
So anyway, Happy Holidays to all -- except to you, Izzy. You should get a haircut and a job, you miserable little snip!
_________________________________________________________________________
Note: "Merry Christmas, Will Ya", is what Harris said to Wojo on "Barney...".
(1) Knowing how not to burn the house down, (I think a number of you lucked out last year). Use your head; water the tree often, and don't overload the electrical outlets!
(2) Deciding on which gift card to give to sweet young Isadore, your camel-smoking, coffee-drinking, Goth-wearing nephew -- the one you wish would join the army, (or at the very least read a book or wash his hair once in a while).
(3) Coming up with a convincing, left-handed compliment to give to Uncle Sid regarding that increasingly-grotesque outdoor lighting display, (of which he is so proud).
(4) Figuring out how many things you can buy for yourself -- but then pass off as thoughtful presents for your unsuspecting spouse. (Examples: Giving a diamond-studded corkscrew to your "tee-totaller" husband, or a $10 Denny's gift certificate to your anorexic/vegan wife.)
But the most perplexing issue is what to do about those, "Our Family: This Year in Review" summaries which all-too-many people enclose in their cards.
"On his way back from Stockholm, where he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Physics, Herman, our oldest, stopped off in Paris to redesign the lighting system for the Eiffel Tower, (pro-bono, of course). And, Diana, who used to be "the runt" of the family litter, is now a statuesque 5'10". And since she is no longer working for "The Clintons", she's decided to accept that job offer from Donna Karan. And Christmas came early in August when "Tabatha", our registered Abyssinian, delivered a litter of ten which we sold for $600 each".
Meanwhile, we recipients of this chronology are left stymied. Should we acknowledge these glorious achievements, or should we line the birdcage floor with the parchment and forget we ever read it? Us "Ordinary Joes", -- we who measure whether or not our year was a success in terms of the number of "comfortable" bowel movements we managed to achieve, (100 is a good benchmark), are left in a quandry. What to do ... What to do?
So anyway, Happy Holidays to all -- except to you, Izzy. You should get a haircut and a job, you miserable little snip!
_________________________________________________________________________
Note: "Merry Christmas, Will Ya", is what Harris said to Wojo on "Barney...".
Heed My Words, Bretheren. Beware the Delinquent Greeting!
Verily, I say unto you, my Children. The terrible day of reckoning is approaching. Of course, the terrible day to which I refer is December 24th -- the day you will undoubtedly receive the dreaded "Demon Greeting Card". What could be demoniacal about a holiday greeting? I'll explain.
The culprit of which I speak is the Christmas card you receive, (on the24th), from the person to whom you didn't send one. Heavy is the heart when that happens, but I have a solution for you -- and, most times, it won't cost you a penny.
Mail a greeting card to that person just after Christmas, but forget to put a postage stamp on the envelope. One of two things will happen; (1) the post office will deliver it "postage due" to your friend. He'll assume that you mailed it on time, but it sat around in a post office holding bin for a while. Surely, the failure to affix a stamp was an honest mistake on your part. He may think you're cheap, but he won't know that you don't like him anymore.
Or, (2) the post office will return the card to you, (containing a printed notice that you omitted the proper postage). In this case, simply put the whole thing in a larger envelope, affix a stamp and mail it off. He should still receive it before "Little Christmas" (1/6) which will make it okay. Once again, the reason for the delay will be understood, and you'll be forgiven! Actually, this whole exercise will make your greeting even more meaningful.
I know what you're thinking ... "The Parson is a genius! Why didn't I think of that"? You're welcome.
Of course, it goes without saying ... if any of this is illegal, you shouldn't do it! (The lawyers made me say that).
Other Holiday Dilemmas, (ones I cannot help you with, but which we all face annually), will be discussed in my next blog entry, "What to Do ... What to Do ... Merry Christmas, Will Ya?"
The culprit of which I speak is the Christmas card you receive, (on the24th), from the person to whom you didn't send one. Heavy is the heart when that happens, but I have a solution for you -- and, most times, it won't cost you a penny.
Mail a greeting card to that person just after Christmas, but forget to put a postage stamp on the envelope. One of two things will happen; (1) the post office will deliver it "postage due" to your friend. He'll assume that you mailed it on time, but it sat around in a post office holding bin for a while. Surely, the failure to affix a stamp was an honest mistake on your part. He may think you're cheap, but he won't know that you don't like him anymore.
Or, (2) the post office will return the card to you, (containing a printed notice that you omitted the proper postage). In this case, simply put the whole thing in a larger envelope, affix a stamp and mail it off. He should still receive it before "Little Christmas" (1/6) which will make it okay. Once again, the reason for the delay will be understood, and you'll be forgiven! Actually, this whole exercise will make your greeting even more meaningful.
I know what you're thinking ... "The Parson is a genius! Why didn't I think of that"? You're welcome.
Of course, it goes without saying ... if any of this is illegal, you shouldn't do it! (The lawyers made me say that).
Other Holiday Dilemmas, (ones I cannot help you with, but which we all face annually), will be discussed in my next blog entry, "What to Do ... What to Do ... Merry Christmas, Will Ya?"
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Blessed are the Mellow at Heart ... For They Shall Remember Mitch
I really miss Friday nights. Oh sure, I know they still come around every week, but these Friday nights are bogus -- a mere shell of what Fridays used to be, (in the good old days)!
Remember the Friday nights of 1968? Uh, oh ... bad time frame to choose. I was in Viet Nam that year, and every day was Monday at the Asian Club Med. We had no Fridays there.
What about '58? Yeah, good old 1958. There was "The Schlitz Family Playhouse" for the beer-sipping hi-brow crowd; "The Gillette Friday Night Fights" for beer-guzzling real men to watch; and, thankfully, there was Mitch Miller for the rest of us.
Do you remember "The Mitch Miller Show"? A bearded guy with busy arms and a squirrelly smile, twenty-six swaying baritones and one tenor, (young Bob McGrath -- later of Sesame Street fame). We heard such classic songs as "Bye Bye Blackbird", "My Buddy" and "Heart of My Heart" -- all without commercial interruption (or so it seemed).
Yes, yes, I know they had commercials, but they'd bunch many of them between shows or on the half-hour, so we could focus on the great singing. And those were such great melodies -- "Your Lips Tell Me, 'No-No', but There's "Yes-Yes in Your Eyes", "Pardon Me, Boy, is that the Chatanooga Choo Choo?" and who could ever forget "Don't Bring Lulu" or "Three Little Fishies"? Don't get me started!
I'll bet that if one of today's extended basic stations would put on replays of Mitch and the guys, well, America would watch. And if they'd broadcast the shows on Friday night? Well, "I know a tear would glisten ..." !
You may think that this is the end .........Well, it is!
Remember the Friday nights of 1968? Uh, oh ... bad time frame to choose. I was in Viet Nam that year, and every day was Monday at the Asian Club Med. We had no Fridays there.
What about '58? Yeah, good old 1958. There was "The Schlitz Family Playhouse" for the beer-sipping hi-brow crowd; "The Gillette Friday Night Fights" for beer-guzzling real men to watch; and, thankfully, there was Mitch Miller for the rest of us.
Do you remember "The Mitch Miller Show"? A bearded guy with busy arms and a squirrelly smile, twenty-six swaying baritones and one tenor, (young Bob McGrath -- later of Sesame Street fame). We heard such classic songs as "Bye Bye Blackbird", "My Buddy" and "Heart of My Heart" -- all without commercial interruption (or so it seemed).
Yes, yes, I know they had commercials, but they'd bunch many of them between shows or on the half-hour, so we could focus on the great singing. And those were such great melodies -- "Your Lips Tell Me, 'No-No', but There's "Yes-Yes in Your Eyes", "Pardon Me, Boy, is that the Chatanooga Choo Choo?" and who could ever forget "Don't Bring Lulu" or "Three Little Fishies"? Don't get me started!
I'll bet that if one of today's extended basic stations would put on replays of Mitch and the guys, well, America would watch. And if they'd broadcast the shows on Friday night? Well, "I know a tear would glisten ..." !
You may think that this is the end .........Well, it is!
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Happy Valley Euphemisms
I really enjoyed the movie "Raising Arizona". The subject matter wasn't all that comical, (child stealing), but the movie was nevertheless amusing. In the "Welcome Home, Son" scene, H.I. McDonough, (the child- stealing protagonist), is holding young Nathan, Jr. forward, (his arms extended), giving the Arizona Quint a panoramic (but stationary) tour of their trailer home.
As best as I can recall, he says to the kid, "Now, that there is the kitchen where your Momma fixes our dinner ... (pivot) ... and this here is the dee-van for sittin' on to watch TV, (only one hour a day, so you don't miss out on the finer things) ... (pivot) ... etc. etc." It's something like that, anyway. Well, he's handling the kid a little too roughly to suit Edwina (Ed), his "barren" wife. So she says to H.I., "Be sure to mind his little fountainelle, Honey" -- (Not wanting the child to be injured, I guess).
At the time, I remember thinking, "What a cute pet name for the kids jigger"! I imagine that most parents have euphemisms that they use to designate the more delicate parts of their children's anatomy. And I suppose "fountainelle" is as good as any, (and better than most).
Gayle and Neville, the clumsy-yet-loveable Arizona State Prison escapees and wannabee Dads who attempt to re-steal the child from the original child-stealers, claimed to be using code names, (similar to euphemisms), when they robbed the Farmers' Bank. After absentmindedly calling Gayle, "Gayle" in front of the tellers, Neville announces, "We're using code names, ya hear that? Code names."
On Seinfeld, Mr. Bookman, the Library Cop, calls human nether parts "Pee-pees and Wee-wees". How devoid of imagination is that? Larry David, I'm disappointed in you!
I recall, half a century ago, that the Herman Family, (our next door neighbors in the projects), didn't have euphemisms. They called a spade a "spade", (using real-life dictionary words -- accurate ones). And poor little Chucky suffered dearly for it. The neighborhood kids would taunt him, shouting things like, "Don't fall out of that tree, Chucky. You might hurt your PEA-NUTS". Kids can be sooo cruel!
It gets worse! Way back when, if you asked my Aunt Harriet if she wanted milk in her tea, she'd say, "Just a jigger". "Oh my gosh, did you hear that?", we kids would giggle. "Aunt Harriet wants a jigger of milk in her tea. Yuck! Gross!" Mom would give us a disapproving glance, but I'll bet that even she thought it was funny.
Some day, when I know you better, I'll explain to you about "bugs" and "tension".
Note: I recently learned that a "fontanel" is that vulnerable soft spot on the top of a newborn's head. Boy, was I way off base!
As best as I can recall, he says to the kid, "Now, that there is the kitchen where your Momma fixes our dinner ... (pivot) ... and this here is the dee-van for sittin' on to watch TV, (only one hour a day, so you don't miss out on the finer things) ... (pivot) ... etc. etc." It's something like that, anyway. Well, he's handling the kid a little too roughly to suit Edwina (Ed), his "barren" wife. So she says to H.I., "Be sure to mind his little fountainelle, Honey" -- (Not wanting the child to be injured, I guess).
At the time, I remember thinking, "What a cute pet name for the kids jigger"! I imagine that most parents have euphemisms that they use to designate the more delicate parts of their children's anatomy. And I suppose "fountainelle" is as good as any, (and better than most).
Gayle and Neville, the clumsy-yet-loveable Arizona State Prison escapees and wannabee Dads who attempt to re-steal the child from the original child-stealers, claimed to be using code names, (similar to euphemisms), when they robbed the Farmers' Bank. After absentmindedly calling Gayle, "Gayle" in front of the tellers, Neville announces, "We're using code names, ya hear that? Code names."
On Seinfeld, Mr. Bookman, the Library Cop, calls human nether parts "Pee-pees and Wee-wees". How devoid of imagination is that? Larry David, I'm disappointed in you!
I recall, half a century ago, that the Herman Family, (our next door neighbors in the projects), didn't have euphemisms. They called a spade a "spade", (using real-life dictionary words -- accurate ones). And poor little Chucky suffered dearly for it. The neighborhood kids would taunt him, shouting things like, "Don't fall out of that tree, Chucky. You might hurt your PEA-NUTS". Kids can be sooo cruel!
It gets worse! Way back when, if you asked my Aunt Harriet if she wanted milk in her tea, she'd say, "Just a jigger". "Oh my gosh, did you hear that?", we kids would giggle. "Aunt Harriet wants a jigger of milk in her tea. Yuck! Gross!" Mom would give us a disapproving glance, but I'll bet that even she thought it was funny.
Some day, when I know you better, I'll explain to you about "bugs" and "tension".
Note: I recently learned that a "fontanel" is that vulnerable soft spot on the top of a newborn's head. Boy, was I way off base!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)