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1-1-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

Would you be willing to sign my petition to have all nuclear waste shot into the sun? I can't imagine how much environmental damage is being done with all the radioactivity that is carelessly released into rivers and streams.

--Environ Mental in Evanston

Dear Environ:

Well, now, you know that every cloud has a silver lining, and that it's an ill wind that blows nobody good, and several other applicable clichés.

It so happens that nuclear waste has caused changes in wildlife that have been a godsend for people who practice Xtreme Hunting. Just read this quote from the Dissociated Press.

- - - - - - - - - - 

STUMP FOREST, AR (DP) - Stump Forest, a 310-square-mile expanse along the river that divides Arkansas from Georgia, is an ecological paradox. For four decades it was one of the government's top-secret nuclear bomb factories where five reactors produced plutonium and tritium for nuclear warheads. And often it cared little about dumping the wastes into the environment.

In the heart of forest sits Hot Seltzer Pond, a 2,300-acre lake that gets its name from the percolating nature of its waters. Once it served as the cooling pond for the reactors, and despite its beauty, it also contains huge quantities of highly radioactive cesium, plutonium and strontium. Although it should be barren of life, Hot Seltzer Pond and Stump Forest itself are teeming with new species.

'This is a world-class trans-bass fishery," says Joe Mengele, a forensic environmentalist who has been studying how radiation migrates through the environment. "Just last week we landed a 37-foot largemouth marsupial trans-bass. The fur alone weighed over 800 pounds! And let me tell you, those suckers are fighters! Especially the ones with the suckers."

The fish, says Mengele, are all radioactive, contaminated with cesium-137. The alligators are contaminated, too, as are all of the other wildlife and plants. But that hasn't stopped the area from becoming a wildlife attraction. "Trophy hunters come here from all over the world. Where else can you find a three-headed moose for your den wall, or one of those green wolves that glow in the dark? We look on the Stump Forest site as a perfect marriage between toxic nuclear waste and the environment. What's good for General Atomics really is good for America!"

While the site is generally off limits, a few times each year controlled "deer" hunts are conducted to reduce the herds. "We still call them deer," Mengele says, "although they bear little resemblance to your Bambi types. The worst ones have legs about 20 feet tall, so you think you're wandering among pine saplings, then BAM! all of a sudden one of those tusks will sweep down out of the treetops and you're a gone goose, even with the Kevlar. Worse yet, if you come across a nest with a female or a neuter sitting on what we think are eggs, and they sing out for a pseudo-male/maleª, well, that's all she wrote.'' Hunters are selected by lottery, although few have ever returned once they set off into the forest. One Xtreme hunter who lived to tell about it lives in a locked ward at the Arkansas State Asylum for the Radioactive. Although missing his jaw and tongue, both legs and the hands of both arms, Kevin Pyeweed is quite happy to tap out his Stump Forest experience in Morse code for visitors, at least until the Thorazine begins to wear off and the screaming starts.

"'It was big," he reports, "O Jesus it was so goddam big! Bobby Joe was hit with some of the slimy stuff, and all of a sudden his face was running down his jacket and his brain just fizzed away. Then it picked up Mort and there was this horrible crunching sound. They have to crunch up their prey, you see, because the throat opening is so much smaller than the mouth with all those teeth. O God, those teeth! I used my Stinger shoulder-fired missile on it, but I only hit the big bony ruff behind the head, which just annoyed it. I never even saw the barbed tail before it hit me. I was lucky I landed on the electric fence, and the Rangers were able to get to me after a few hours. Of course," he says, indicating his missing legs, "the lobster-wasps got to me first."

"There's a very simple explanation for what happened to Kevin and his buddies," says Mengele. "They forgot Rule Number One: Never, never, NEVER disturb the bunny rabbits!"

1-2-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

You recently printed a song by Blind Oklahoma Crude, who specialized in songs about plant diseases. As this is a subject that interests me greatly, I would like to see more. Will you oblige?

--Phytopathologist in Philistia

Dear Phyto:

I'd be happy to. Here's a cut from Oklahoma's second album, "Curl Up and Die." Redbone Records, 1953)

Botanical Death Row Blues

I went down to see my botanist (ba-bump!)
But they gimme the chair instead. (ba-bump!)
Yessir, I went down to see that botanist, (ba-bump!)
But I got the old chair instead. (ba-bump!)

Ain't gonna see no botanist, not nohow, (bum)
Til this boy be done heaven-sent. (bum-bum-bum-bum)

Well, they took me to the greenhouse (ba-bump!)
At the end o' that last mile. (ba-bump!)
O Lord they took me to that greenhouse, (ba-bump!)
Down that lonely, lonely, long last mile. (ba-bump!)

Ain't gonna need me no more botanist (bum)
After they fry this mama's chile. (bum-bum-bum)

Lawd, the first jolt done hit me, (ba-bump!)
Cook my eyes like two fried eggs. (ba-bump!)
Yes, the first jolt it done hit me, (ba-bump!)
Sizzled up my eyes like country eggs. (ba-bump!)

Wish I'd got to see the botanist (bum)
Before I got these're walkin' charcoal legs. (bum-bum-bum)

Lawd, the second jolt done hit me, (ba-bump!)
Done fry my brain inside my head. (ba-bump!)
Geeee! That second jolt done hit me, (ba-bump!)
Done fried it all up inside my head. (ba-bump!)

Wish I'd gotten to see the botanist, (bum)
Stead o' gettin' all fried up like spoonbread. (bum)

Well, here come the third jolt, mama, (ba-bump!)
This one, it like to kill me dead! (ba-bump!)
Yaheee, I felt the ol' third jolt comin', (ba-bump!)
It'll be the one what kill me dead. (ba-bump!)

Wisht I'd skipped goin' to the botanist (bum)
An' gone to law school instead. (bum-be-tum-be-tum-be-thump!)

1-3-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

I happened to find your Web site whilst "serving" on the Internet. Is it possible that you are the same little Netisha from Redbone who used to visit us at the summer place in Sussex between the wars? The family resemblance is unmistakable. Since my sex change operation and subsequent forced retirement from the military I have spent my days tracking down old family friends and acquaintances. I had given you up for lost.

Eustachia (née Eustace) Wellington Potslobber 
Gangway-upon-Rollerblades, England

Dear Eustachia:

Well, by my truss and braces, it *is* little cousin Eustace-- or may I still call you 'Gorgonzola' after all these years? And a lady, now! Will wonders never cease. Frankly, we all had our doubts back then in Gangway-upon-Rollerblades, especially after you started wearing skirts to school, but it was all so hush-hush back in those days, wasn't it?

I heard recently from the grand-niece of old Dean Havforgotten of That School They Haven't Named After Anybody Yet. 'Rutabaga' Havforgotten hasn't changed a bit, you'll be happy to hear. Dead as ever, but keeps up with all of his old pupils, the old sodomite. Do you remember playing 'Pony over the Railing' with him? And the looks he got escorting you boys into town on Saturdays, you painted blue all over and him wearing only that bright red bow...those were the days.

And who could ever forget those riotous times in Billingsgate at the 'Prune and Codswallop'? You dancing the tango with the sailors, your skirt slit up to God's country and the sweat beading sweetly on your moustache. There was Cap'n Gropebottom with his peg leg, Cap'n Swogbelly with his peg arm, and Cap'n Bobbit with his peg...

...but enough of reminiscence. Tell me how the family has been getting on. Lord, your dear old father must be pushing 140 now, isn't he? Do give him my best. Are the Siamese twins still together? Is Cousin Bete still in the grave-robbing trade? Is Uncle Postlewaith still a road sign? And did they ever find all the pieces of Belinda Swinefog after she stepped on the old German antitank mine we hid in the henhouse? Ah, I am so hungry for news from Gangway-upon-Rollerblades.

Do you remember Thomasina Coverly, the redhead you were so fond of when you visited Redbone? She appears to have come down with 'Schrodinger's Disease,' usually a feline affliction. No one can tell whether she's alive or dead, and we're afraid to open the box to find out. She's still at the Arcadia Asylum, and would love to hear from you, I'm sure. And dear, dear Cousin Furbish, who still hasn't come back from that game of 'Hide and Seek,' we played, even though we've called 'olley olley oxenfree' several times since the summer of 1936.

Please stay in touch. There are so few of you left from Gangway-upon-Rollerblades since the pogroms.

p/s Remember how you used to call me 'Watermelon' ? And I used to throw you into the cesspit of pig's dung behind the barn? Ah, the memories.

1-4-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

I was simply bowled over to see an inquiry in your column referring to both Eustace Potslobber and a Dr Havforgotten. It's a small world after all, as the Disney chaps say. I spent time in debtor's prison with young Eustace, and am currently researching the family history of the Havforgottens of Chumley Way, Boscage, Heifershire, Polodney-on-Spindleshanks. I grew up with the younger Havforgottens, and was the inseparable friend and confidante of Leroy 'Pustule' Havforgotten, who went on to fame as a professional wicket in the Shropsfordshire 'Terriers' cricket team.

Is it possible your correspondent can shed light on the "Banger Incident" that occurred between the Potslobber boys and the Havforgotten girls at Whangbanger Farm, Bishopsgate, Leprosy, Mammothshire, Gangway-upon-Rollerblades in July, 1937? I was likewise in debtor's prison with Barstow Havforgotten, before he was committed to state care, and whom I now believe to be at large, or perhaps medium. Alas, he was of no assistance, as he believed himself to be a teapot and would do nothing but whistle until you turned down the heat.

Yours faithfully,

T. Crumpet Malmsey
The Shrubbery
Aisle 7, Sainbury's
Sneezing Cheese
Bladdershire
Bathingattire-upon-Washline
England

Dear T. Crumpet:

Eustace/Eustachia has informed me privately that, as a maiden lady she would require an introduction from a reputable third party before she could properly correspond with you. However she is willing to waive the introduction if you would send £50 and two bottles of strong rum to her temporary residence, care of:

Asylum for the Committed
Basleystoke
Thingamajig
HooveringTuesdays
Gangway-upon-Rollerblades

And if you'll send the equivalent in real money and 2 bottles of "Flaming Chihuahua" brand tequila to me here at Living Dead "R" Us, I'll spill the beans on what REALLY went on that July at Whangbanger Farm. I even have the constable's transcript. Let's just say that there was a good reason Barstow Havforgotten thought of himself as a teapot after THAT little episode.

1-5-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

I'm curious about this unique hamlet of Redbone you refer to so often. For a backwoods town it seems to have more than its share of brilliant people. Was it a sort of Ozark Olympus?

--Sociological in Southern California 

Dear Sociological:

No, I'm afraid I've played up the high points of Redbone the way Hoboken, New Jersey plays up the fact that Frank Sinatra was born there, without mentioning that today it's so unappealing a place that babies refuse to be born there.

The fact of the matter is that we had more than our share of dull thuds in the population explosion. Take the Goomblatts for example. Nicer people you couldn't hope to meet. But dumber than mud. The whole family couldn't scrape together more than 60 IQ points on a good day. It's amazing that they ever figured out how to keep the children coming.

The Goomblatts had a miserable farm between Hog's Noggin and Filibuster and tried to make their fortune in the damnedest ways. They tried breeding bicycles, raising light bulbs and geode ranching. They drilled for gasoline, ink and maple syrup. They planted gum wrappers and hoped to grow newspapers. Several of them were killed every year during the lightning harvest. Since they could never get the hang of buttons, buckles and laces, the entire clan went around dressed simply in a coat of paint.

Eventually they died off. Their name lives on, however. In Redbone to this very day, "Ask a Goomblatt," is another way of saying "I wouldn't lower myself to answer such a stupid question."

1-6-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

If a certain person who wishes to remain nameless wanted to eliminate another person from the face of the earth without risking the old lethal needle, how would this person arrange it?

--Nameless in Nantucket

Dear Nameless:

Years ago this would have been a tricky job, but free enterprise and the American sense of fair play has come through once again. I direct your attention to this article from the Dissociated Press:

CHICAGO, Illinois (DP) — Will Fisher says it's an idea whose time has come.

Fisher spoke at the opening of his Assisted Homicide Clinic in downtown Chicago this morning, surrounded by friends and well-wishers. "It struck me one day when I was reading about a killer who had left not only his fingerprints at the scene of the crime, but his wallet and car keys as well. 'How could anybody be so dumb?' I thought to myself."

"Then I realized that most people commit murder without any training or practice whatsoever. Most are first-time nonprofessionals who act in the heat of the moment, then panic and fail to cover their tracks properly. Over 70% of all homicides are solved in the United States, and with increased Federal funding that number is likely to go higher. The average person needs a way of carrying out murderous intentions in a planned, secure fashion that minimizes his or her chance of apprehension."

Fisher's Assisted Homicide Clinic is running ads in Chicago area newspapers this week stressing both the low cost of his service and its thoroughness. "We don't just give a client a gun and push them out the door. Each case is evaluated by a team of seasoned professional killers who address motive, means and method, work to establish airtight alibis, teach backtracking and follow-up, and are generally supportive of the client."

The clinic looks like any other office building on the block. There's a spacious lobby with framed newspaper and magazine stories about unsolved murders, along with testimonials from satisfied clients. Below the offices is the 'workout room' where clients are taught how to work out every step of a crime. In addition to the traditional target range, there are dummies for garroting practice, a variety of realistic human heads and torsos for knife and blunt instrument attacks, and what's called the 'SWAT room' for hands-on work with explosives, flammables and poisons. There's an extensive library of research materials, as well as a small armory of untraceable weapons that can be checked out by the day or night.

"We like to point out that we're a full-service clinic," says Fisher. "If you need a driver or someone with the skills to handle a boat or a small plane, we're right there for you. There's also the option of having one of our professionals accompany you to minimize the chance of something going wrong. Just last week a client got cold feet at the last moment and it was only through the intervention of an Assisted Homicide Paid Accomplice that the arrangement came off as planned."

Potential clients are directed to the firm's Web site, http://www.homicidehelper.com for full details and a price list.

©2000 The Dissociated Press

1-7-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

Are you of the opinion that there has been a terrible backsliding on the part of established religious leaders?

--Self-Righteous in Selma

Dear Self:

I'm not sure if you'd call it backsliding, but every now and again I see something in the news that makes me wonder if somebody's tiara is screwed on the right way. Like this Dissociated Press article.

-----------------------

Pope To Star in Music Video, CD 

VATICAN, Papal States (DP) — Pope John Paul II is about to reach out to the MTV generation.

Sony and Vatican Entertainment announced plans this week for the joint release of a rap music CD and video titled "Big John-Paul Style." The Pontiff has teamed up with some of rap's biggest stars in an attempt to reach the youth audience and 'shove some Catholic jive deep up as she goes,' according to a Vatican spokesperson.

Some of the cuts on the CD include : "A Little Nun on the Side" with Sir Mix-a-Lot; "Busted Novena" with Dr. Dre; "Bitchin' Altar Boy Delite" with Puff Daddy; "Hot, Wet and Sanctified" with the late Notorious B.I.G., and "Long Tongue Hot for Your Host" with Wu-Tang Clan.

The CD and video are scheduled for release in March, ahead of Holy Week and Easter, according to the Vatican. The spokesperson would not comment on rumors of a future CD called "Confessin' It All" featuring Britney Spears and the College of Cardinals.


©2000 The Dissociated Press

1-8-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

The Southern Baptist Convention has voted to boycott Disney films, products and theme parks. What do you think an appropriate response should be on Disney's part?

--Disneyphile in Discordia 

Dear Disneyphile:

As a matter of fact there was an official response reported by the Dissociated Press just this morning.

(Anaheim, CA) DP-- At their annual convention in Anaheim this week, Disney cartoon characters announced a boycott of Southern Baptist churches.

Convention President Mickey Mouse said that the boycott was sparked by the obvious anti-fun nature of the Baptist denomination. "Gosh, not only are they not gay, they're not even HAPPY most of the time! Always going around condemning people who are just trying to enjoy themselves. Hee-hee!"

Convention Vice-President Donald Duck added that the Baptist anti-fun stance has resulted in prayer meetings being held in dark churches on beautiful summer days, children being exposed to physical abuse in the name of religion, and a complete absence of nudity during church picnics. "Wak-wak wak wak wak," he stated, "wakka wak wak wak WAK wak!"

Corporation spokestoon Goofy also took issue with the Baptist insistence on creationism as a foundation of their belief. "Garsh, yer darn tootin' we wuz all created by Walt back in the beginnin', but them Baptists say the fack that I can talk an' Pluto can't, us both bein' dogs and all, is evidence of Special Creation. But you just check out all of our drawin' styles from the 1920s and compare 'em with today's. Why, Mickey uster look just like a rat! If that ain't evolution through natural selection, I don't know whut is. Uh-hyuck!"

Both Minnie Mouse and Daisy Duck took issue with Baptist standards of morality. "They have to have sex and childbirth and all sorts of gross things in order to have children," said Daisy, "whereas with a cartoon character 'nephews' like Huey, Dewey and Louie just appear one day. It's MUCH nicer, and lots more convenient."

The final comment was made by guest speaker Porky Pig, Retired Chairman of Cartoon Characters With Disabilities, who concluded the Convention with an impassioned rejection of the anti-fun Baptist lifestyle.  "Ibbidy-ibbidy-ibbidy-ibbidy-I would, a would, a would NEVER trust anyone who a didn't, a didn't, a didn't wear white gloves all the t-t-t-t-ime, like an upstanding Disney c-c-c-c-c-um- personage does. I mean how could you t-t-t-ttell what they were up to with those n-n-n-nasty little p-p-p-p-p-p-p-pink fingers of theirs?"

In response to the Disney boycott, which could result in hundreds of empty seats throughout the nation Sunday morning, Southern Baptist President Jack Cass said, "We don't need Disney members. We've already got plenty of Looney Tunes."

1-9-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

I hear they've appointed yet another person to head up the investigation of the murder of that poor JonBenet Ramsey child. Do you seriously think they're going to find any new leads after all this time?

--Investigative in Inisfree

Dear Investigative:

You have to realize that the wheels of justice turn slowly, but I'm sure that eventually the truth will come out. Of course the latest news from the Boulder police department doesn't raise one's hopes:

------------------------------- 

Stuffed Toy Sought in Ramsey Probe 

BOULDER, Colo. (DP) — Prosecutors posted a photograph of a white, furry bear dressed as Santa Claus on an Internet site in a plea for public help with the JonBenet Ramsey slaying investigation.

District Attorney Alex Trebeque said investigators are hoping someone can identify the stuffed animal, which is now the prime suspect in the unsolved killing of the 6-year-old beauty queen.

Trebeque said that the toy is about a foot tall, with a red hat, bolero jacket and pants, all trimmed in a curled white wool material. Boulder Police warned that, although the bear is not known to be armed, it should be considered extremely dangerous. It is believed to be traveling under the alias 'Pookie.' "I make this public request for assistance, knowing that it will give rise to considerable speculation about the status of the Ramsey case," Trebeque said in a prepared statement. "I intend to let this speculation take whatever course it will, since to confirm or deny theories about what this means would most certainly damage the ongoing investigation," he said. "This is our last hope. If we fail to find the suspect in question, we'll have to fall back on the alternative theory: suicide."

JonBenet was found beaten and strangled in the basement of her family's home on Dec. 26, 1996, about eight hours after her mother discovered a ransom note demanding $118,378.16 for her safe return. Boulder Police Inspectors PoPo, Happy Harry and Giggles have been faulted for their handling of the case, especially the extensive use of seltzer bottles and exploding cigars during the earlier phases of the investigation.


©2000 The Dissociated Press 

1-10-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

Lately you've been running clippings from the Dissociated Press. I've looked everywhere for a link to this fine organization, to no avail. It's obviously an expensive proprietary information service. Where did you find out about it, and how does one subscribe?

--Newsworthy in Newport 

Dear Newsworthy:

The Dissociated Press was inadvertently created in late October of 1938 by Elmo Bannermann, a reporter for the Redbone Codependent-Plagiarizer & Daily Whistler. Old Elmo had received a telegram from a wire service that was frantically trying to determine if Orson Welles' Halloween radio broadcast of "War of the Worlds" was the real thing. They advanced Elmo $120, which was serious money in those days, and told him to check it out.

Well, Elmo had a lifetime affair with demon rum, unbeknownst to the wire service. He had never had more than $5 in one lump before, the CP&DW not being a world-class journal on a par with the Herald Tribune or the World Telegram & Sun. The temptation proved too strong. So he fired up his Smith-Corona and wrote 5 days' worth of "on the scene" reporting from Little Rock.

Elmo had a good imagination, I'll say that much for him. He described the alien landings, the terror of the citizens, the Army's retreat, rally and eventual conquest of the slimy invaders, all loosely based on reports he had done from France during WWI, which is where he got the metal plate in his head, by the way. He gave Blind Tom, the railway telegrapher, a silver dollar and told him to file the stories through Little Rock for the next week. Then he went out and got royally ossified.

A week later when his money ran out he sobered up in the Redbone drunk tank, then shakily made his way back to the CP&DW offices, where he was beaten soundly with a pica rule and flung out the door by the editor, nevermore to return.

As you can imagine, the wire services were astounded to see on-the-scene live-action stories of the Martian invasion pouring in from Little Rock when the rest of the country sheepishly realized it was a hoax the morning after the broadcast. The CP&DW was forever disgraced as a news source, and exiled itself to reporting on local news from that day forward.

Elmo died alone, a ruined man, scribbling copy onto the wallpaper of the Redbone Asylum in his last days. But his reputation survived him, and became a newspaper term for a story of suspicious provenance. "Sounds like the DISsociated Press," to this day means that the story is equal parts hogwash, moonshine and the effect of radiation on the metal plate in a reporter's head.

1-11-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

I been reading the fine print on some of these drug ads they have in magazines. I noticed that in a lot of cases this "placebo" stuff works just as good as what they're selling. Where can I get some? Is it expensive?

--Medicated in Medina

Dear Medicated:

Yes, it's quite true that the placebo effect, as it's called, is every bit as good as the medications they're testing, and in many cases better. The pharmaceutical industry has spent millions keeping this news from the general public for fear of losing their ill-gotten profits.

Really clever people like you should stock up on placebo, which is not available either by prescription or over the counter due to industry suppression. Fortunately I was able to pick the lock on the controlled substances cabinet here at the Home, and I have a personal supply of top-quality placebo that I am willing to share with you for a certain consideration-- say, $200 for a month's supply. I'll send details to you under separate cover. No personal checks, please. 

1-12-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

What is Woodward-Bernstein Syndrome?

--Journalistic in Johannesburg 

Dear Journalistic:

You're obviously too young to remember how those two intrepid Washington Post reporters, Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein discovered the deepest darkest secrets of the odious Nixon administration by repeatedly watching the movie "Deep Throat" and assigning numerical values to various parts of Linda Lovelace. This led to the disgrace and imprisonment of many Nixon cronies, the resignation of Spiro Agnew-- the Dan Quayle of the disco era-- and finally the supreme sacrifice, after every escape route was cut off, when Nixon and his mistress Eva Braun took cyanide in their bunker as Russian and Allied troops closed in.

Well, as you can imagine Intrepid Reporters Woodward & Bernstein were lionized. They won the Pulitzer Prize for Intrepid Reporting and went on to write a scathing account of their adventures, "Mooning All the Presidents," which was not only a best-seller but was made into a feature-length cartoon with the voices of Tom Hanks and Tim Allen portraying W and B respectively. No, not that W. He came later.

All this reportorial adulation had a darker payoff, however, and we live with the consequences to this very day. Suddenly *every* reporter, from the New York Times-Philharmonic to Cabbage Futures Monthly wanted to be Investigative. Of course there's only a finite amount of dirt you can dig up on any given subject, so ace investigative reporters fresh out of journalism school were forced to become more and more creative. We were treated to endless "50 Minutes" segments like Jimmy Carter's confession that he really didn't care for peanuts, and Ronald Reagan's belief that Iran was located in Central America and that the entire Soviet Union was hiding on the small Caribbean island of Grenada.

But it didn't stop there. Every local reporter had to get into the act in order to capture audience share. "Threat" journalism became a fad. Suddenly, according to the morning show, the noon report, the evening news and the 11 o'clock roundup EVERYTHING was potentially lethal to the unsuspecting. Was there lead in your paint? Cesium in your water? Starch in your shorts? Was your child a victim of Zebra Mussel Syndrome? Was your butter colored with polyfluorinated hydrogen butylase? Did you personally Right Guard a hole in the ozone layer this morning? How fireproof was your brassiere? Was your doctor actually a psychotic plumber? Did exposure to mayonnaise cause blindness in test animals? Had your son the altar boy been prom queen for the visiting archbishop?

This, my fellow Americans, is the dreaded Woodward-Bernstein Syndrome. God help America. We'll have more after these announcements.

1-13-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

Do you have any art therapy available at LDRU?

-- Artiste in Artois 

Dear Artiste:

They call it therapy, but it's just another in a long line of insults called "finding something pointless for the old people to do."

Every Thursday afternoon we get hauled into the "day room" (the only one with windows) and forced to produce immortal works of art from out-of-date materials donated as a tax write-off.

So far I've managed to drag out my clay modeling project for almost a year, to the point where the aides never even glance at it now. So I've subtly managed to convert my "Leaning Tower of Pisa" into a "Rising Tower of Any Straight Guy Watching a Britney Spears Video." Boy, are they in for a surprise when that one comes out of the kiln.

Other great artists here at the Home include "Spastic John" Carnover, whose affliction results in paintings that make Jackson Pollock look like Mister Paint-by-Numbers. There's also Lydia Hoover-Sweeper, who since time out of mind has been trying to finish painting a ceramic penguin. She's such a perfectionist that she's completed only three feathers so far. Nobody has the heart to tell her that they're chicken feathers.

We do have one legitimate arty-type here. Harvey Bassoon was for many years the curator of The Bagasse & Gematria Mumblestoats' Museum of Depressionist Art in Redbone. He amassed one of the largest collections of this curious art form, which showcases the work of some of the world's great artists at low points in their lives. If there is sufficient interest I may even persuade Harvey to post some of the collection online for the edification of the enlightened.

Harvey is also the author of the definitive book on Depressionist Art, "The Upside of Suicide," as yet unfinished. Whether it will ever be finished depends on who wins the race between Harvey and senile dementia.

1-14-2001

Chere Tante Nettie:

I am falling all over myself with indignation at your spurious allegation that there is a school of <<Depressionist>> art. This is a blague American-style, is it not? I have the procurateur of art for the distinguished Musée Louvre during many years been, and I can reassurance you that no such school exists. <<Impressionist>>, oui. <<Expressionist>>, d'accord. But <<Depressionist>> is the pigment of the imagination of someone who could not tell his Assereto from a Hals on the ground.

-- Ballistique en Bois de Boulogne

Dear Ballistique:

Whoops, looks like we've caused another revolution in France. Sorry to burst your bubble, bubba, but Depressionism has long been recognized as a separate school by anybody worth his shelf space as an art critic. The problem is that, as its name implies, this is not your most inspiring collection to walk through. Firearms and sharp instruments have to be left at the entrance for the protection of the patrons. More than one aspiring artist has seen the show, taken voluminous notes and sketches, then thrown himself under a bus.

But I can see I'm going to have to get Harvey to post some of his Depressionist masterpieces to convince you. Ne quittez pas, we'll be right back.

1-15-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

I happened to notice your use of the phrase "hot and steamy" in one of your answers. That phrase has been used before quite often in other places. I'm just curious...have you ever heard of the word "plagiarism?"

--Copycat in Copenhagen

Dear Copycat:

Holy Moses and all the little fishes! Have the copyright people gone clean off their rockers? You can't lay claim to a phrase that's been in use since heat and steam were invented! Why, if that was true the heirs of the guys who wrote the Old Testament would have a lock on practically the whole language, and Shakespeare's relatives the rest.

Such foolishness reminds me of the sad story about the American author Ernest Vincent Wright, who died in obscurity even though he had accomplished what most literary mavens had considered impossible.

Wright had published several children's books around the turn of the century and was about to tackle his magnum opus (Latin for 'large-caliber penguin') when he became caught up in a lawsuit by one Phileas Crustable, who had gone to court claiming that he had bought all rights to the letter "e" and would sue the pants off anyone who tried to publish a book without paying him royalties.

It turned out that Crustable was simply a gullible ninny who had also bought the rights to water and air from the same con artists. He was safely tucked away in a laughing academy for the rest of his days, which he spent writing endless letters in attempt to corner the rights to the straitjacket.

However poor Ernest Vincent Wright was unaware of this, and resigned himself to writing his masterpiece without using the letter "e." After a Herculean effort he produced "Gadsby" in 1937, a 50,000 word novel without a single letter "e" in it. Unfortunately his mind and health were ruined by the effort (trying to find a substitute for "The End" cost him three months and all his hair) and he died the same day the book was published.

Which was fortunate in a way, since he was spared seeing the letter that arrived the next day from F. Scott Fitzgerald's attorneys accusing him of title infringement. 

1-16-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

I am eagerly awaiting access to The Museum of Depressionist Art you promised us. When will it be available?

--Aesthete in Athens 

Dear Aesthete:

Well, you'll be tickled pink to know that I have prevailed upon Harvey Bassoon over in the men's wing to open up one wing of the Museum for your viewing experience. There's a selection of Depressionist masterworks accessible by clicking on The Museum of Depressionist Art.

Starting today there will be a button at the bottom of this page which will give instant admittance to this exciting, important and ever-changing collection. I hope to have access to the noted Depressionist sculpture wing available shortly.

In the meantime, if you have a fast Internet connection, be sure to check out this site showing examples of Depressionist glassware which was produced in America until the invention of tricyclic antidepressant medication in the '50s.

1-17-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

While surfing the World Wide Web, I have been prompted on many occasions to perform some kind of Acrobat trick. This is most disconcerting. And even if I could do a simple somersault (which I cannot), I still have no idea what a mud brick structure has to do with the Internet.

--Inflexible in Indianapolis

Dear Inflexible:

This is the sort of question I get all the time from people we call "newbies," or those who are beginners in the fascinating lore and language of the Internet.

Acrobat is an excellent virtual exercise program that was especially designed for mouse potatoes who spend all their time in front of their computers, and whose physical description has gone from "sedentary" to "sedimentary." The minicam built into your computer has sized you up and decided you could use some help, weight- and figure-wise. That's why you're getting the warning.

The Acrobat program will allow you to enter all your vital statistics, then will create an "avatar" for you which will carry out a dedicated exercise program on your behalf. Aunt Nettie uses it all the time, and I'm pleased to say that we are in such great virtual shape that we are thinking of entering the Boston Marathon this year, if they will allow the use of walkers.

As for the name "Adobe," it has nothing to do with Mexican masonry. It's become a tradition for software creators to name their products after their humble origins. Adobe simply reflects the name of the modest dwelling where the program was dreamed up, just as "Microsoft" refers to Bill Gates's favorite mattress, and Hewlett's "Packard" refers to the car the late Mr Hewlett lived in while he was developing the pocket calculator. 

1-18-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

What's this about worms in my Java? I thought they only lived in dirt and bottles of primo tequila.

--Squeamish in Skowhegan

Dear Squeamish:

Not to worry. The "Java" here refers to a nifty Internet programming language developed by Juan Valdez and his mule Goody Two Shoes during one of their many treks across Colombia with loads of coca paste for the industrious chemists and exporters near the border. The whole coffee thing is just a front, which I'm sure you've guessed already. Not too many coffee farmers send their kids to school in Switzerland.

A worm at the bottom of a bottle of mescal or tequila indicates quality (although why it should is beyond me: worms in any other beverage indicates exactly the opposite). So Juan thought he would incorporate a worm into his spiffy new programming language as an indicator of quality as well. Just as the worm in the soil helps break down the earth into loam, the worm in Java helps break down the files on your hard drive into excellent compost, aerating the information with healthy gaps and open spaces. Think of it as the organic approach to hard drive maintenance.

1-19-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

I am working on a collection of poetry relating to computers and the Internet. Do you have any old favorites you would like to contribute, or have you possibly written some yourself?

--Anthologist in Ann Arbor 

Dear Anthologist:

I don't have any personally, and I gave up on poetry after the demise of the incomparable Edgar A. Guest.

However, we have an accomplished neo-Japanese poet here at the Home, Bashful Basho, Jr., who has devoted his declining years to producing masterpieces of computer poetry in the concise haiku style. Here are some of what he calls his "unworthy offerings, of which it would be more enjoyable to go blind than read." Such modest people.

Computer problem?
Must be a user error
Machines are perfetc

Yesterday I surfed
Today I cannot log on
Curse you, ISP!

It says to restart
But then I will lose all work
True Zen paradox!

The message mocks me:
'Insufficient memory'
What did I forget?

The screen remains black
No action will restore it
Quickly, a pencil!

Ah, how true it is!
Coffee spilled on the keyboard
Does not stimulate.

Frustrating downloads
So much hot pornography
So little bandwidth.

Voice recognition
Very close to perfection
But jojeskairb yet

Legacy glitches
Since our mainframe burned down
I can see our doom

1-20-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

I recently lost my job at a local fast food venue (the manager mumbled something about coulrophobia) and I was hoping that there might be a position for me at LDRU.

--Ronald in McDonaldland

Dear Ronald:

Whoa, I had to look that one up. Fear of clowns, eh? Well, suffice it to say that all the residents here at the Home feel the same loathing toward clowns as everyone else does, with the exception of Jerry Lewis, and the less said about that the better.

If you refuse to get a normal job and make your parents proud, the only hope I can hold out for you is that George Bush still has a couple of unfilled Cabinet appointments. (Don't mention the red nose in your cover letter-- Dubya is sensitive about that.)

1-21-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

I'd like to pass along to you a question that my little daughter asked me, and to which I'm clueless. If computers can have bugs, and worms, and viruses, why can't they have cuter and more complicated things like ponies or kitties?

--Animatronic in Annapolis

Dear Animatronic:

Well, you can point out to your precocious offspring that ponies and kitties simply require too much bandwidth to send through a computer, and that computer hard drives don't have enough space to hold a Shetland or a Siamese. Which is fortunate, because there are quite a few people out there that I'd like to send a giant squid to. "You've got AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!" 

1-22-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

I've been listening to a lot of Big Band music from the '30s and '40s. Sometimes there are sections called "skat" singing that I really like. Who made up that weird name for it, anyway?

--Swinger in Swingleton 

Dear Swinger:

The Italian Bartolo Christofori has been credited with the invention of skat singing. He was also the first person to successfully create a hammer-action keyboard, using real hammers. He was performing at the German Archbishop's house one Sunday when a cat jumped up on the instrument, slamming the cover shut on his thumbs. Not wanting to scandalize His Eminence, or violate the Sabbath, Christofori promptly invented a string of nonsense syllables to express his pain, frequently punctuated with the "skat" as he tried to dislodge the animal from the cover.

Inspired by Christofori, skat singing quickly became a fad. Eventually they did away with the need for a cat. If you listen to the opening stanzas of Mozart's "Requiem" from a live recording that was released while Mozart was still alive you'll hear:

  "Skooodly-wacky, skoodly-wacky, wah, wah, waaaaaah,
   Shimmma-packy, shimmy, mama, shimmy mama mama...."

The version of skat singing that was revived in the Big Band era can't hold a candle to what "Wolfgang and the Wailers" put down in their prime.


----------------
Source: "The Big Book of Little Known and Dubious Musical Facts" (London & Bombay, 1986)

1-23-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

In the introduction to the Museum of Depressionist Art it says that Gematria Pulverington-Wheatwhistle was the heiress to the fabled Wheatwhistle tinsel-mining fortune. I thought tinsel was manufactured, not mined.

--Skeptical in Skagit

Dear Skeptical:

The plastic stuff they hang on Christmas trees today isn't REAL tinsel, any more than the white plastic spray-on stuff is snow. Genuine tinsel, as the name implies, was originally made out of tin . But not just any tin would do. It had to come from a vein in a mine that had cooled and formed the metal under conditions that produced long narrow streamers. These streamers could be harvested by the bushel basket, then ironed and hung on cardboard holders for sale.

Redbone was fortunate that it had a tin mine that produced perfect tinsel. Many people think that Redbone was called "The Tinseltown of the Lower Forty-eight" because of our early movie industry, but it was because of the tinsel mine that was found on old Hiram Wheatwhistle's land in 1781. Wheatwhistle tried for years to find a use for tinsel, advertising it as a curtain and blanket material, a covering for horses in wintertime, a replacement for roofing thatch, and even as a pasta supplement. Nothing caught on and he died an old and embittered man.

His son, Mambo, however, had the good luck to be selling tinsel door to door during the winter of '91 when a Christmas tree covered with candles burst into flame. He quickly covered the tree with armfuls of tinsel, which promptly extinguished the fire and also set a safety and fashion trend. From that point on the demand for tinsel at Christmastime was almost overwhelming: from late October the Wheatwhistle tinsel mine worked three shifts to keep up with the demand, and Mambo Wheatwhistle became very rich and one of Redbone's most prominent citizens.