4-1-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

Why is April 1st known as April Fools Day? And did you play any jokes on anyone today?

--Prankster in Prambanan 

Dear Prankster:

On this day in 1717 George I, King of Great Britain and Ireland, presided over ceremonies that marked the conversion of March 32nd into April 1st. Until that time April had always begun on the 2nd. His decision was known back then as "April's Folly," which soon evolved into "April Fools Day" as these things had a habit of doing in the days before universal literacy.

Many people do not believe that there hadn't been an April 1st until King George's edict, although there is plentiful evidence. Samuel Pepys in his well-known diary refers to March 32nd on several occasions, to wit:

March 32, 1659 

"Attended Court today for the planning of the Naval Regatta on His Majesty's Birthday. Boyce as long of Wind and shallow of Substance as ever. No Progress whatever, tho we burned the Candles to their Ends. Walked to clear my Head, stopped for a modest Supper at the Taco Bell, then home to admonish the Servants about leaving the Television on after they retire to chambers."

At the time of the change there was considerable pressure upon King George to move March 32nd back to the end of February to balance the calendar better, but George stuck to his guns. Court rumor attributed it to the King's difficulties remembering the old rhyme:

"Thirty days hath September, June and November,
All the rest have thirty-one, save March-- go figure!--
Which hath thirty-two-- the foolish bugger,
And February, to which twenty-eight we assign
Unless Leap Year gives it twenty-nine,
As April always hath, a pain in the behind,
Because it also misseth the First, like no other,
Which maketh this rhyme a bloody bother."

In defense of the King's decision, contemporary astronomers point out the considerable difficulty of moving a single date on the calendar backwards across a full month of other days. Why, when Europe simply switched from the Julian to the Gregorian calendar in 1582, ten whole days were misplaced that didn't show up again until 1852-- the notorious "Eleven Thirteenths of July" that so beleaguered newspaper editors that year.

Given the technology available in 1717, a move of that magnitude would have risked the displacement of an entire month, and caused horrors of the magnitude of the "Year of The Second November" in 1191, from whence comes the saying: "A second November upon thy scurvy neck, thou prating, ox-born whelp of a pilchard!"

For complete details on the creation of April 1st, consult "The Magic Book O' Dates an' Days" by Lemuel Tolliver, Esq. (London & Bombay, 1936)

As for playing jokes on people on this date, Aunt Nettie firmly believes that taking advantage of the gullible should never be a source of humor.

Especially when the word "gullible" isn't even in the dictionary.

4-2-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

Do they practice recycling at Living Dead "R" Us?

--Redoer in Redondo

Dear Redoer:

I'm not sure what happens to the bodies of those who pass on and are spirited out of here in the dead of the night, but I suspect they are conventionally buried or burned. The folks here are pretty much beyond medical recycling; I've never heard of anyone being in the market for a 90-year-old liver or other spare parts. And we're too shrunk up and out of whack to be much good as a medical school cadaver.

If it was possible to make a buck on a superannuated carcass, I can assure you that the management here at the Home would have discovered it long ago. However I may have to qualify that. I've noticed whenever we have a die-off here that involves cremation, the next day the landscapers are putting new bone meal on the rosebushes....

4-3-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

Yesterday I asked you about recycling at the Home and your answer was about dead bodies. GROSS! I meant does the Home recycle stuff like paper and cans and bottles?

--Redoer in Redondo

Dear Redoer:

Sorry I misinterpreted your question. We think about death a lot here at the Home, especially when there's nothing good on TV, so it was my first response.

I honestly don't know what happens to the rubbish. It disappears the way the bodies do.

However I do know how the whole idea of recycling-for-profit came about. Back in Redbone in the depths of the Depression a clever fellow named Isaac Taffyspanner noticed that, since almost nobody could afford to buy them, the colorful magazines that were popular back in those days, like the Saturday Evening Post and Photoplay and Collier's, etc., were going to waste.

Isaac mortgaged his mule, Sally, and bought a big 4-color printing press from a bankrupt shop. He then modified it to run backwards, and switched around the parts so that instead of putting ink on a page, it removed it. He contracted with local distributors and publishers to take the outdated magazines off their hands for a song-- some of them were even happy to pay him for the privilege of hauling it away.

He would then fire up his "sserp" as he called it and feed in the periodicals at one end. Out the other end would come neatly stacked sheets of perfectly clean coated paper, which he sold back to the publishers and other printers at bargain rates. The sserp also separated the cyan, magenta, yellow and black inks that are used in color printing, and he was able to put these up in tins and sell them as well. Oh, and the staples were automatically straightened and boxed, too.

Isaac soon became one of the wealthiest people in the state, and set up similar operations all over the country. The paper shortage during World War II made him money hand over fist.

Alas, it was prosperity that did him in. During the 1950s there were heaps of new magazines, but there were also people who could afford to buy them, and pretty soon his business fell off to nothing. One night in despair he threw himself into the sserp. The medical school bought his skeleton for $120. Don't ask what happened to the gooey parts....

4-4-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

I have an excellent cellar of wines composed of regional American vintages that I have been collecting for the past decade. In reviewing my collection recently I noticed a significant omission from your part of the country. Was there ever a wine-growing presence in Redbone? If so, would you tell me the names of the vineyards so I can add samples to my stocks?

--Oenologist in Oengus 

Dear Oenologist:

At the present time the largest distributor of wine in these parts is Wal-Mart, and the vintages are mostly Thunderbird, Night Train and MD 20/20.

Being pretty close to the buckle of the Bible Belt, Redbone was never an attractive location for wineries, breweries or distilleries. For most of its life Redbone was officially dry, which was our way of saving the world for hypocrisy, since spirituous beverages were as easy to find back then as handguns in a high school today.

The farm folks pretty much brewed their own, which ranged from mild beer to Uncle John's 200-proof Old Stump Blower, which, as its name implies, was closer to ox anesthetic than a social drink. It was usually diluted to prevent spontaneous combustion on the part of the imbiber.

The ladies, of course, had Lydia Pinkham's Vegetable Compound for Female Complaints*, which was raw alcohol, opium and several other interesting ingredients, disguised as a tonic. Almost every woman in Redbone had a stash of the stuff, which accounted for the glassy-eyed fixed stare you see in so many early photographs. The irony was that the Women's Christian Temperance Union used to promote the stuff, never realizing what was in it. I'm sure the menfolks always wondered why the Redbone WCTU meetings were so rowdy.

One time that great temperance crusader Carry Nation came to town to address the group, and the whole lot of them got so righteous on Lydia's that Carry herself declared she could whup any woman in the place, and promptly did so. After that they had a parade through the middle of the town where they were supposed to be singing "Onward Temperance Soldiers," but it soon segued into "Arnold, My Ten-Inch Soldier" the scandal of the dance halls. Then several of the better-assembled ladies began an impromptu striptease, which ended up with a temperance can-can on the steps of Town Hall that would have put the sparkle back into the eyes of a blind mule.

I have about writ myself out for today, but I suddenly realized that indeed there was a wine indigenous to Redbone. I shall continue this tomorrow.

----------- 
*I have discovered to my astonishment that Lydia's Compound is still being manufactured and sold in the USA as a herbal restorative. The ingredients are quite different these days, no doubt for the same reason that there's no longer cocaine in Coke.

4-5-2001 

The Wines of Redbone <conclusion>

Surprise! I woke up again this morning.

(I hate those dreams when just as you've got Tom Cruise in a compromising position your teeth fall out.)

Where was I? Oh, yes, Redbone's singular experiment with vineless viniculture, in response to Oenologist in Oengus's query.

I had almost forgotten the Lardscuttle Twins' attempt to cash in on public morality in 1930. With the Depression falling on top of Prohibition, there were many desperate and thirsty people in our corner of the world. The classier restaurants were particularly hard hit, since they'd been pitching foreign-sounding wines as the only acceptable accompaniment for certain dishes, and now they were caught with their panniers down, so to speak. They were paying premium prices for whatever sort of grape-based concoction you could smuggle across the border.

Now the entire Lardscuttle clan was known for being fast and loose where easy money was concerned, and the Twins were the sleaziest of the lot. They bought 2 hogsheads of grape juice, one each of red and white, and arranged with Uncle John for a 55-gallon drum of his finest Old Stump Blower. They paid kids a penny each for all the wine bottles and corks they could scrounge from the city dump, then ran off labels on the mimeograph machine at the high school. The closest they could get to a Frenchified name for the brew was "Ancien Souffleur de Tronçon" which they thought sounded grand. Some of the wine names were a stretch, like "May Dock," "Saw Turn" and "Boardo." But as I've said, those were desperate times and folks tended not to be so picky.

Well they cut the grape juice with Stump Blower in what they thought was the right proportions, bottled it, loaded up their Essex Terraplane pickup and made the round of the restaurants. It was a smashing success, and within 2 days they had sold the lot.

Sad to say the story has an unhappy ending. The very next evening the Royale Redbonne Inne, the snootiest restaurant in Arkansas, happened to be hosting a dinner for the French ambassador. He rose to give a toast to the assembled guests, tossed off his glass of wine and dropped dead on the spot, never having been exposed to 175-proof "Merle Ott" before.

The Lardscuttle Twins hastily relocated to Mexico, where rumor has it they opened a synthetic cerveza stand in Oaxaca.

4-6-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

I have noticed a peculiar phenomenon inherent in today's "celebrity worship" culture. Apparently in a variation of the principle by which newly hatched ducklings may regard the first living animal they see as their mother (imprinting, I believe it's called), viewers seem to regard a person as eminent simply by having looked at her/him enough on a television screen. Since you are such a famous Internet celebrity, I was wondering if you had any thoughts on this subject. Does the average surfer "imprint" Internet celebrities, and would you consider this a good thing?

--Ananova in Annapolis

Dear Ananova:

Imprinting wasn't so much of a problem back in the days of the dot-matrix, but with the new generation of high-speed inkjet and laser printers it's becoming a nuisance.

The biggest problem is that the technology is so good these days that you can't tell the real people online from the artificial constructs. I've known many people who have sworn undying love or allegiance to a collection of pixels with no more reality than a conservative has compassion. You and I may be authentic humans, but who's to say if those folks at MSN or CNN are real? I believe the time is ripe for a certificate of human authenticity, to prevent folks from being snookered by hi-res avatars posing as real folks.

Love the green hair, by the way.

4-7-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

My brother is addicted to on-line auctions on E-Bay. Do you have any advice about how I and the rest of his family can help him before he buys the 6 foot tall wooden cigar store Indian... er.... Native American?

--Tightwad in Tangier

Dear Tightwad:

Funny you should mention it , but there was an online article today about that very same phenomenon. There's a certain class of people who seem to be particularly susceptible to the "e-Bay Syndrome," buying up all kinds of strange things they have no use for simply because they're out there.

A six-foot tall wooden Indian, you say? I wonder if it could be an authentic Samuel Anderson Robb or a Louis Jobin? One of those would look real fine in my room here at the Home. Let me get a bid in while there's still time....

4-8-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

They opened a new Krispy Kreme doughnut store here last weekend. Some people camped out overnight to be the first on line, and during the whole weekend the city had to pay overtime for police to handle the traffic. I can understand the fuss over something like "Harry Potter," but this is a doughnut, for heaven's sake! Have we lost our collective minds?

--Glazed in Glendora 

Dear Glazed:

I'm not sure what all the fuss is about either, but you're not the only one who thinks it's out of control, as this article from the Dissociated Press indicates:

---------------- 
Frisco TX (DP) -- Thousands of ardent Krispy Kreme fans were turned away from a new store opening today, some of whom had waited in line for weeks to secure a hot Original Glazed or Chocolate Iced.

Masked, robed figures who described themselves as 'Disciples of the Risen One' were stationed at the entrance to the store to question all those who sought admittance. Those determined to be unfit to purchase and consume the confectionary product were driven away by the Disciples, whose ritual icing guns doubled as flails.

"Spawn of vipers!" cried one unidentified Disciple, "'Fornicators! Sodomites! Bureaucrats and postal workers, rap artists and telemarketers! Upon you shame! Ye shall not be admitted unto the Temple until ye have been washed in hot fat and made clean again. Used car dealers, nipple-piercers, street vendors, to ye I say-- cast off your sins! And ye spammers and chain-letter senders, woe unto thee, for it were better that thou had been cast into the sea at thy birth than share the manna of the faithful. O fans of the Dunkin heresy, I say flee the wrath of the Risen! Go into stony places and beg the mountains to fall upon you and hide the marks of your shame!"

Disappointed fan Lori Schumacher, 19, described her anguish at not being able to answer the Seven Questions posed by the Disciples to each prospective customer. "I got the first four fine," she said, "then they asked the one about how much time it takes for a Krispy Kreme-- blessed be its name-- to rise before being immersed in the Hot Oil of Purification and I just went blank. All I could think of was that 'Time Warp' routine from 'Rocky Horror.' It was so embarrassing."

When asked about the presence of the Disciples of the Risen One and the rigid screening process, Scott Livengood, the company's Chairman, President, and CEO replied that he had heard too many comments in the past few weeks alleging that his product was 'just a doughnut.' "Krispy Kremes are not simply comfort food," he cautioned, "they represent the One True Path to gustatory fulfillment."

The religious experience known as "NEW! Fudge Iced Sprinkles" is expected to generate over $1 billion in love offerings during its introductory week.

-----------------------------
©2001, The Dissociated Press 

4-9-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

Is it true that Food in Mouth Disease is about to break out in the US?

--Chubby Cheeks in Chicago

Dear Chubby:

Alas, it's here already. Americans have been so successful in putting food in their mouths that we are now the most obese nation on earth, regardless of those pictures you sometimes see of Bulgarian housewives. With a MacBurger Hut on every corner and stores just chocked to the gunnels with irresistible comestibles, all promoted by 24-hour advertising, it's hardly a wonder we've become the Land of Lard.

Now, I'm not exactly a sylph myself, but that's largely because of the inaction forced upon me by antiquity and indolence. My lifestyle has gone from sedentary to sedimentary, which is probably why us old folks are referred to as fossils.

Not that this place is filled with role models. For some reason I've never understood, the health care professions tend to hire workers who are built along the lines of dairy cattle. I can almost hear a career counselor advising someone to bulk up a few hundred pounds to improve their chances of being hired. They all favor clothing companies like Bobbi Bloat, where the sizes start at XXL and continue up to Zeppelin.

And the children! Land sakes, when I was a youngster back in Redbone every schoolhouse had the traditional Fat Kid, who was mocked and harassed mercilessly by his or her peers. That's how we entertained ourselves in the pre-TV era. But there was only one of them, or at most a brother and sister duo. Now it seems that every other kid looks like a walking ad for hog chow.

Sometimes families visit here, and it's like the "Jurassic Park" movie: you can tell they're coming because the water in the glasses starts vibrating while they're still crossing the parking lot....

4-10-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

Does Living Dead "R" Us have a staff psychiatrist?

--Sigmund in Seattle

Dear Sigmund:

Not exactly. As I've mentioned on several occasions, cost-cutting is at the heart of LDRU's management strategy, and I'm afraid a staff psychiatrist would be far beyond the budget.

Instead they use one of the residents who *thinks* he's a psychiatrist. This has two positive features: it keeps the resident occupied with what appears to be meaningful work, and it allows the management to bill Medicare for psychiatric counseling. There are several downsides, among them the difficulty of dealing with a pseudo-pshrink whose sole method of treatment involves a recommendation to drill holes in the skull to let the evil spirits out.

That said, I must admit that it's a lot of fun going to talk with Old Fraud, as he's called. He's fitted up his room the way he thinks a psychiatrist's office should look, with some diplomas he made in art therapy, and the traditional couch. Unfortunately his room is too small for a standard couch, so he's set one up on end so his "patients" sort of back up against it and stand there with their heads bent. He also affects a pipe, but since tobacco smoke would trigger the fire alarms, he uses a bubble mixture. It's truly difficult to keep a straight face, especially when he forgets and inhales.

He refuses to see me after our last meeting. I managed to convince him that my problem was the delusion that my psychiatrist was actually a patient here at the Home. He got so addled trying to keep his roles straight that he wound up asking himself for a second opinion, then tried to double-bill for it. A little later they found him begging the handyman to drill TWO holes in his skull to let the evil spirits out. If the handyman had been just a tad drunker it might have been yet another public relations fiasco for LDRU.

4-11-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

My girlfriend and I swore an oath of infinite allegiance to one another, but now she's begun insinuating that no one, not even I, can be trusted. Hence, all of my attempts to reassure her have been ill-fated. I was just wondering... could she be suffering from paranoid delusions?

--Perfectly Private in Persia 

Dear Perfectly:

I'm afraid that humans are not very trusting or trustworthy animals. It might be wise to check for the 5 warning signs of paranoia:

1. Fear that people are listening to your conversations -- You can check for this easily by tapping your girlfriend's telephone and recording her conversations. Listen to them carefully. Note down all references to yourself in these calls. Analyze them word by word to make sure there are no hidden messages. Be alert for sarcasm.

2. The impression that people are watching you -- Tiny Web cameras are now available and affordable. Conceal them in your girlfriend's apartment, in her car, and where she works. Tape all the transmissions and look for telltale signs of suspicion or wariness. Especially note if wariness increases after one of the cameras is discovered. Consider following her around for a few days, or hiring someone else to.

3. Delusional thinking -- Many paranoids are under the impression that they are very special people who have been placed on Earth for a purpose. Be sure to belittle your girlfriend at every opportunity to offset these tendencies. Laughing at her clothes works wonders.

4. Delusion in perception -- You can easily test for delusions in perception. Show up for a date on the wrong day and be amazed that she's forgotten. Insist that you saw a movie together the previous night, having memorized the plot to be especially persuasive. Play the car radio as loud as you can, and when she asks you to turn it down insist that it's not on. Show up one day with a full beard and make no reference to it. Throw her a surprise birthday party when it's not her birthday. Normal people will just laugh this off, but a paranoid will be seriously confused.

5. Hearing voices -- One of the surest signs of mental slippage is hearing voices. Replace your Web cams with tiny speakers and send her constant whispered messages whenever she's alone. Tell her how ugly and incompetent she is and how nobody really likes her, but they hang around with her to be close to you. A regular person will see through the joke immediately, where a paranoid person will begin to have serious doubts about their sanity.

If at the end of this test you're still uncertain, tell her you're breaking up with her. As an excuse say that she has too many legs, or that you've fallen in love with a cocker spaniel who's a better conversationalist. If she looks tremendously relieved at the sad news, you'll know you've made the right decision.

4-12-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

I've heard there are a lot of Lurkers on the Internet. It sounds like stalking to me or, at the very least, vagrancy. What say you, O Knobby Kneed Fount of Wisdom?

--Tactless in Tacoma 

Dear Tactless:

Whatever happened to respect for your elders and betters? I'll bet nobody ever talked to Aristotle that way. When I was a girl we were taught to respect older people. It stood to reason that if they lived to an advanced age they must know powerful magic and have many friends in the spirit world.

Anyway, to answer your rudely-put question, Lurkers are insidious programs that are far worse than mere viruses because they are artificially intelligent and mean to boot. They lurk in cyberspace until they find a victim, then they pounce, taking over the person's computer and setting up housekeeping. The first sign of a Lurker infestation is that the Lurker begins sending e-mails out to other Lurkers announcing its new home. Then it will order accessories or extra memory for itself, charging everything to your credit card. Several of the Web's nastiest porn sites are run exclusively by Lurkers.

You can never get rid of a resident Lurker because it won't allow you to run anti-lurk software, log on to help sites or reformat your hard drive. Your only hope is exorcism, or destroying your computer by fire. I suggest the latter. Do it today, just to be on the safe side.

4-13-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

Today is Friday the 13th. Are you a triskaideckaphobe?

--Superstitious in Sioux City

Dear Superstitious:

My goodness, I had to look that one up! It sounded like a new Greek fraternity.

I'm proud to say that I am no longer have a fear of the number 13, although that wasn't always true. There was a time when the very mention of the number would set off the cold sweats and the trembling limbs.

You see, back in Redbone State Route #13, sometimes known as the Old Ozark Post Road, used to be one of the most dangerous highways in the nation. The county stopped putting up memorials to fatal accidents because they blocked the scenery. All the billboards you saw on Route #13 were for funeral homes. Even the Burma-Shave signs had an ominous tone to them:

Said your prayers?
Made your will?
You're now approaching
Suicide Hill.
Burma Shave

The road she goes
From bad to worse
Practice saying
Hello, Nurse.
Burma Shave

You'll knock 'em out
At your last viewing
If your mortician
Is good at sewing.
Burma Shave

So anyway, one day, being a new-minted teenager, and hence invulnerable, when young Estes Dimblewitt swiped the keys to his father's racer, Old No. 13, and asked me if I wanted to take a joy ride on my 13th birthday, I jumped at the chance. One didn't often get a chance to ride in a Stutz Bearcat racer, and Estes pooh-poohed the risk of taking risks on Friday the 13th.

Well, one thing led to another, and we soon found ourselves flying down Route #13 with Constable Copp in hot pursuit, winding his siren as fast as he could turn the crank. Estes managed to avoid Widowmaker Rock and the Great Funeral Oak, which put us on the long downward slope towards the railroad tracks, where, as luck would have it, the 1:13 afternoon express mail from Tribulation to Fort Desolation was approaching at a good clip, Engine #13's boilers pumping for all they were worth.

We heard later that Constable Copp sized up the situation, then pulled over to the side of the road to take down the siren and put up the black curtains, as his town car doubled as a hearse and he moonlighted as county coroner.

Back in the Stutz, Estes kept his foot to the floor, even though it was obvious it was hopeless. He had already bitten through his good luck silver dollar, and I was trying to recall whatever I could remember of the 13th Psalm, while at the same time wondering which dress I'd look best in for the funeral.

Now, back in those days there was an arrangement at many crossings where mailbags could be exchanged without slowing down the train. This consisted of a ramp where the mail truck could be unloaded, and a swinging arm. You hung the outbound mail on a long hook on the arm, and the motion of the train going by would fling the mail sack into the mail car of the train while simultaneously depositing inbound mail on a hook on a similar arrangement on the other side of the tracks.

For this to work the doors on both sides of the mail car had to be open, which was fortunate, because just as the mail car came by, we hit the loading ramp, which launched us clean through the car and out the other side slick as a whistle. Unfortunately on the other side of the tracks, waiting for the inbound mail, was Postmaster Dimblewitt, Estes father, who was rather astounded to see Old No. 13, his prized racing runabout, suddenly appear out of the door of Mail Car #13 with his son at the wheel, traveling at a clip that would have won his father the gold cup in any race that summer.

Well, we eventually got it all sorted out, although for the longest time afterwards the mere mention of the number thirteen was enough to give me the galloping conniptions. It was worse for Estes, since he developed both a fear of the number thirteen and a fear of automobiles and railroad trains that was so overpowering that at the age of 18 he turned Amish and never rode anything faster than a plow mule for the rest of his days.

4-14-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

What do you do when you live at home but can't stand your nosy, annoying, overly opinionated, gossiping mother?

-- Lost in Lanham 

Dear Lost:

Well the first solution that comes to mind is to move out, if you're old enough.

If that's not an option, remember that the best defense is a good offense. If she's nosy, plant things for her to find, starting with baggies filled with oregano and powdered sugar. Several novelty companies sell inexpensive, realistic-looking dummy hand grenades which look good when carelessly scattered in a sock drawer. Autopsy photos are another good plant. Be sure to put some personal note on the back of each one that implies you were responsible.

Now, countering mere annoyance will depend on the nature of the annoyance. Most parents tend to be annoying to teenagers simply because they show no understanding of the coolness of Blink 182, skull tattoos or nostril piercing. Or they may have the effrontery to reminisce about the days when only boys had tattoos and only girls had earrings, or when swearing like a deranged longshoreman was reserved for locked wards and not popular music. There is almost no cure for this-- it's inherent in the generation gap. Perhaps you can compromise by not wearing the bone in your nose during mealtimes.

Opinionated people are best dealt with by agreeing with everything they say, or even going overboard in the support of their views. For example, if they're homophobic, you might join a skinhead group and openly advocate the executions of gays.

As for gossiping, build on it! Creatively expand on the stories about the people she talks about. There's nothing like a hint of pedophilia or drug abuse to spice up local gossip. A few permanently damaged reputations will only improve your mother's status in the neighborhood.

4-15-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

Do you celebrate Easter at Living Dead "R" Us?

--Faith in Fatima

Dear Faith:

No, it's just another day. But you have to put that in perspective by realizing that here at The Home every morning we celebrate the resurrection of the dead.

4-16-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

What's the weirdest date you were ever on? I bet it couldn't be any weirder than Tommy Hicks, who one time asked me if I wanted to go watch the trains come in down at the freight yard.

--Cheerleader in Cheektowaga 

Dear Cheerleader:

Well now, I must confess that my one date with Howard Phillips ("HP") Lovecraft was a bit on the bizarre side. He was just starting out as a comedy writer on the East Coast, and at that time was touring the Ozarks looking for inspiration in the funny stories the mountain people were so fond of. I happened to meet him at a ice cream sociable where he requested the pleasure of my company at the church supper later that evening. Since he was from out-of-town and a writer to boot, I thought it would be fun.

HP came to call for me at sundown in a rented buggy, and of course Redbone after dark is quite a different place from Redbone by day, so I had to guide him along the safe passages, warning him to blindfold the horse when we had to pass the shunned house, how to bypass the old Obed Marsh place where so many unspeakable things had occurred, and where ghost-lights still flickered in certain rooms.

He began getting quieter, but he didn't really lose it until we passed the asylum on the hill, where that one blind insane fellow plays those screeching pipes all night long. Or maybe it was when the horse nearly bolted when we passed a couple of Whatleys. Even the local horses don't care for the batrachian appearance of that family, or their habit of snapping flies off the stable walls.

It didn't help that the church supper had been moved to the eldritch abandoned Mormon hall, with its queer colors and the blasphemous impression that the walls and ceiling meet at disturbing and unnatural angles. It was also unfortunate that the minister was hosting a visiting missionary, a Mr. Al Hazred I believe was his name. He might be the nicest person in the world under other circumstances, but his constant references to crawling chaos and The Pit almost set me off my food. I assume his family was in the mining trade.

HP helped me wash up and he was almost chatty again when he noticed that the drains in all the sinks had silver crosses at the bottom. I was forced to confess what lurked in the dark of Redbone's plumbing system, gnawing hungrily in inconceivable, unlighted chambers amidst the muffled, maddening beating of vile drums and the thin, monotonous whine of accursed flutes, and how the blind, voiceless, tenebrous, mindless....

He made the midnight train with seconds to spare, never even stopping for his luggage. I understand that he gave up comedy writing shortly thereafter and went off in a whole different direction.

4-17-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

It seems like every time you open the paper or log onto a news site there's a story about a ferry sinking in India or Pakistan or someplace. What's the matter with these people? Can't the government enforce safety standards?

--Molly B. in Moline 

Dear Molly:

It's sometimes difficult to apply American standards of safety in third-world countries. You also have to realize that death is looked at differently there: in some countries dying is a way of life. And of course the ferry owners see more passengers as more money and pack them in like stove wood, regardless of the consequences.

I have noticed that the Western press has begun to take a decidedly cynical tone in reporting these events, as you can see from the article in today's Dissociated Press:

---------------------- 

Yet Another Ferry Capsizes in Bangladesh 

DHAKA, Bangladesh (DP) — A ferry carrying anywhere from 200 to 600 passengers collided with another boat carrying 350 to 800 passengers in dense fog early Friday in southeastern Bangladesh, authorities said. Both boats immediately sank. At least 278 people were killed and many more were unaccounted for. The accident represents the 247th ferry sinking so far this year.

Details were sketchy about the collision, which happened as usual before dawn while most passengers were sleeping. Some swam about 550 yards to shore, but with swift currents, officials said others may have drowned and washed downstream. Rescuers had recovered 278 bodies from the Ferry Accident Body Recovery Net on the River Meghna in Chandpur, 40 miles from the capital, Dhaka. The number of survivors was not immediately known.

Isfahan Hasan, the police officer supervising the rescue operation, told The Dissociated Press by phone that the death toll was expected to increase. "Yes, yes, it is always this way. First the sinking, then the gradually mounting death toll, then the story about how grossly overloaded the boat was, how it had no registration, no lights, pumps, life preservers or radio. And that it was being piloted at the time by a mongoose. And always the government ministers will shake their heads and say such a terrible calamity must never happen again. And it will not. Until tomorrow or the next day."

Hasan's brother, Zulkefar, operates the Dhaka Ferry Recovery & Refitting service nearby. He said that his company can have a ferry out of the water and ready for the first morning journey in about 10 hours, unless the bodies of small children jam the pumps. Asked if frequent accidents were causing people to shun the ferry service, Hasan replied, "No, no, it is not a problem. Here in Bangladesh we have only a few ferryboats, but we have many, many, many people."

©2001 The Dissociated Press 

4-18-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

My favorite kind of entertainment is the musical comedy, either on stage or in the movies. After a show last night some of us got to talking and we wondered why there were no musical tragedies. Have you ever heard of one?

--Aficionado in Affton 

Dear Aficionado:

Well, "West Side Story" springs to mind right away, but that's just a musical comedy with a sad ending tacked on.

For real musical tragedy, you have to go back to the Redbone Players staging of "Macbeth: The Musical" in 1933. They had managed to get two Federal Theatre Program grants, one for a musical and one for a classical tragedy, and Grendel Cranshaw-Mellon, our resident impresario, decided he could combine the two and still have enough money left over for a nice ten-day drunk.

Hermione van der T'oot, arts editor of the Tribulation, Arkansas Weekly Sporadic offered to write the songs, ably assisted by choreographer Tommy Turpin, an out-of-work vaudeville hoofer.

Well, they recruited a cast and practiced down at the high school gymnasium until they thought they had a show they could take on the road. They had a World Premiere in the old Crisco Egyptian theatre, attended by almost everybody who had received a free ticket.

The house lights went down and the curtain opened with the Three Witches doing the opening number, the music to which had obviously been swiped from "Varsity Drag," which had been popular with inebriated coeds a decade earlier:

Eye of the newt
Toe of the frog
Wool of the bat
Tongue of the dog
Everybody stir the cauldron and dance!

Then there was the duet between Lord and Lady Macbeth "What's a Home Without a Throne?", which segued into Lady M's aria "Are You a Thane or a Mouse?" After that we had Banquo's ghost singing the rousing patter song "A Poltergeist's Work is Never Done."

And of course the murder of Duncan was the high point of the show, with the entire cast putting their all into "The Stabbing Song," the theme of which was a little too close to the "Hokey-Pokey" for my enjoyment:

You put the right knife in
You pull the left knife out
You put them in together
And you twist them all about
Claim the throne of Scotland
Make it his and her land
That's what it's all about!

This eventually led to the big finish with Birnam Wood coming to Dunsinane in the form of Madame Edith and the Tease, a local group of amateur fan-dancers who swished and swayed their oak branches daringly to "It's a Long Way to Dunsinane, Trees," flagrantly misusing the old World War I tune. After which we had the Macbeth-Macduff Championship Smackdown and the celebratory ensemble chorus of "There'll be a Haggis in the Old Town Tonight."

Surprisingly, "Macbeth: The Musical" was fairly popular and toured the smaller Arkansas opera houses for a summer. Alas, it led to the disastrous "Lear!" in the following season, and that pretty much put an end to the musical tragedy as an art form.

4-19-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

Where did the tradition of throwing coins into a fountain and making a wish stem from?

--- Clueless in Cleveland

Dear Clueless:

From time immemorial it was customary for people to make a request of the resident spirit of a well or fountain, called a naiad, and toss in a small coin as a tribute to cover expenses. For some reason spirits have a use for coins, as opposed to paper money, which is why people used to put coins on the eyes of a corpse to pay Charon for ferry-passage across the Styx.

Well-spirits have been pretty much put out of work by the development of plumbing. The Amalgamated Union of Water-Sprites and Naiads, Local #137, went bankrupt many years ago, forcing the government to establish retraining programs for the disestablished sprites, most of whom chose second careers as lifeguards or members of synchronized swimming teams.

However, the old beliefs die hard, and I have it from reliable sources that many small children will instinctively follow up the making of a wish by flushing spare change or even credit cards down the john.

4-20-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

For English class homework the teacher said we have to read a poem by Robert Burns. The first one I found started out:

"Wee, sleekit, cowrin', tim'rous beastie
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!"

I think she's putting us on? That's not really English, is it? What is it?

-- Baffled in Banff

Dear Baffled:

It's Scots, which is a kind of Ebonics spoken in Scotland. Rabbie Burns, as he was called, tried to popularize Scots by writing poetry in it, which was two strikes against him. You simply cannot write deathless poetry in a dialect that sounds like the aft end of a cow with severe intestinal distress.

One of his other poems glorified the haggis, which is the national dish of Scotland, consisting of the ground-up heart, lungs, liver and hooves of a sheep or calf mixed with lard, turnips, oatmeal, old shoes, telephone books and cheese rinds and boiled in the stomach of the slaughtered animal until it stops screaming and giving off gas. It's then slung into the middle of a table and slashed open to feed the desperate while somebody plays bagpipes to complete the misery.

Just to show you how far the Scottish people are from real folks, Burns suggested that a haggis was the perfect gift for a young lady you were courting. In any other part of the world such a present would have you in court on charges of assault with a biological weapon, gross cruelty to animal parts, committing a public nuisance, soliciting for depravity and violation of the Clean Air Act.

I suppose this is what comes from wearing kilts in a country where the weather is totally unsuited to them, and having descended from ancestors who used to paint themselves bright blue before they went into battle stark naked against Romans wearing full-body armor. England has tried its best to bring Scotland closer to reality, but affirmative action can only accomplish so much. Sometimes it takes powerful antipsychotics in the water supply.

However, I feel sympathetic towards anyone having to deal with Mr. Burns, so I'll get you started on a translation:

"Wee" of course, means small.

"sleekit" refers to the action of stroking or fondling an animal for sexual pleasure.

"cowrin' " means you'd prefer to be fondling a cow, but all of them have dates for the evening.

"tim'rous" means that Tim and Russ are dating your favorite cow.

"beastie" is exactly what it means in English and is still punishable under law, even between consenting species.

That should get you pointed in the right direction. If your teacher complains, give her a haggis....

4-21-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

Something that really bothers me is the way people will post things on the Web without checking to see if they're true. I was planning a trivia contest for my co-workers and collected a lot of information, but I have no idea how accurate the following statements are. Will you care to comment on them?

--Questionable in Quincy

Dear Questionable:

1. Oak trees do not produce acorns until they are fifty years of age or older.

False. Acorns are produced by maple trees. Oak trees produce pseudo-acorns which are often mistaken for the real thing, especially by squirrels.


2. The first product to have a bar code was Wrigley's gum.

False. The first product with a bar code was Jim Beam. The code was 546. The bar was the Frog & Peach Lounge in New Orleans.


3. The king of hearts is the only king without a mustache.

Not true. King Christian of Denmark, among others, is clean-shaven, as are most queens.


4. A Boeing 747s wingspan is longer than the Wright brother's first flight.

False. Orville Wright said it was touch and go for a while, but he cleared the end of the 747's wing with over a foot to spare, clearly beating the unfortunate Evel Knievel.


5. American Airlines saved $40,000 in 1987 by eliminating 1 olive from
each salad served in first-class.

Partly true. It was only one olive that was eliminated, but that one concealed the fabled "Eye of the Lotus" star sapphire, worth $40,000 in 1987 prices.


6. Venus is the only planet that rotates clockwise.

Not at all true. Kresh'tar in the Vega system also does. And R'n'n'x in Far Uptar rotates in both directions simultaneously.


7. The first CD pressed in the US was Bruce Springsteen's "Born in the USA."

Not even close. The first Certificates of Deposit went to press on December 3, 1815. They were issued by the Canal Bank of New York, and used to finance the construction of the Erie Canal of the same name.


8. Apples, not caffeine, are more efficient at waking you up in the morning.

Only if you hire a small child to pelt you mercilessly with them .


9. The 57 on the Heinz ketchup bottle represents the number of varieties of pickles the company once had.

How soon we forget! Heinz put the number on its ketchup bottles to commemorate the opening of the Michigan State College of Agriculture where the tomato was invented in 1857.


10. The plastic things on the end of shoelaces are called aglets.

No longer true. The Ag stands for silver, which was the metal used to create lets in the early days of shoe lacing. Strictly speaking today's cheap imitations should be called PETElets or HDPElets.


11. Most dust particles in your house are made from dead skin.

Only from the Creationist viewpoint.

4-22-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

What if the methods of communication available today were available in the 1860s? Can you imagine what fabulous stories we would have access to from participants in the Civil War?

--Heritage Buff in Harrisburg

Dear Heritage:

I'm not so sure it would be what you'd call "fabulous." More like:

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TO ALL SENIOR STAFF: FIND GENERAL LEE IMMEDIATELY AND TELL HIM THAT GETTYSBURG IS OUTSIDE HIS CELL PHONE'S ROAMING RANGE!

------------ 
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Memo to self: buy thesaurus upgrade for Palm Pilot. There's GOT to be a better expression than "fourscore and twenty...."

------------- 
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"General Grant, sir, HomeGrocer.com is here with your bourbon."

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"I can't access the maps! Somebody hacked the Web site and substituted nude shots of Jenny Lind."

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URGENT YOU SEND LAPTOP BATTERIES NOW.  CANNOT SEND E-MAIL.  HAVE TO RELY ON TELEGRAPH.  STOP.  NO I MEAN SEND.  STOP.  DAMN.   STOP.

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CrankTheYank: Yo, Johnnyboy, you make it through the shelling okay yesterday?

JohnnyReb323: Fine as wine, Crank. Your spotters sent the shells off by a country mile. Thanks!

CrankTheYank: Anytime, but you owe me one, bro.

JohnnyReb323: I'll have them drop the next salvo in the field to your left. You might want to move the cattle before 0600 hours.

CrankTheYank: Thanks for the heads-up. I'm on it. We'll have this war over in no time, buddy-boy.

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Thank you for your inquiry. At Battalion Headquarters communication is job number one. All of our representatives are busy helping other field commanders at this time. Your call is important to us, so please stay on the line until a representative is available. You may want to try our automated message system which deals with frequently-asked questions about strategy, tactics and operations.

--------------- 
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To: All Field Commanders, Union Army From: General U S Grant Please be advised that no military actions are to be taken between Saturday at 11:30pm and Sunday at 3:30am while the system is down for routine maintenance.

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Request immediate clarification. Message received: "All your base are belong to us" makes no sense. Is this a request for surrender? An order to retreat? Urgent you reply immediately.

4-23-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

My no good unemployed brother-in-law has moved in with my wife and me and he's placed a stupid picture of those dumb dogs playing poker up in the den, which is where he and my poor misguided sister will be staying during the bankruptcy hearings. How on EARTH did "dogs playing poker" become an art icon for the ages?

--Critic in Crisis 

Dear Critic:

Your timing couldn't be better. One of the newest acquisitions in the Museum of Depressionist Art tells the sad story of the origin of this strangely popular graphic work, which was begun inadvertently by one of the world's great artists, Georges Dellatourisme. Click on the Museum icon at the bottom of this page, then on the title of the piece, "They're Doges... and They're Playing Whist!" 

4-24-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

I've been advised by my therapist and the elders of my Church that I should cancel my account on AOL immediately for the primary reason that it's "the devil's playground." Should I follow their advice?

--Suffocating in Salt Lake City 

Dear Suffocating:

I'm afraid your sources are dead wrong. I did a WhoIs check to see who owned www.devilsplayground.com and came up with the name B. L. Z. Bubb. AOL wasn't mentioned anywhere that I could see. Devilsplayground.com appears to be some kind of e-commerce site. I sent an e-mail to Mr/Ms Bubb to enquire further, but only got an autoresponder message saying that the bottom had dropped out of the soul market due to the recent demise of so many dot-com companies, and that I should apply again in the Fall.

Your therapist and elders may have been confused by the language AOL members customarily use while they're waiting to connect to the site.

4-25-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

Okay, so somebody posted this joke in the office e-mail, and I've been going nuts trying to figure out the answer. Everybody else seems to have figured it out, which makes me feel even dumber.

Here's the joke:

"A bartender watches a man as he enters his bar. The man comes up to the bartender and asks for a drink of water. Instead of giving the man a drink of water, the bartender pulls out a gun and points it at the man. The man replies "Thank you," and exits the bar with a satisfied look on his face. The bartender, also with a satisfied look, puts his gun away and returns to work, as if nothing unusual has happened. Why did the man enter the bar in the first place?"

Can you tell me the answer?

--Stumped in Stumpelberg

Dear Stumped:

Well, now, I don't blame you one little bit for being confused. This devilish little joke is a verbal re-enactment of the famous modern dance number "Violence in America," by the noted Greek choreographer Georgia Nicolaides.

Briefly stated, the dance symbolizes how the misinterpretation of an innocent question rapidly escalates into near-fatal violence, as is so often the case in our fine country. The simple request for water, which is among the most fundamental of human needs, is rejected out of hand. Contrast it, if you will, with the passage in the New Testament of Jesus and the Samaritan woman at the well.

The bartender treats this innocent request as a threat, reacting with armed force. The man is reduced to expressing his thanks for the proposed violence, as concentration camp prisoners were expected to thank their Nazi captors whenever they received a "correction," no matter how brutal the punishment.

Ah, but the original dance works at another level as well. Knowing the bartender's penchant for violence, the man entered the bar wishing to be humiliated. The bartender was happy to oblige. Note that both the man and the bartender have a "satisfied look" as they part, an obvious reference to the release inspired by lightly disguised sadomasochistic homosexual interaction.

A million laughs, if you ask me.

4-26-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

I'm a little confused about what to purchase. What's the difference between CD-R and CD-RW?

--Disco in Duck, NC

Dear Disco:

The services represented by these initials sometimes vary from bank to bank, but generally speaking the CD-R is renewable at the same or a higher rate of interest. A CD-RW, although it pays a lower rate of interest initially, is both renewable and you can make withdrawals from it without a penalty.

However, a much wiser thing to do with your money would be to invest in an Aunt Nettie Annuity. Simply send large regular payments to me which I will invest wisely. Then when you retire I'll begin sending you a stipend to live on from time to time. Write for the free brochure, "Where Did All My Money Go?", care of The Currency Laundromat, Cayman Islands.

4-27-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

I was sharpening a pencil in the office today when I began to wonder how they get the lead into pencils. Do they actually have people in a factory someplace drilling precise holes through that long, skinny piece of wood, then slipping the lead into it?

-- Scribbler in Scriabin

Dear Scribbler:

The idea of a "pencil factory" is an extraordinarily persistent delusion. The Eberhard Faber® Web site has a great collection of letters from otherwise sensible people who have applied to work at their "factory," or would like to tour it. Some of the company's responses are very funny.

Here's the truth of the matter:

The Chinese Pencil Tree (chow-dhown-lo-phat) was discovered in 1814. It's a simple aromatic straight cedar reed elsewhere, but in parts of China and Myanmar (now Burma Shave) the reed grows preferentially over deposits of graphite and acquires a natural graphite core (phloem). During the twice-yearly harvest the reeds are gathered into bundles, trimmed to a uniform size, lacquered, equipped with a brass ferrule and rubber eraser, and exported throughout the world.

One other fascinating note about the pencil tree: the fumes of aromatic cedar have a pronounced laxative effect. This is why #2 applies to both the pencil and the urge.

4-28-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

If you were going to be stranded on a desert island (no Internet) what would you take with you?

-- Survivor in Surinam 

Dear Survivor:

Mel Gibson, a crate of Viagra and a waterproof copy of the Kama Sutra. 

4-29-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

Why is there New Jersey?

-- MapQuester in Maple Quarry 

Dear MapQuester:

A bit of history is in order here. When the United States were first being laid out no one wanted to claim the large expanse of swampland and scrub pine between New York and Pennsylvania, referred to as "ye d---able peste-hole" in early colonial writings. New York (known at the time as the Big Cause of Adam's Fall) and Pennsylvania (Penn's TV) threatened to fight a war over it, with the loser to take the territory.

Attempts were made over the years to improve the local flora and fauna, but no market developed for 2-pound mosquitoes or skunk cabbage. Cattle were introduced from the English Isle of Jersey, a hardy breed which had done well in the New World, but they came down with an affliction which caused them to lose all their hair, from which the name "Nude Jersey" evolved.

In the 1880s sand was discovered in Nude Jersey, which led to the development of extensive beachfront property which for 3 months of the year was paved with the bodies of oily, sun-blistered citizens who were early fans of melanoma. For the rest of the year these areas were left to the wolves, who lived on abandoned pets and children. In 1905 the state changed its name to the more proper "New" Jersey, after which bathing attire was required on all beaches, to the disappointment of the natives.

New Jersey is known as "The Gorgon State" from the ugliness of its women, and also as "the bedroom of New York" because of their desperation. Most of the pine barrens that makes up the lower two-thirds of the state are inhabited by the "Pineys," descendants of Hessian troops who retreated to the impenetrable wilderness after the American Revolution and are patiently waiting for the boat to come and take them back to Hessia. They are ruled over by the Jersey Devil, an unkillable monster to whom they sacrifice their first-born. The Devil is also blamed for the low rate of tourism in the area, as new visitors tend to be put off by the piles of gnawed bones of their predecessors.

The capital is Trenton, whose inhabitants insist that they actually live in Pennsylvania, and have altered maps and road signs accordingly. The capital was placed as far as possible from the largest city, Newark, which was constructed as a slum in the 18th century and has gone downhill ever since. Newark is the home of the state's Vermin Festival, held every summer on the ruins of the downtown.

To answer your question I must humbly suggest that there may not be an answer. New Jersey's own motto is "Why?" In over 200 years no one has ever come up with a response.

4-30-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

I'm a rock collector and have been for almost 40 years. Now that I'm retired I've devoted myself to my hobby full-time. You can imagine my shock to learn that taking rocks out of the state of Colorado will soon be a felony! I mean, what's with these people?

-- Rocky in Rockport

Dear Rocky:

As much as I sympathize with your petrophilia, you should be aware of the reasoning behind Colorado's new anti-rock-export laws. Colorado has really pretty rocks, and so many people have been swiping them that Coloradoans were afraid in a few years the state would be as flat as Kansas. You must have noticed that the sign outside Denver already reads: "America's Seven-Eighths of a Mile High City." Something had to be done.

Chris Rock, Kid Rock and the Rolling Stones are holding benefits this summer to aid in the battle against dilapidation. The theme is, "If That's a Rock in Your Pocket Get the Schist Out of Here."

Kate Moss, the activist and model, has already announced that she will gather no rocks in the state.

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