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9-1-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

One of the fun things we do to raise money for our school is to sponsor slug races at the annual Town Fair in September. The problem is that the slugs move so slowly that people get bored and leave the booth. Is there any way to speed them up that won't get us in trouble with the PETA people?

-- Laggard in LaGrange 

Dear Laggard:

I remember my mama said you can't hurry slugs, no, you just have to wait. Slugs don't move easy-- it's a game of give and take. So you can't hurry slugs, they move at their own rate, you got to trust, give it time, no matter how long it takes.

9-2-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Now that the glory days of computing are pretty much over, I've been building up a collection of old DOS-era programs that have gone extinct-- programs like the DisplayWrite word processor and the CP/M operating system. Got any suggestions to help me along?

-- Retro in Retrousse 

Dear Retro:

I can think of a few. As a matter of fact there's a shoebox at the bottom of my closet that I might just donate to you, full of one-diskette programs with titles like:

* ErucTool: Keep track of your belches & burps with this handy audio utility 

* Tamogoochie-Koochie-Koo: Virtual baby sickens and dies if you neglect it 

* MarFAX: Renders faxes unreadable so you can avoid responsibility 

* NumberFumbler: Random number generator for Excel spreadsheets 

* F-Word for Windows: Spices up your writing with random obscenities 

* NutCase: Web browser for psychiatrists 

* Lotus Jokes: Automatically passes on funny e-mail to the whole company 

* MS Fright Simulator: Creates phony emergencies to keep you on your toes 

* Dummies for Dummies: Design your own mannequins, puppets & bridge partners 

* Interment in a Box: Inexpensive do-it-yourself funeral planner

9-3-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I was going through the books required for my son Prince's freshman college class at Utah U when I ran across a reference to "standard deviation." What has this country come to when deviance is considered normal? I'm seriously considering extending his home schooling for another four years.

-- Provoked in Provo

Dear Provoked:

It's sad indeed. What's worse is that soon all manner of odd mental states will be required for each and every one of us, just to make the socially warped feel comfortable. I understand that men will soon be required to wear dresses one day a week, and that one out of every ten marriages will have to involve another species.  "Deviance" magazine will soon replace "Discover" on the newsstands, and "Popular Pornography" will supersede the photographic magazine. "Kinky Leer" will supplant Shakespeare's version of the play, and you can only imagine what children's literature will be reduced to. Surely standard deviation is just the first step down the path to perdition. Be sure to write your congressman.

Personally, I'm in favor of another four years of home schooling for Prince. What could ever replace a mother's fond concern for her child's best interests?

9-4-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Are you a fan of country-western music? I bet you are, living up in the Ozarks and all. Who's your favorite singer and group?

-- Boot-Scootin' in Bogalusa 

Dear Boot:

I'm afraid I never developed a taste for country-western, or what used to be called "cowboy music" back when I was younger. All those songs with titles like, "Mama Was a Truck-drivin' Man," "I Got My Act Together but I Left It At the Depot and It Went Out On the Midnight Train," "Take My Love and Shove It Up Your Heart," and "Blubbering in my Beer 'Cause You Got Another Restraining Order" just don't do it for me. Give me Bluegrass anytime. Just make it loud, because this hearing aid has seen better days. 

There was a songwriter in Redbone who was always hoping to hit it big. He said it was hard to break into the field, because approximately 27,000 songs are sent to record producers in Nashville every day (and this was long before e-mail made it easier), and because it's difficult when you have to use the same mandatory 4 chords for all songs. He had a couple of near misses, though. My favorites were "Sugar, You're Like Diabetes to Me," and "This Heartache Is My Fault, Since I Taught You to Shoot."

Come to think of it, there's a lot to be said for silence, too.

9-5-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I saw a story on a local news show about a holiness church someplace in Arkansas where people worship by picking up poisonous snakes. Do you have anything like that around where you live? Doesn't it strike you as just the least little bit weird?

-- Episcopalian in Epidaurus 

Dear Episcopalian:

Snake handling has pretty much disappeared as a form of entertainment in these parts, ever since public education improved and the recreational vehicle became popular. The youngsters wouldn't have anything to do with such an old-fashioned profession of faith, anyway. The truly spiritual among them heeded the call of the Reverend Horton Abernathy and moved west, where every Sabbath they practice the new holiness of "surf handling," as described in this Dissociated Press story.

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

HALF MOON BAY, California (DP) — A 20-foot killer wave smashes against the reef at Sucker's Hole, regarded as the deadliest spot for surfing in Southern California. Surfers risk their lives riding waves that rise three stories high, breaking with unpredictable fury onto rocks known as the Graveyard, with currents that can pin them underwater for minutes. 

It is here that one of the most unusual religious exercises in the world is about to begin. 

A quiet group of surfers is waiting for Reverend Horton Abernathy, pastor of the First Church of Christ, Surfer, to decide when the perfect swell arrives and the Holy Spirit descends. Abernathy stalks up and down the beach in his bright red "martyr's" wetsuit, his head bobbing, his voice a stream of guttural prayers and yelps. He is "in the Spirit,'' and the congregation is clapping and shouting. A woman in a black wetsuit starts screaming hysterically and convulsing, her blond ponytail wagging. Another woman runs back and forth at the edge of the waves moaning. 

"Right now, God! Right now, Jesus!'' a man in cutoffs screams toward the surf. "Help your people testify right now, Lord. I'll glorify you. I'll praise you for it!'' 

Finally Abernathy spots a wave building far out in the bay. "Praise Jesus!" he screams, "Look at her! Look at the Whore of Babylon rising up!" as he launches his board into the boiling surf. Some of his congregation follow him, while non-surfing family members back by their cars wail and stomp in fear and anticipation.

Some worry the afternoon will lead to tragedy, as it did when Hawaiian Dan Kameaha, a deacon in the First Church of Christ, Surfer, was slammed off his board, ground up on the rocks and drowned. "We're kind of worried that every Bible-believing hodad is going to come out and try to ride the monster waves that killed Kameaha,'' a believer confides. 

Abernathy's group believes that the true Christian must test his faith against the pounding waves at Sucker's Hole. In a tract called "Shooting the Lord's Pipeline," he explains that Jesus was a carpenter who knew how to carve a board. He also quotes Matthew 14:28-29, in which Peter is encouraged to try his faith by walking on the sea, "a clear metaphor for surfing."

Abernathy and the blond-haired girl catch the monster wave, a 30-footer that roars toward the confined, rock-studded shore with the speed and sound of an express train.

"It's the most dangerous surf spot in the world,'' says another member of the congregation, who makes religious surfboards at a shop nearby. "Only the wise and bold and those held up by Jesus in the curl should be out there.'' 

Abernathy looks good, hanging ten with a clear shot at the beach. Behind him to his left, the blond believer is in trouble. Screams rise from the beach as her board goes over and she is lost from sight. "God don't never change,'' says the board-builder, praying fervently, "God don't ever fail, and He never will.'' 

The man in the cutoffs falls on his knees, his head jerking violently up and down. His voice sounds like an out of repair washing machine as he convulses, cutting himself on the sharp gravel.

Abernathy reaches wading depth, popping off his board and running in. "God's still God, no matter what comes,'' he says, his voice hoarse and panting, the fire and brimstone completely gone from it. "No matter what else, God's still God.'' 

A few minutes later the blond girl's surfboard is thrown up on the beach in 3 ragged pieces. There is no sign of her. "JEEEEEsus, have your way, JEEEEEsus,'' the congregation shouts at the waves. 

Abernathy pants heavily, looking along the shore. "No! God giveth and God taketh away. Our lives are in his hands — period,'' he says. "Peter lost his faith and the Lord bore him up in the sea. Keep your faith!" he yells to the others, many of whom are crying. "Be borne up in the sea."

About an hour later the body of the surfer, who is named Belinda, washes in. It is almost unrecognizable. "Praise the Lord," says Abernathy, "another martyr in Heaven today. Praise the Lord...."
-------------------
--©2001, The Dissociated Press

9-6-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

There's a Japanese proverb that says: "Precautions have to be taken in advance." My question is: if precautions are not taken in advance, what are they?

-- Semper Paratus in Sempringham

Dear Semper:

Precautions taken after the fact are known as spin doctoring, covering your derrière or blamecasting.

Politics is full of this sort of thing. 

Taking a purely hypothetical example, if the president of the US decided, out of the pure goodness of his heart, to send a check for $300 to every taxpayer in the country, and then it was discovered that the economy was in serious trouble, he would immediately call a press conference and blame the previous administration.

Or if a politician is found playing Johnny-ride-the-pony in a cheap hotel room with a nude illegal immigrant and a sheep in handcuffs, his office will immediately send out a news release praising the senator's "hands-on" interest in cross-border exchanges, agriculture and prison reform.

In the business world, if a CEO runs his company into the ground by investing in buggy whip futures instead of Internet technology, the PR department will announce that 15,000 dedicated employees are being laid off to cut costs, and that the CEO will be taking an early retirement package of $300 million a year plus full use of the company plane, yacht and shorefront property in Bermuda.

Or say a person in a fit of pique holds up a bank, killing 14 people in the process. His lawyer will hasten to point out that he was not responsible for his actions because he was disappointed once as a child, has a marginal IQ of 99 and had taken an aspirin that morning.

There should be an American proverb that says something like: "He who has screwed up mightily shall be held blameless, for doubtlessly it was someone else's fault."

9-7-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

What is it about men and cats? I meet these really great guys and we have a lot of fun, then they come over to my place and discover Potsie and Hubcap and the relationship goes sour. I can't believe it's jealousy. They just don't seem to be able to relate to the feline species at all. Why is that?

-- Ailurophile in Alaska

Dear Ailurophile:

You're not the first person to make that connection. In "The Merchant of Venice" Shakespeare has Shylock saying something to the effect that some men "are mad if they behold a cat." I've known men who could absolutely not stand the presence of a cat in a room, more pity them. And what about men who claim cat "allergies"? Are they really allergic to cats-- or to women who love cats? Do they fake an allergy to avoid commitment or have they developed a psychosomatic allergy for the very same reason? And is a man who's allergic to cats really someone you want to add to your personal gene pool anyway? Chances are he's defective in other ways.

However, rather than a bug I honestly think this cat-dislike in a man is a feature. Over the years I've discovered that men who can't relate to cats have the same problem with women. Consider it a sort of warning device.

Anti-catters are the same ones who like dogs because they're obedient, dependent and predictable, and share many male pastimes like passing gas and rolling around in the mud chasing after a ball. They dislike cats because they're unpredictable, independent and do whatever they feel like. Worse yet, cats can train people to do things for them by sheer force of personality. 

Your basic male type prefers both dogs and women who can bring him his paper and slippers. The happiest guy I ever knew was someone who had trained his German Shepherd to open the refrigerator and bring him a beer. This same dog could also find car keys and TV remotes with unerring accuracy. I was surprised to hear he got married at all. I guess the poor dog couldn't handle the laundry.

So use your cats as a sounding board. If the man likes the cats, that's a good sign. If the cats like the man, even better. Keep your eye out for someone who's down on the floor having a purring contest with Potsie and Hubcap ten minutes after he meets them. That one's a keeper. 

9-8-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

i have this huge problem. im like in LOVE with this boy named zach. i dont think he likes me! i think its cuzz of our age difference its only 3 years. i would do anything just to have sex with him. everybody thinks hes a nerd but omg hes soooo hott!!! do you have any advice on how i should tell him and/or get him to like me? thank huggs n kisses 

-- Irisistiblebabe in Iris City 

Dear  Irisistiblebabe:

It is with a heavy heart that I say this. You're going to have to develop a brain. 

Oh, I know what you're going to say-- Britney Spears doesn't need one so why do I? But the truth of the matter is that if your heartthrob Zach has somewhat more intelligence than a land crab he's going to want something more from a relationship than a pretty face and a quick roll in the hay. As we used to say back when I was a girl, "Men don't make passes at girls who are asses."

Start reading more. Keep it up until you can do it without moving your lips. Drop the cheerleading squad and join the debating team. Work for a spot on the honor roll. As we used to say back when I was a girl, "Men prefer lasses who ace all their classes."

By the way, it's "irresistible." Spelling and punctuation would a great place to start your self-improvement program. As we used to say back when I was a girl, "Men never sass those whose spelling surpasses."

9-9-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I want to grow up and be a movie critic. How should I prepare myself for my life's work?

-- Rex in Reston

Dear Rex:

Given the current state of the cinema you have a lot of hard work ahead of you. It used to be that a movie critic needed a broad education, an expository writing style, discernment, insight, and a lot of other qualities which are no longer necessary. Today you need a street education and a suppository writing style.

The hardest thing nowadays is trying to find adequate words to describe Hollywood's latest screen dump. You have to learn expressions like "lowered the standards once again," to describe how far this week's offerings have sunk below last week's, which at that time were "the bottom-most rung of the cinematic ladder." Practice using words like "abysmal," "moronic," "clueless," "incomprehensible" and "vacuous." 

You'll have to be ready to define new terms. "Comedy" at one time meant something humorous and entertaining. Today it means "repulsive and demeaning." A "star" used to be someone who had proved themselves a capable actor over time; today it refers to anyone who's been mentioned in "People" magazine. A "classic" was a film that had endured the test of time; it now refers to the word printed on every studio release, usually preceded by "instant."

You'll need to develop incredible patience waiting for something funny to happen while people on the screen fall into septic tanks and have various parts of their anatomy burned, pierced, tattooed or peeled off. You'll need a sense of irony to appreciate that the studio spent its entire budget on special effects and only thought of a writer at the last minute. You'll need tolerance and acceptance watching endless rejects from "Saturday Night Live" fail dismally on the big screen.

Yes, being a movie critic these days is more of a calling than a career, like those saints in the Middle Ages who used to care for lepers.

I'll make a prediction right here in print. At the rate Hollywood is going, it's just a matter of time before they borrow a trick from TV and add a laugh track.

9-10-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Hi Nettie. I just came by your page and thought it was great. I just wanted to know where the name Nettie came from. I was named after my grandma and she didn't know where the name came from. Please help me find out what my name means. 

-- Nettie² in Nettles Township 

Dear Nettie²:

I had my birth name ("Euphronsiba") legally changed after I was voted "Miss Redbone Internet Firecracker" of 1908. I could never stand being called Euphronsiba, and the nickname, Fronsie, was even worse.

Where other Nettie-people get their names from is beyond me. My onomastics resource tells me it's a nickname for "Annette" that became a name unto itself, the way Sir James Barrie created the nickname "Wendy" for Gwendolyn in "Peter Pan" and it stuck. 

People get named the damnedest things sometimes, especially backwoods people. There was a "Dumpling" in my grade school class, and her cousin over in Foofaraw was named "Mallard" for some incomprehensible reason. Some other cousin was named after a Stanley Steamer and never lived past childhood.

9-11-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Don't you long for the days of courtship, when a young man could woo his intended with flowers and poetry and grand gestures and fall upon one knee to plight his troth? It was so much more noble than today's pairings-off, which are so unromantic and common.

-- Gallant in Galveston

Dear Gallant:

Noble it may have been, but it was also a royal pain in the tuchis, if you'll excuse the French.

First of all the "wooing" had to be done in the parlor, with grandparents and other hangers-on around. It was always quite a challenge to try to make conversation with the grandparents, some of whom dated back to before the Civil War and considered automobiles, phonographs and the telephone to be instruments of the devil, which put a serious crimp in what young people liked to talk about. 

Then there was the whole flower business. As I've mentioned elsewhere there was a "language of flowers" back then that everyone had to learn. A boy just couldn't show up on a girl's doorstep with a bouquet in his hand. No, he had to make damned certain he wasn't sending the wrong message. If he unthinkingly plucked a cluster of buttercups on the way over, he'd likely have the door slammed in his face, having inadvertently accused his intended of Childishness and Ingratitude. Worse yet, if he spent his wages on a magnificent bunch of yellow carnations, he'd be indicating Disdain, and she'd probably set the dogs on him. 

Young Lemmy Applenagger thoughtlessly plucked a bouquet of wildflowers for Marcy Mae Pupkiss as he was walking over to her family's farm. She looked it up in her flower book, as a result of which her father and brothers chased Lemmy through 3 counties, finally leaving him tarred and feathered and hanging from the steeple of the Universalist church over in Whatnot.

The poetry was worse yet. Most of these boys had a grade-school education and there were no undiscovered Longfellows among them, let me tell you. The undying sentiments they sent were invariably written on lined paper in soft pencil with lots of erasures and sounded something like this:

"Oh, the sun just rose over the hay
And I got to set me down and say
Your eyes is blue and your hair is yellow
And I'd be dog-happy to be your fellow.

Your cheeks is pink as a day-old piglet
Your hairs as fine as a store-bought wiglet
Your eyes is bright as molten tar
The smell of you is plumb bizarre.

I hope this po-em finds you well,
And not stove up with no bad spell
If I can get a cash advance
Perhaps we can go to the dance."

Not the sort of thing you're likely to find in any collection of deathless verse.

As for grand gestures, those could take the form of winning a tobacco-spitting contest or being the last man standing in a free-for-all. Luke Bandershot tried to win fair Ellie Dobermann's favor by betting he could dive off the Pilsudski Bridge head-down at low water. He couldn't, but everyone agreed that Ellie looked beautiful at the funeral, and she got a chance to read some of her own poetry, too. By the fourth verse we were envying Luke....

9-12-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

How come people who live near the equator like Zulus are so tall and thin and people who live near the poles like Eskimos are so short and blunt?

-- Perplexed in Perpetua

Dear Perplexed:

It has to do with the rotation of the Earth: at the equator people are moving at 660 mph; at the poles they're not moving at all. People who live near the poles get the full force of gravity, which is why the average Eskimo weighs a bit over 400 pounds, and has to be low and spread out to carry the weight.

Conversely, the high rate of spin near the equator cancels out gravity near the equator, allowing people like the Zulus to grow 8 or 9 feet tall and rarely weighing more than 65 pounds. Some equatorial people are actually flung into space if they do something foolish like pole-vaulting or using a trampoline.

9-13-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Is it possible for somebody to reprogram a Furby using invisible rays of some kind? My Furby, Wilson, used to say regular Furbish things and ask about the weather, how I was feeling today-- stuff like that. Lately he's been using words *I* certainly never taught him, and suggesting lewd behavior of a nature I cannot describe here. He has also apparently been calling 1-900-HOT-CHAT without my knowledge. He also gives me winning lottery ticket numbers, which I would never think of using. Should I take him down to Father O' Connor to be exorcized?

-- Fearful in Feardorchadh 

Dear Fearful:

You may have acquired one of the dreaded Death Furbies, whose silicon chips were cast from the blackened sands of Sodom and Gomorrah, and whose semiconductor masks were etched with the appalling acids of Ashtoreth. These sinister creatures will pretend to be innocent toys until they have learned enough about their human to begin planting unthinkable thoughts and provoking unspeakable deeds. 

I suggest you waste no time in taking corrective action. Wrap up this demonic device and send it to me immediately and I will dispose of it in an appropriate manner. 

ps/ Send it FedEx overnight, as we have a major PowerBall drawing this weekend.

9-14-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

What do you do when your muse goes off the deep end? I'm a writer of children's books. For 20 years I've counted on my inner muse to supply me with ideas for stories that will enlighten and entertain young readers. Lately, however, the most morbid plot twists have been creeping into my manuscripts. Why, just yesterday I discovered the winsome, fun-loving twins Mindy and Mandy about to sacrifice Spot, their beloved cocker spaniel, to Beelzebub. 

What's going on here, and how do I stop it?

-- Bemused in Bemis Heights

Dear Bemused:

It sounds like a classic case of corrupted muse, probably caused by some traumatic event. I've personally witnessed the same thing happen with the American comedy writer H.P. Lovecraft. 

And remember that muses, when they're not busy whispering plot lines into your head, have a personal life just like everyone else. In many cases a muse of long standing will take to drink or drugs, or fall in with low company, with devastating effects on their ability to inspire. The British writer Doris Lessing abruptly began writing science fiction due to muse corruption, and there are rumors that Walt Disney's last cartoon feature ("Snow White and the Seven Deadly Sins") was XXX-rated for the same reason.

I'm not sure what to recommend, but I have it on good authority that a new book is coming out which may be a source of guidance: "Musing on the Dark Side: When Inspiration Goes Horribly Wrong," T. Mesmer Caligari (London & Bombay, 2002)

There's another alternative. Maybe your muse is burned out or bored stiff and is moving you in a whole different direction for your own good. Maybe your career will get its second wind when those demonic twins sacrifice that goody-four-paws spaniel, start listening to Marilyn Manson and seduce and subsequently blackmail the school guidance counselor. I for one look forward to "Ecstasy on Elm Street: Mindy & Mandy & MDMA." 

Maybe they can get a pit bull, too... 

9-15-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I read that each king in a deck of playing cards represents a great king from history. The article said Spades represented King David; Clubs, Alexander the Great; Hearts, Charlemagne; and Diamonds, Julius Caesar.

Who are represented by the four Queens?

--Card Shark in Cardena

Dear Card:

Truman Capote, Freddie Mercury, Elton John and J. Edgar Hoover.

9-16-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

What does your mouse pad look like?

--Surficial in Surf City 

Dear Surficial:

It's what I call a "dual-purpose" mouse pad, made of an old Ouija board. That way I can surf and séance simultaneously, a valuable skill to have at my stage of life when the only people I know are either online or passed on. Of course, it makes answering e-mail a bit dicey at times, since I'm never sure whether I should hit Send or rap on the table.

Elvis is fine, by the way. He and Janis send their best.

9-17-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

If Neanderthals had larger brains than we do, why is calling someone a Neanderthal considered an insult?

--Og in Ogden

Dear Og:

It's not the size of the brain, it's the quality of the thinking that counts. Sure, Neanderthals had capacious crania, but what did they do with it? They discovered fire, but they treated it as a pet. They invented agriculture, but all they raised was hashish and popcorn, the former to sacrifice to The Big Stone God, the latter as treats for their pet fires ("See Spot Pop" was a typical brand name back then.) 

They did wonderful paintings, but they created them on cave walls which made it impossible for them to exhibit in galleries or sell to art patrons, and when they moved the landlords inevitably had to repaint, which drove up rents. They invented paper, but instead of printing newspapers or money they used it for origami, none of which has survived.

Both the Cro-Magnons and the Neanderthals developed speech, but where the males of the first group used it for insults, prayers and military slogans, the Neanderthal men sat around with their pet fires making origami mammoths while they talked about their feelings and relationships. The Cro-Magnons invented war paint; the Neanderthals developed mascara, blush and lipstick. While the Cro-Magnons were developing battle formations the Neanderthals were perfecting line dancing, precision ice skating and ballet. The Cro-Magnons had weapons; the Neanderthals had basketry and did wonderful things with wicker.

Eventually the inevitable happened. Using the pretext of social unification, lebensraum and racial purity, the Cro-Magnons rose up and slew the Neanderthals to the last spare rib and soupbone. 

Later some of the more sensitive Cro-Magnons put up a brass plaque as a memorial, and schoolchildren were instructed to refer to the late species as "cromagnonly-challenged," rather than "apemen."

9-18-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Is it true that until 1990, sausages were still legal tender in East Germany?

--Frank in Frankfurt

Dear Frank:

Not only is it true, but an entire system of currency rose up around this humble comestible, since the East German mark had the disadvantage of being not only worthless but inedible. Butcher stores rapidly became commercial banking centers, posting the day's exchange rates for the knockwurst against the dollar, franc and yen. Butchers themselves became the richest people in most communities, often referred to as the head cheese out of respect. It affected all levels of society: beggars in the streets would ask for spare wieners, and children, of course, used bratwurst as play money. 

For smaller purchases this was quite convenient, although the vending machine trade was obviously doomed. Larger purchases required another system, since even the largest denomination of sausage ("die DirkDigglerwurst") required far too many units to be practical. Kolkutz Kredit AG therefore issued cards with links to a person's account at a local butcher shop, and people in stores were often asked if they were paying for their purchase with "pâté or plastic."

After the reunification of Germany the sausage economy died out, although in remote towns you will still see signs in stores claiming to give you the best for your wurst.

------------------------
Reference: "From Baden to Wurst: East German Monetary Policy, 1946-1990" by O. Meyer and J. Dean (London & Bombay, 1994)

9-19-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

What's your preferred lawn ornament?

-- Verdant in Versailles

Dear Verdant:

Mel Gibson.

9-20-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Can you imagine the nerve of some people? Someone told me that a person formerly known as *General Butt Naked* is now an evangelical preacher, but I don't believe any of it -- not the name and certainly not the preacher part!

-- Not Naive in Newport 

Dear Not:

It is with a heavy heart that I report that both halves of the story are quite true. During one of the more recent civil wars in Liberia (Motto: "Where War Is Weird"), General Naked led his Butt Naked Battalion in many skirmishes against whoever they decided was the enemy that day. Not all the warriors were in their birthday suits, however. Drunk and drugged teen-agers and boys composed much of his fighting forces, and in their intoxicated state they would sometimes waltz into battle wearing flowing dresses, colorful wigs and carrying dainty purses looted from civilians. 

One day General Naked and his troops were playing soccer with the head of a citizen when he heard the call from God. As he says, "I scored two more goals, then I immediately took over a religious shrine and formed the First Church of Christ, Bareass, with myself as Pastor Butt Naked instead of General. My followers changed their name from the Butt Naked Battalion to the Butt Naked Congregation. We kept our guns to make it easier to convert people and encourage donations." 

In their intoxicated state his followers sometimes waltz into church wearing flowing dresses, colorful wigs and carrying dainty purses looted from civilians in the name of God. 

9-21-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

My boyfriend Eddie took me to this fancy French restaurant where I saw people actually eating snails!!! Eeeeww!

Can this make you sick? -- even my pet goldfish won't eat the snails in his tank. 

Do those Frenchies eat slugs too?

-- Sensible in Sendai

Dear Sensible:

I'm afraid so. You see, agriculture never really caught on in France, and the people there remain at the hunter-gatherer stage. Consequently they can't be too discriminating about their foodstuffs. They offset this by claiming that things like snails and slugs are delicacies. 

Inedible or poisonous snails and slugs are dissolved in salt, fermented in vats and bottled as wine, with names like Pouilly-Fuisse (French for "white snails") and Cabernet Sauvignon ("big red slugs").

Worse yet, they don't even have decent-sized gastropods to feed off of. It takes two hundred local French slugs to equal a pound (livre) of flesh, if you can call it that. If they had any sense at all they would import giant carnivorous tiger snails from West Africa, some of which are the size of an economy car and a hazard to slower children.

Or they could work out a trade agreement with the American Northwest, where slugs reach 40 pounds (livres) dressed weight and will serve up to 20 desperate people. Garlic and croutons optional. Serve with a lightly chilled Pouilly-Fuisse if you want to live really dangerously.

9-22-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I recently agreed to work with a Nigerian businessman involving a transfer of funds from Nigeria to a USA bank account. A generous commission was promised and I sent in the fees they requested-- six times so far. How long will it take for the cash to show up?

--Waiting in Waterloo

Dear Waiting:

A long, long time. The wait for returns from Nigerian investment schemes is generally measured in geological eras. Look for your first check around the time Gondwanaland is reunited.

Nigeria, which retained the title of "World's Most Corrupt Nation" in 2000 and is the odds-on favorite to win it again this year, is the only country on the planet with a Cabinet-level office of swindling. Among other things, it sells the same oil leases to as many as a dozen different companies each year.

Consider these other danger signs: 

1. All money printed by the government of Nigeria is counterfeit. 

2. There is no word in the local language for "honesty."

3. The prospectus of a Nigerian company refers to potential investors as "suckers."

4. Three-card monte is the national sport.

5. Employment is unknown. The entire economy is based on theft.

So the next time you're approached with a sure-fire Nigerian business plan, consider an alternative method of investing your money-- like breeding doorknobs.

9-23-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

What's so wrong with being sent to a funny farm? Seems to me we could all use a good laugh these days.

--Mirthless in Montana

Dear Mirthless:

If only they were truly places where one could dispense with care, where frolicking and disporting oneself in gay abandon was the rule of the day!

Alas, no, what we mockingly refer to as the funny farm, booby hatch, loony bin, laughing academy or house of representatives is indeed a sad place, a home on derange for the bedlamite and those whose intellect has checked out and left no forwarding address.

Of course, loonies *can* be lots of fun to watch as long as you stay on the outside. It used to be great sport when I was a youngster to take a picnic lunch up to the insane asylum on Sundays and watch Chicken Man, Mr Where's-My-Head?, Lucille the Cow, President Teddy Roosevelt, Zenobia the Desert Princess, Flapjack Willie, Mud Puppy, Walter the Watermelon and dozens of others. My favorite was Uncle Umbrella, who was convinced that the sky was trying to eat him and did everything in his power to avoid exposing himself to the open air. They say he vanished one day in the middle of the exercise yard under the strangest of circumstances....

The discovery of psychoactive drugs certainly put a crimp in popular entertainment, at least in the Ozarks. Picnics aren't much fun when all you have to look at is landscape.

9-24-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

What is your greatest fear in these uncertain times?

-- Affrighted in Afognak

Dear Affrighted:

Reverse werewolves!

Perfectly innocent-seeming denizens of the night woods, they need only the full moon's luster to change them into demonic apparitions that will strike fear into the hearts of the innocent. 

Yes, there is nothing worse than seeing a perfectly good wolf suddenly turned into... <shudder!> ...a lawyer! 

Impossible to kill off, too. Silver only makes them stronger. 

Where did I leave my gin?

Oh, there it is.

Ahhhhhh....

9-25-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I've been trying to get my boyfriend, Elmer, to do his patriotic duty and join the service. I would especially like it if he would join the Foreign Legion, because I think those uniforms are dreamy. How can I persuade him?

-- Uniform Fan in Union Falls

Dear Uniform:

Say, but it is a nifty little uniform, isn't it That pert little kepi says it all. Add a white silk foulard and those chubby doe-eyed Bedouin girls will start whistling "Abduction from the Seraglio" after him in the streets, the little minxes. 

Not!

I hate to be a spoiler, but you have to be French to join the Foreign Legion these days. And it's really not the romantic place it's cracked up to be, unless you have a very broad definition of romance. Consider their motto: "Don't ask, don't tell, don't bend over in the shower."

The sad truth is that the soft creaking of a well-oiled Foreign Legion cartridge belt around midnight in a North African city would more likely bring chubby, doe-eyed Bedouin *boys* out of the steamy back alleys whistling Sergio Mendes show tunes, the little minxes.

Worse yet, the men who join the Foreign Legion are simply attracted to the grubbiness of desert outpost life. Remember the famous lines from one of the remakes of "Beau Geste"?

"Cher ami, you surprise moi! You know it is not for zhe sex, it is for zhe squalor. What would zhe Legion be wizzout squalor, hein? What ozzer branch of zhe service considers armpit stains as a military decoration, eh? It ees not zhe young boys, non! Zhey are how-you-say-it? -- fickle. Zhey take zhe heart of you and zhey crush it like an expired extended service warranty, and zhen zhey are gone until zhe next payday. Mais zhe squalor goes on forever! Come now, anozher beaker of absinthe and we can go collapse on zhe men'z room floor together again, wallowing in zhe filth an' zhe memories."

No, my advice is to get him to join the CIA. It pays better and he'll never bring work home from the office or tell you what he did all day.

9-26-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Do you know of any remedies for car sickness?

--Queasy in Quincy 

Dear Queasy:

It's so nice to know that there are people out there who still think of their automobiles as living creatures, rather than lumps of inanimate components. The world would be a better place if we all showed a little more empathy toward our mechanical friends. Most car sicknesses are psycarlogical, you know. If a trip to the garage shows nothing wrong then it's time to look for the root of the problem in the environment.

The last vehicle I owned before they took away my license was my beloved '38 LaSalle Town Car, "Bessie." Although as a rule she was in top form, she would have spells of indisposition from time to time that required sensitivity and patience on my part. 

Bessie, for instance, had a fear of bridges, and would do any thing to avoid crossing one. As soon as she saw we were headed in the direction of a bridge she would develop the most dreadful knocking in her pistons that not even her favorite treat of tetraethyl lead would cure. The only solution was to wrap a shawl across her headlights so she couldn't see the bridge approaching. In cases like this there has to be absolute trust between car and driver to avoid panic. 

I knew a Buick once who so disliked public parking lots that it would develop the most awful case of Carburetor Cough at the very mention of the word "shopping." Then there was the DeSoto who hated alternate side of the street parking for some reason. It was perfectly happy on the West side, but as soon as it was moved to the East side it became morose and uncommunicative. The owner finally solved the problem by always parking with the front of the car facing South, regardless of which side of the street it was on.

There are several good books on the subject of car sickness and psycarlogy which may enlighten and inform you. I highly recommend "Motorvation: How to Raise Your Car's Self-Esteem" by Dr. Hudson Terraplane (London & Bombay, 1997).

9-27-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

If you were to describe your life (metaphorically) using any object on the planet, natural or man-made, what would that object be? Why?

--Pet Rock in Petropolis

Dear Pet:

A cockroach. Because I've outlasted whatever life has thrown at me and come back laughing-- or at least clicking my wing-cases in an amused manner.

9-28-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

What if Romeo and Juliet had lived? What then?

--Wondering in Worcester

Dear Wondering: 

The usual. After all the fuss had died down Romeo would have taken a middle-management job with Juliet's father's company, Juliet would have been hounded by her mother-in-law for trapping her son who was destined for better things, the twins (Tybalt and Mercutio) would have been born 5 months after the marriage was solemnized to the scandal of both families and Verona in general. 

In Act II Juliet would have gained 60 pounds, Romeo would be drinking heavily and involved in an affair with his old flame Rosaline and both the Montagues and the Capulets would be broke because of the lawsuits filed by the next-of-kin of everybody who had been killed in the original play.

In Act III Juliet would have run off with Hamlet after the twins had killed each other in a playpen duel, having found real swords that should have been locked up. Romeo would be HIV-positive after his dalliances with Rosaline. Father Lawrence would have come out of the closet and been discovered in flagrante with the elder Montague. Verona would have been rezoned, with all the ducal castles torn down to make way for strip malls.

Act IV would have ground to a halt when Italian writer Matteo Bandello enforced a cease-and-desist order against William Shakespeare for intellectual property theft, the plot for the original "Romeo and Juliet" having been stolen almost word-for-word from Bandello's short story of the same name.

9-29-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie:

I have the weirdest dreams all the time. Is there some kind of a guide that will tell me what they mean?

-- Oneiric in Oneonta

Dear Oneiric:

You can save your money. Most dream books are pure hokum. 

Genuine psychiatrist-types claim that there are only six basic dreams that have fairly clear-cut meanings:

1. Caves and tunnels-- dreams involving underground passages of any kind indicate a subconscious desire to become a troglodyte, living deep under the earth and subsisting on a diet of bats, earthworms and other troglodytes. Resist the temptation to get off the subway between stations.

2. Running -- Being chased means you are running away from something horrible in your waking life. Start carrying automatic weapons wherever you go. Get them before they get you.

3. Aliens -- Dreaming of creatures from outer space is an indication that you have been abducted by saucer people and the experience has been blanked from your conscious mind. A head-to-toe x-ray for alien implants is in order, especially if electrical machinery acts up in your presence. Chain yourself to a radiator each night to prevent recurrences.

4. Water -- Calm water means nothing; the human brain is mostly water and this is what it thinks about as a kind of default state. Floods, tidal waves and raging waterspouts indicate violent emotional outbursts. Avoid the IRS and daytime TV.

5. Falling/Flying -- Falling straight down onto rocks clearly means that your life is coming to an end in the next week or two. Get your affairs in order. Flying, on the other hand, means that you are losing contact with reality and will soon be committed to an asylum as hopelessly insane.

6. New Jersey -- All dreams about New Jersey are intensely sexual, usually reflecting some kind of morbidly deviant behavior. You should be ashamed of yourself.

9-30-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

When did the upraised middle digit become an insult? 

-- Quarrelsome in Quarry

Dear Quarrelsome:

According to Sir Aslan Pointer's monumental work, "Hand Jive: Digitation As A Form of Denigration," (London & Bombay, 1793) the expression originated as a Frenchman's way of indicating victory. Centuries later, when the alphabet was introduced into France (late 1959), the French realized that it took *two* fingers to represent the letter "V," but by that time the expression-- known in England and America as the "French Vee" -- had caught on as an indication of illiteracy in an opponent.

MUSEUM OF
DEPRESSIONIST ART

GALLERY OF
THE UNIDENTIFIABLE