1-1-02

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

What's the deeper meaning behind the "falling ball" in Times Square? How did it originate?

-- Descending in Des Plaines

Dear Descending:

I answered that one last year! For those with short memory spans, or for new visitors to Aunt Nettie, here's the honest-to-goodness story:
----------------------------

The tradition began in 1907 to celebrate the invention of the soccer ball the year before (previously the game had used a dead piglet, or at least a piglet that was odd-looking and unpopular). The immigrant Armenian swineherd J. Alonzo Baboonian, who had made his fortune on Wall Street as a bootblack and freelance financial consultant, sponsored the very first Times Square "ball" event as a way of saluting the thousands of piglets who had sacrificed their lives for the glory of the game. You probably remember reading his famous quote in your high school history books. With the invention of the soccer ball, he said to the assembled members of the media, "you won't have *de knigzon* ['the piglet' in colloquial Albanian] to kick around anymore."

The intention was to have the ball rise into the air like a well-placed goal kick, reaching the top precisely at the stroke of midnight, at which point a shower of candy piglets would rain down upon the cheering crowd. Unfortunately this was in the days of easily-reversed DC electric motors and the operator of the ball-raising mechanism, G. Zagreb Snafu, an overworked Serbian handyman moonlighting as an unlicensed ball-heister, threw the switch the wrong way, lowering, rather than raising the ball.

Since the ball could not descend any further, being at the base of the lifting platform already, the motors overheated and exploded, raining death, destruction, fricasseed Serbian and flaming candy piglets onto the crowds below. The following year a law was passed in New York City requiring the ball to be placed at the TOP of the mechanism and gently lowered by gravity to prevent a recurrence of the tragedy. And so a tradition was born.

Curiously, the event attracted so much press coverage that the expression "dropped the ball instead of raising it," as a metaphor for incompetence --later shortened to simply "dropped the ball"-- became part of the American language, as did "snafu," the name of the unfortunate handyman, as an expression of chaotic bungling.

Baboonian was, of course, bankrupted by lawsuits after the disaster and left the country penniless. He later became a Moldavian missionary and explorer, dying tragically in Africa in 1919 immediately after his encounter with a new species of ape, which was named in his honor.

----------
Source: The Big Book o' Facts & Other Stuff, 3rd edition (London & Bombay, 1981)

1-2-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Lots of my friends collect stuff - Beanie Babies, Depression Glass, Pokémon and such. Have you ever been a collector?

--eBaby in Erie 

Dear eBaby

I'm anything but a collector: I'm an ejector-- if it has no immediate purpose, out it goes, as my boy friends learned to their sorrow. 

I have no patience with old fools who pile up ceramic bulldogs because someone happened to give them one as a prank three-quarters of a century ago. At every gifting event from that point on it's, "Hey! I know what we can get Auntie Bluto-- a ceramic bulldog for her collection!", until pretty soon the poor old dear has to sell the family heirlooms to make space for shelving and display cabinets for a rising tide of cheap gimcrackery. 

Then at her funeral everybody sits around wondering why she collected so much junk.

I knew an unfortunate named Elsie from our one-room schoolhouse days (K-PhD). She was afflicted with chinaware clowns at an early age and never received a worthwhile present from that point on. After her engagement party resulted in yet another onslaught of porcelain performers she flung herself head-down in the family well. Many superstitious folks in Redbone Hollow blame her for the spontaneous combustion of Ronald McDonald back in 1989 and for the explosion of Nora's Nicknack Nook in downtown Redbone on its opening day the following year. It's well known that a ceramic figurine has a half-life of about 3 hours within Redbone town limits.

1-3-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Can you explain why we need time zones? My oft' crazy grandson in San Diego calls me for the news here in Vermouth, VT because he thinks that if a war starts, he has an extra 3 hours to duck.

And why do we need a separate time zone for the mountains? All that lives there is them right-wing cabin dwellers and rich folks.

-- Vegetative in Vermouth

Dear Vegetative:

Time zones were originally set up to save electricity during World War One. There wasn't much electricity around back in those days, and whatever could be spared was sent to the front....

No, I'm sorry, that's the answer to the question, "Why is there Daylight Saving Time?" Let me jostle my few remaining active ganglions and try again.

Time zones were set up to aid sailors back in the days when explorers bravely set forth into uncharted waters in their sailing ships, and it was easy for them to slip beyond their cell phones' roaming range. Someone noticed that the earth could be neatly divided into 24 segments* like a genetically engineered tangerine, based on when the sun was dead overhead. This made sailors take warning. When the sun was dead overhead at night, then sailors could take delight....

Let me try this again. I have to confess that an Oxycontin buzz seriously affects one's ability to concentrate, especially when the pills are ground up and snorted.

Time zones were set up to assure that all newspaper vendors received their copy of the news magazine simultaneously, to prevent unfair advantage....

Thyme zones are regions where growing conditions are favorable for raising this aromatic European herb, which is one of the most popular culinary....

Oh, my-- look at the time zone! Time for my nap. <zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz>

--------------
*Except February, to which 28 we assign, 'til leap year gives it 29.

1-4-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I came across a Web page with one of those questionnaire/list thingies. I had a lot of fun making my own lists -- how would you complete the following?

--Lucky in Lubbock 

Dear Lucky:

Okay, I'll play your silly games. It's not like I have anything better to do while I wait for Mister Death. Here you go.

Seven things that are creepy:
  Richard Nixon
  O.J. Simpson
  Anna Nicole Smith
  'N Sync
  Al Sharpton
  Richard Simmons
  Trent Lott's hairpiece

Seven things I miss:
  My teeth
  My mind
  My hearing
  My sight
  My figure
  My hair
  Ed Sullivan

Seven things I don't understand:
  String theory
  Daylight saving time
  Tax laws
  VCR instructions
  Amway
  South Park
  Turkish

Seven great teachers:
  Ghandi
  Moses
  Herodotus
  Socrates
  Sleepy
  Dopey
  Grumpy

Seven herbs & spices:
  Borage
  Myrrh
  Wolfsbane
  Castor bean
  Arsenic
  Tetrodotoxin
  Red dye #2

Seven wishes:
  Immortality
  Eternal youth
  Classic beauty
  Endless wealth
  Omniscience
  Buns of steel
  Mel Gibson

Seven movies I haven't seen:
  Santa Claus vs. the Martians
  Sequel to Plan 9 from Outer Space
  I Married a Man from the Phone Company
  Inquisition: the Musical
  Ma and Pa Kettle Buy the Farm
  The Pittsburgh Story
  Attack of the Enema People

Seven things I hate:
  Lists
  Surveys
  Questionnaires
  Telemarketers
  Spam
  Junk mail
  High colonics

There! Now what did all that prove, anyway?

1-5-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

An acquaintance of mine has a Pomeranian dog -- one of those of the hairy, yappy persuasion-- and she sent him to obedience school to learn how to be a "pet therapy" dog. Mostly, they go visit the elderly in the local nursing homes and home-bound invalids.

Have you ever had pet visits at LDRU? Did you enjoy them?

-- Canophile in Canopus

Dear Canophile:

The management here, eager to cut corners wherever possible, encourages the visits of "pet therapy" animals, although they usually specify larger, heavier dogs like Newfoundlands and St. Bernards as they last longer. I did, however, manage to copy down some information from the food service that's appropriate for the smaller variety:
-------------
Pomeranian Pet Therapy Surprise

1 large oven-ready Pomeranian
1/2 cup butter
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 lbs sweet dessert apples, peeled, cored and sliced
1 cup heavy cream
1/4 cup Apfelschnaps or Calvados (domestic applejack can be substituted)
1/2 lb Methwurst or other Pomeranian/German sausage, whole links

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Melt half the butter in a large frying pan. Add the pomeranian, season with salt and pepper, and brown it all over. Melt the remaining butter in another frying pan. Add the apple slices and sausage and cook them until the apples are golden brown. Put a layer of apple slices in a deep casserole dish in which the pomeranian will fit securely. Place the pomeranian on top of the apple slices, breast down, and pack it around with the rest of the apple and the sausage. Pour in one-third of the cream.

Roast covered for 1 hour or until the pomeranian is cooked, turning it over after 30 minutes. Remove the casserole from the oven and increase the heat to 450 degrees. Pour in the remaining cream and then the Apfelschnaps/Calvados (or applejack) over the pomeranian. Adjust the seasoning, cover the casserole and return it to the oven for 10 minutes. Serve from the casserole. Serves 2-3
-------------- 

1-6-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

What is the origin of the British expression, "bless his cotton socks"? Why was cotton considered so precious? Why not bless his silk socks, for instance? On what occasion would you use this expression originally-- it seems to be in daily use in England these days usually referring to someone a bit daft who has done something in character-- or especially nice.

-- Wordster in Worwickwireshire

Dear Weird:

Not being of the British persuasion, I had to ring up an old friend, Professor Reginald Hyphen-Smyth, emeritus of Boodles College, Oxbridge-upon-Camshaft. His answer follows:

1-7-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

What's this world coming to? I just read where an Amish teen was charged with drunk driving while at the reins of a horse and buggy.

--Teetotaler in Tijuana

Dear Teetotaler:

That's happening more and more lately as the 21st century works its way into the Amish culture. Amish teens have thrown over cubeb cigarettes and birch beer for unfiltered Camels and caffeine-laced Mountain Dew. You can see them staggering around, wired and nicotine-crazed as late as 8 pm in some towns. There also seems to be a growing rivalry between the rival Amish and Mennonite gangs over turf and drugs. A Mennonite kid was caught with several square feet of Amish turf (red fescue and bluegrass, the Amish colors) and was left on a split rail fence with his tie undone and his hat reversed. The following week an Amish youth was treated for what medical personnel described as a " serious button-fly wedgie."

Police have noted an increase in drive-by whippings and buggyjackings as well. There are rumored to be several "chop shops" in the area that can reduce a buggy and horse to their component parts in a matter of hours-- some with links to known antiquarians and dog food purveyors. An Amish boy was overheard discussing how to "Alpo" the transportation of a rival gang member. 

It's certainly sad to see. Any day now the trend toward degeneracy will spread to the womenfolk as well, and you'll be seeing peekaboo bonnets and women speaking up at meetings. It's all downhill from there.

1-8-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

On a history test we had the question, "Who invented cotton gin?" I put down Eli Whitney, of course, but it was marked wrong. Any idea why?

-- Puzzled in Pucallpa

Dear Puzzled:

It's a trick question. Notice how it's phrased. If the question had been, "Who invented *the* cotton gin?" your response would have been quite correct. But this question refers to a different, similarly-named but unrelated person, Wilbur Whitney, a clever American barkeep who in 1789 discovered a method for turning surplus cotton into gin during the Great Cotton Glut I mentioned the other day. It was wildly popular in the new nation, especially among the laboring classes, which is one reason the Erie Canal is as crooked as it is, and why it goes to Albany instead of Atlantic City as was originally intended, the better to attract the Canadian tourist trade.

It also led to the decline of slavery in the USA, as most of the slaves were perfectly happy to sit on the levee with a gin mint julep, waitin' for the "Wilbur Whitney" to age properly. There was even a popular song about it.

Soon Whitney began exporting cotton gin to England, to the consequent ruin of the British working classes. A peasant could get a pint of cotton gin and a cottonseed cake for ha'pence, and spend the rest of the day slumped insensible in a horse trough. French workers embraced it as a substitute for French beer, about which the less said the better. Russians found it a lot easier to drink than kvass or vodka, and the superlative alcohol content kept them from freezing as they lay insensible in the streets during the long Russian winter nights.

It was only the American Civil War that kept the entire planet from becoming comfortably besotted, to the point where civilization itself was at risk. But with the first shot fired at Fort Sumter, cotton as cloth became more valuable than cotton as gin, what with the sudden need for uniforms, saddle blankets, bandages, tents and patches for minié balls as well as wadding for cannon.

Cut off from its supply of cheap gin, the rest of the world shook its collective head, took the pledge, and got on with the business of perfecting the railroad, the telegraph and the steam engine. By the war's end in 1865 the recipe for cotton gin had been lost, and a disappointed Ulysses S. Grant had to content himself with bourbon, which he said wasn't bad going down, but was awful coming back up again. 

1-9-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

When I was young, an annually expected stocking stuffer was a small bag of pistachios. We loved to enjoy their peculiar taste, and especially loved the redness that stained our lips, finger tips, and the cushions of grandmother's sofa. I was recently reminded of these fond memories when I received a lovely handmade cloth bag full of the delightful morsels. 

But when I opened the bag, I found that they were all a hideous greenish brown.... When I tried to return them to the boutique where they were purchased, the clerk claimed this was their NATURAL color!!!

Could you please tell me the real reason? (I suspect that the nuts were infected with some awful contagious disease, and soaked in bleach to prevent its spread....)

-- Redhead in Redmond 

Dear Redhead:

You're absolutely partially correct. This is part of the new government "risk-free living" program, intended to protect us from ourselves. You see, the red dye that was used to color pistachios contained one part per trillion of cochineal, a substance which, if sufficiently concentrated, formed into pellets and loaded into shotgun shells, can kill or injure anyone up to 10 feet away when the shotgun is discharged at them. 

Researchers from the North American Paranoia Institute also discovered that sufficient quantities of cochineal, say, 50 pounds of it, when placed in a bag and dropped from a sufficient height, could cripple or kill laboratory animals. There were also field reports that someone in Ohio became violently ill from eating four pounds of pistachio nut shells and washing them down with a quart of tequila. Obviously this was a dangerous substance and should be taken off the market immediately. You can't be too careful.

And yes, the bleach treatment is applied to pistachios and certain other products like Ebola nuts that are grown in horrible places like Senegal and the Botswana, where every other person has AIDS and all the cattle are infected with organic anthrax. Studies sponsored by the Clorox Sterility Safety Council show that soaking in straight bleach kills almost all forms of life, although consumers are advised to wash all food products in nitric acid just to be on the safe side. You can't be too careful.

In other news, the Kraft Food Peril Alertness Foundation has suggested that imports of bleu cheese, Stilton, Roquefort and similar products be banned immediately, as every sample examined has been found to be contaminated with mold. Kraft recommends that Americans stock up instead on domestic cheeses which contain no organic matter whatsoever, and are individually wrapped in plastic sheets, dipped in bleach, then irradiated with neutron bursts. You can't be too careful....  

1-10-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I have this very odd problem. I have this mental jukebox stuck in my mind, and it's playing a song called "Doo Wa Ditty Ditty," over and over again. 

Now mind you, I liked that song when it first came out, but at some point you'd think that its needle would just wear down. So how do I turn off this jukebox, and that dagnabbit' song?

-- Memorexed in Memphis

Dear Memorexed:

This is a common condition among older people who spent their formative years listening to rock and roll music at sound levels that could sandblast concrete. Apparently the brain is taking its revenge for years of aural abuse by going into playback mode at every opportunity. 

It hasn't happened to me yet, since my formative years were over long before amplifiers and megawatt stereo systems came along. There was no way you could crank up any decent sounds when you were limited to a bamboo needle, a shellac record and a big horn. What you heard was what you got.

The world's leading authority on the phenomenon you're experiencing is Dr. Sheldon Eorwaggs of the University of the Everglades in Florida. In his new book, "Rock and Roll Reflux" (London & Bombay, 2002), he discusses how he first realized that he had made a discovery that might get him onto the best-seller charts:

"I was all shook up when I began seeing a whole lotta people at my hearing clinic all complaining of this same condition. I heard it through the grapevine that other audiologists have reported the same thing. It seems that if it has a back beat you can't lose it, it goes round and round-- like a boomerang. Time of day doesn't seem to matter, they hear rock around the clock, the beat goes on no matter what they do-- and they're not picking up good vibrations, believe me, truly, do. 

"Sadly, it gets worse with age. A patient said to me, 'I know a man ain't supposed to cry, that R&R's been the ruin of many a poor boy and God I know I'm one, but what happens when I'm sixty-four?' I had to break it to him gently that once you've started out doing the things you used to do, there's no turning back, shoo-bak, shoo-bak...."

So you have my sympathy, Memorexed. Perhaps someday there will be a cure, but for right now, all you can do is send up a little prayer. Shoo-bak.

1-11-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I understand, in a small way, that the world exists because of the concept of evolution, and of course, revolution. Knowing this, dear Nettie, I was wondering if you could explain the existence of France?

-- Francophobe in Franconia 

Dear Francophobe:

France is indeed a puzzle. It seems sometimes that they were placed on earth solely to raise objections, but this wasn't always the case. Before they became revolting in 1789 they had a long history of peacefully conquering other nations, first as Gauls, then as Franks. Some of their early leaders, like Asterix and Obelix were not only mighty warriors, but cultural leaders as well, Asterix having invented the little star that goes alongside words* and causes you to lose complete track of the meaning of a sentence. That invention alone lead to the downfall of the Perignathians and the Thuringians, the latter of whom got out of the conquest business entirely and went into the sausage trade.

Gauls were called "Celts"** by the Romans to tease them, which caused many Gauls to move to Ireland during the Homestead Act, where they were given 40 acres and a mule and spent the Dark Ages illuminating manuscripts because they needed the light. 

Franks were called Franks because they came from Germany. Go figure.

Anyway, after the Norman French-- who were called Normans because they were descended from Vikings-- conquered England in 1066, Norman the Conqueror introduced many French customs to the English, such as wearing clothing, building cathedrals and cooking food. The English refused to adopt the French language, however, claiming that it would cause them to sound like fairies. They preferred their own language, Anglo-Saxon, which was borrowed piecemeal from the Dutch and the Germans (Franks). The French (Normans vs. Gauls, 10-7 in overtime) could not get the hang of "Anglish," which sounded to them like a garbage disposal*** having a difficult time with a batch of cabbage stumps.

So the French (Gallic Celts) gave up in disgust and went back to the mainland just in time for the 100 Years War, the 30 Years War, the 12¾ years War and Crusades 1 through 13 inclusive. Just as they finished fighting it was time for the French**** Revolution, which gave us the metric system which today is used by the entire planet with the exception of the United States and the Sultanate of Punt. 

It also gave us the Revolutionary Calendar, which was impossible to use because it had weird months in it like Brumaire and Nivôse, and the weeks were 10 days long and the months 3 weeks long and alternate Tuesdays were Sundays if that month had an "R" in it. They were eventually forced to change back at gunpoint by Napoleon Bonaparte, a Corsican (Roman, then Italian, then Mexican, then French) who did everything at gunpoint.***** He flatly refused to have the 1812 Symphony called the Fructidor XX Symphony, which he claimed made it sound like an energy drink.

Things went rapidly downhill after the Napoleonic Wars, which France (not Corsica) lost by a judge's decision. The country sank into dire poverty, and the people were reduced to eating horses, fungi, moldy cheese and gastropods to stay alive, claiming, of course that this was haut cuisine.******  They were rescued from this by the Franco-Prussian (kinda German) War, then by World War I, during which the entire country was converted into trenches and shell craters. This was avoided during the sequel, World War II, as the government promptly surrendered and let the Allies thrash it out amongst themselves. 

Since the end of the war France has given the world the bikini, which caught on, Brigitte Bardot likewise, and Jean-Paul Sartre, which fortunately did not, or the world suicide rate would be triple what it is today because of his sordid, depressing books.*******

Lately nothing much of interest has happened in France, which is how the French people like it. They spend their days drinking California wine (carefully wrapped in brown paper bags to avoid the wine police), cursing tourists, and being generally miserable in the UN, where they first find out how everybody else is voting, then vote the opposite. They still eat horses, fungi, moldy cheese and gastropods out of sheer stubbornness, but the quality has improved.

If you visit there bring loads of money, some decent toilet paper and learn the French phrase "Thank you for not spitting on me."********

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

*Made you look!

** Because of the size of their richards. "Celt" means, roughly, whacked off with a stone axe.

*** Goats were the principal garbage disposals of the Middle Ages until they were displaced by the In-Sink-Erator peoples in 1947.

**** Gallic, but with traces of Frankish, Celtic notes and a light Norman finish.

***** Yes, that too, according to his wife.

****** "High food," as in spoiled, not elevated, regardless of what they tell you in the tourist brochures.

******* "Being & Nothingness," "The Return of Being & Nothingness," "Nausea," "Flies" and "Overcoming Irritable Bowel Syndrome" among them.

******** "Merci de ne pas cracher sur moi."

1-12-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I'm trying to find out the name of the world's loudest musical instrument. As nearly as I can tell, it's the carillon, whose bells can be heard at a distance of 7 miles. I have a bet riding on this, so I want to be sure I'm right. Can you think of a louder instrument?

-- Audiophile in Audubon

Dear Audiophile:

Your carillon is a wax-paper kazoo compared with the device that Pabst Buggchukker of my home town in Redbone came up with for the 1921 county fair. Pabst was the organist at St. Puddleduck's church every Sunday and played piano at Miss Sadie's House of Lust during the week. He had one time heard a steam calliope at a circus, and was entranced with the sheer power of the instrument. For years he labored in his grandfather's barn perfecting something even better, which he called the "BlastaToot." It was composed of 12 brass tubas from the defunct Redbone Marine Band, each tuned an octave apart, hitched up to a keyboard, and driven by steam from the boiler of the 1909 Stanley touring car which was also in his grandfather's barn. 

I must confess that, at 140 pounds of steam pressure, Pabst's BlastaToot put out a world of sound, and it was a lot easier to listen to than his earlier invention, the compressed-air harmonica, which used to drive the neighborhood dogs crazy whenever he launched into "It's a Long Way to Tipperary," or "I'm Only a Bird in a Gilded Cage," two of his favorites. 

Anyway, as the county fair approached, Pabst polished up his big horns and got ready to wow the attendees with what he called "The Loudest Music This Side of Heaven." He ran into a stumbling-block, however, when he discovered that the wheels and axles of the old Stanley Steamer had long ago been sold for scrap. He was assured by the officials at the fairgrounds that an adequate source of steam would be waiting for him when he arrived, so he loaded the BlastaToot into his chain-drive Reo pickup truck and arrived safe and sound, having suffered only 12 blowouts due to the condition of Redbone's roads at the time.

The fair opened at Friday noon. True to their word, the officials had arranged for a pipe to be run from the paper mill over to the fairgrounds, and the Pabst Buggchukker Novelty BlastaToot was given a place of honor on the speaker's platform. The governor cut the ribbon to open the fair precisely at noon, nodding as he did to Pabst at his keyboard, who promptly launched into "The Star-Spangled Banner." 

But it wasn't music as we know it on this planet that came from the massed horns of the BlastaToot. You, see, Pabst had designed the contraption to run on 140 pounds of steam pressure from the leaky old Stanley boiler. The main boiler at the paper mill delivered 8,500 psi, so the opening bars of the national anthem were delivered, not as sound, but more in the nature of an overpressure wave that would later be associated with atom bomb tests in the 1950s. You remember those old movies they used to show: suddenly this little frame house a quarter of a mile from ground zero would be blown to smithereens in the wink of an eye, and trees and such would simply cease to exist. 

Well, the carnage was dreadful, as you might expect. Even 5 miles away from BlastaToot Zero herds of dairy cattle were swept up into the air and vaporized into a thick mist of beef and cream. Rumpledeskunk Forest instantly became Rumpledeskunk Desert, and the village of Hogsbreath, two counties over, was buried under the firewood and toothpicks that rained down from the sky as a result. Worse yet, the overpressure wave sent the entire contents of Lake Moron straight up the side of Afterpoodle Mountain until gravity suddenly wrestled control again and the only inland freshwater tsunami in recorded history roared back down the slopes, obliterating everything in its path, including the fairgrounds, the paper mill, the BlastaToot and the considerably astonished Pabst Buggchukker, who was last seen frantically trying to save his sheet music as Noah II: Revenge of the Flood swept him away.

So that, as they say, was that. And you can put your money safely on the BlastaToot, as nothing that loud will ever again be heard on God's green earth short of a major asteroid collision, and no one would ever claim that was music, now would they?

1-13-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

The Furby that sits on top of my monitor has begun speaking backwards in Latin, and the eyes have this odd red glow, even though I took the batteries out. There's no mention of a feature like this in the manual. Any suggestions?

-- Possessed in Possango

Dear Possessed:

I've been hearing strange reports about Furbys doing odd things, but this is a new one. You might want to take it down to the local church and dunk it in the holy water font, assuming you can get it in the door. That will probably void the warranty, but it's a welcome alternative to having your throat bitten out in the night and your flesh sacrificed on a black LEGO altar as hundreds of mechanical monkeys clap their cymbals together and AIBO does obscene things with Barbie and/or GI Joe. 

The worst case of demonic possession of popular toys that I can recall is the Cabbage Witch Kids attacks of the late 1980s, after the movie "Chucky" was inadvertently shown to a bunch of children at a local day care center in the town of Elmira, New York. Thank the Lord for flamethrowers!

1-14-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I was walking down the street one day when I tripped and hit my head on a tree. Just then a squirrel popped out and begged me to be on guard for the Model Ts.

Ooops.... Sorry bout that... just a flashback. Let me try again.

Dear Aunt Nettie: what's the difference between "old" and "really old"?

-- Gerontic in Geronimo

Dear Gerontic: 

Old is reminiscing about your first automobile.
Really old is reminiscing about your first Conestoga wagon.

Old is remembering where you were when Pearl Harbor was attacked.
Really old is remembering where you were when Fort Sumter was attacked.

Old is recalling when radio was a novelty.
Really old is recalling when electricity was a novelty.

Old is having heard political slogans like "Win with Wilson."
Really old is having heard political slogans like "Tippecanoe and Tyler, too."

Old is having rode the rails.
Really old is having built the rails.

Old is when the Kaiser was the enemy.
Really old is when Sitting Bull was the enemy.

Old is honeymooning at Niagara Falls.
Really old is honeymooning in the New World.

Old is having clipped articles out of the New York World-Telegram.
Really old is having clipped articles out of The Federalist.

Old is when nylon replaced silk.
Really old is when gingham replaced linsey-woolsey

Old is having feared polio.
Really old is having feared the plague.

Old is remembering when women got the vote.
Really old is remembering when men got the vote.

Old is recalling your grandfather in puttees.
Really old is recalling your grandfather in chain mail.

Old is family stories about the Johnstown Flood.
Really old is family stories about the Biblical Flood.

Old is missing passenger pigeons.
Really old is missing wooly mammoths.

Old is having the bathroom brought into the home.
Really old is having fire brought into the home.

Old is being proud that your ancestors walked as free citizens.
Really old is being proud your ancestors walked upright.

1-15-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I've noticed a disturbing trend on TV lately. In between the surfboard wax commercials and the Sugar Pops cereal ones, comes the "Depends for Baby Boomers" commercials.

Nettie, are they trying to tell the Baby Boomer generation something?

-- Wasted in Wausau 

Dear Wasted:

Yes. The message is that "bop till you drop" has taken on an entirely new meaning at this stage in your life....

1-16-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

What did you do for a living before you retired to Living Dead "R" Us?

--Unemployed in Union City

Dear Unemployed:

Many, many, many things. As a matter of fact I doubt that there are many people alive today who have so diverse a curriculum vitae.

You see, back in the bad old days it was difficult for a single woman to make her way in the world in a profession that didn't involve either sewing or using expressions like, "Hello, sailor, looking for a little action?" 

At various times I've worked as a porcupine canner, a cranberry rancher, a professional hostage, a zeppelin stewardess, a free-lance psephologist and a polisher at a glass eye factory. The last was a lot of fun because employees got to keep the rejects, which we would sell as shooters to the marble-players in the schoolyards. I gave one of my beaux a set of cufflinks made from matching green eyeballs, but he never wore them in public.

During one of the wars I used to be a grenade tester. The testers had to pick out one grenade from every shipment and try it out, as kind of quality control. We got to keep the defects from that job, too. Norma Sue Finchwick had four in her purse when it was stolen on Main Street in Redbone. (She used to take them home and paint them red, white and blue and sell them as patriotic paperweights.) In the struggle she grabbed onto the cord that she had strung them on. As the young miscreant pulled the purse away from her she was left with just the cord and four pins. The thief managed to get to the alley alongside the barber shop when he, Norma, and most of the town discovered that one of the grenades wasn't really a dud, and that grenade persuaded the other three to join the entertainment, so to speak, resulting in the conversion of one purse snatcher into a sprightly red stain on the brick wall and a pinkish mist floating away over the rooftops. Never did find out who it was, but the Clutterbums who lived in a tar paper roll down by the railroad tracks seemed to be missing one of their brood from that point. Not that they noticed.

Then there was my brief employment as a medium. I soon got tired of the chicanery and bamboozlement, however, and the fact that I only got 10% of the take, even though I was the one who had to generate the ectoplasm and talk in all those voices.

Also was the lookout for the Aspen Grove White Lightning Distillery until that incident with the revenoors. 

And the first nude weathergirl at the local radio station.

Did I mention test pilot? 

1-17-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Why do some people feel they have to use Latin words when they write? I mean stuff like "i.e." and "e.g." and that kind of thing? What's wrong with good old American English, anyway?

-- Xenophobe in Xenia

Dear Xenophobe:

The use of Latin serves two important functions: firstly, it allows a writer to use a kind of "shorthand" instead of spelling out a commonly used expression. It's far easier to jot down "i.e." than to spell out what the initials mean ("igitur ego oppido quodam oriundus quod in ingressu minoris constructum, ab urbe versus orientem octocredo miliariis remotum, proprio vocabulo appellatur, sicut natura terre mee vel generis animo levis, ita et ingenioextiti et ad litteratoriam disciplinam facilis"). Which I believe has something to do with all of Gaul being divided into three parts, like a very small pizza.

Secondly, the use of Latin is critical to the survival of the Italian economy, which has the leasing rights to both Latin and pizza and collects a tiny usage fee (.005 €) every time a Latin word is used or pie is flipped. Since Italy has limited export ability (pasta and cheap tinny cars), its very survival depends on tourism and on the income from the use of Latin. And pizza.
-----
See "Latin Loan Words: An Economic Quid Pro Quo" by Demetrius Tertius (London & Bombay, 1977)

1-18-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

You've helped me before with my research into children's games. I wonder if you could tell me the name of an Ozark "choosing" game that was played with a sweet potato?

-- Ludic in Ludlow

Dear Ludic:

I believe you're referring to the ancient and venerable mountain sport of "yam slamming." To play it you needed a tough unripe yam, a handful of lard or bacon fat and a smooth, level tree stump. After the yam and the tree stump were liberally buttered with the lard the players would circle around the stump chanting:

"Sam, Sam, come on, man,
Slam that yam with your hand!
Yam, yam, take a stand
Pick out one from our jolly band
Who we shall have to reprimand!"

... or something similar depending on where you lived. I recall that the kids from Munchkin Gulch ended their version with "Who shall then take a cattle brand," but they were a much rougher bunch.

Anyway, one of the kids would then slam his lard-covered palm down on the yam, causing it to squirt out in one direction or another like a watermelon seed and conk one of the kids in the head, or more likely the eye. That person would then have to accept a punishment of some kind. The game would continue until all of us were blinded or senseless, or until wolves had caught the scent of the lard and would come down the mountains and devour one of the slower, slipperier kids. 

Yam-slamming became less popular as civilization crept into the mountain communities and children took up tamer games like "Hide and Seek" and "Simon Says," although we still used lard to attract the wolves....

1-19-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I was driving home tonight, and glanced up just in time to see a "high five" vision... a fireball shooting across the sky... and by god, I hope that's what it was. 

Miss Nettie, where in the heck do sky shooting fireballs come from? And should I attach any significance to them?

-- Meteoric in Metairie

Dear Meteoric:

There are two forms of fireballs, the first being the perfectly natural phenomenon of a chunk of rock or metal burning up in our atmosphere due to friction.

The second is the cloaking or camouflage device used by the Watchers when they need to observe an event close-up without being detected. You'll be seeing an increase in this kind of activity as they conclude their research and make the final decision on whether human life is an interesting, if flawed, experiment in evolutionary biology or a form of planetary cancer.

If they decide on the first we will continue to be isolated from the Galactic Union and simply observed for the education and amusement of their youngsters-- sort of like Sea Monkeys. 

In the latter case we will be excised and control of the planet handed over to representatives of the dolphin/cat alliance, the way it should have been two million years ago if the damned mischievous Pn'trk¬ª° hadn't put up that big black slab of an improbability generator at Olduvai Gorge in the Serengeti. 

1-20-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Before the 8th of January and for the previous 10 years my partner was disabled. Now the government has decided that her disabilities no longer exist. Does this mean that she will be okay healthwise from now on?

-- Medicaided in Medina

Dear Medicaided:

This is part of the government's new "healing by declaration" policy. It's designed to save whole pots of money which can then be transferred to oil depletion allowances or some equally worthy cause.

This policy was first tried out in the 1980s, when Ronnie Reagan decided to cure all the mentally ill by declaration to set aside some money for his "Star Warez" program. The cured insane were returned to their home communities where today they happily live in the streets amid the vermin and the squalor, begging for quarters and dying miserably. The government sends around interviewers from time to time to make sure they're still happy, and the cured agree that they couldn't be happier, although some do admit that they'd be happier back on their home planet Tralfamador.

1-21-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Some little snip at work accused me of being "hysterical." I thought that hysteria was just an affliction of women, if you'll check your Greek for the origins of the word. How could it possibly refer to me?

-- Manly in Mansford

Dear Manly:

I have indeed checked with my Greek, Jimmy "The Tout" Kazamarakis, who conveniently also happens to be my bookie. He was no help, but I did get a tip on the Ozark 500 race next Saturday.

I suspect that the word "hysterical" your snip used was actually referring to the lesser known Dravidian root "hysteresis," which is defined thusly:

hysteresis (hîs´te-rê´sîs) noun
plural hystereses (-sêz)
The lagging of an effect behind its cause, as when the change in magnetism of a body lags behind changes in the magnetic field.

[Greek/Dravidian~ husterêsis, a shortcoming, from husterein, to come late, from husteros, late.]
- hys´teret´ic (-rèt´îk) adjective

When applied to the human condition it refers to a unique sort of quasi-paralysis in which the bodily response lags behind the mental stimulus, especially in people with strongly magnetic personalities. 

When I was in high school we had a young man thus afflicted, who suffered from advanced hysteresis. In his case it was a displacement delay of about a week or so, which, as you can imagine, made him useless during gym session basketball games but hilarious in the classroom, especially during algebra, which always seemed to coincide with riding his bicycle the week before. The teacher, Miss Prawncrafter, would ask Lester to diagram a trinomial or somesuch, and the next thing you know his legs would be pumping away a mile a minute. The following week on the way to school he would fall off his bike and start muttering about integers and equations. It was a sad case, I suppose, but, being teenagers, we of course made fun of him mercilessly until he threw himself off a bridge one afternoon and drowned precisely a week later in Civics class.

1-22-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Do you have any regrets?

--Rueful in Ruritania

Dear Rueful:

I thought I had, but I checked and I can't find them now. I suspect the help. 

1-23-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Have you ever traveled? Or have you just spent your years landlocked in some godforsaken holler in Arkansas? 

-- Gadabout in Gadsden

Dear Gadabout:

Oh, I've been here and there. Let's see... England... France... Prussia... Outer Mongolia... the Belgian Congo... Tierra del Fuego... Siam... Borneo... the Austro-Hungarian Empire... Kingdom of the Two Sicilies... Antarctica... China... Cleveland....

The one thing I learned early on is that, no matter where you go, foreigners are completely different, and most of them talk funny. Also that it's a good idea to carry a pocketful of gold coins to ease your way out of difficult situations. Also to carry a revolver in case the gold doesn't work.

Perhaps the most interesting trip was the expedition to find Noah's Ark. But I'm sure you don't want to hear an old woman nattering on about her foreign travels. We have a couple of old biddies here who go on and on about some sea cruise they took before one of the wars. If they get your ear you're a gonner for a couple of hours. Fortunately I learned Robert Benchley's technique for dealing with travelers,* which always stops them dead in their tracks.
----------------
"Turning Back the European Offensive" in The Benchley Roundup, Harper Bros., New York 1954 

1-24-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

What was it like before 1920?

-- Yugo Girl in Yuma Gorge

Dear Yugo:

Well, it was a lot like... 1919. 

That, by the way, was a year made infamous by the passage of the Volstead Act, which led to a 24-year failed experiment with Prohibition. The idea was to set the USA up as a completely moral society, in much the same way that the Taliban set up Afghanistan as a moral society. It led, of course, to the rise of organized crime, which was much harder to contain than disorganized crime. It also made drinking fashionable among women, who then went on to invent the Charleston, the Black Bottom and lots of other lewd dances while they were schnockered. Fashions also became more revealing for the same reason.

What else... oh, yes, in 1919 the French artist Marcel Duchamp created the work "L.H.O.O.Q.," a reproduction of Leonardo da Vinci's "Mona Lisa" on which he had painted a moustache. This led to his eviction from France, and he was forced to take refuge in Redbone, Arkansas, where he met his old war buddy and fellow flying ace Bagasse Mumblestoats. Duchamp encouraged young Mumblestoats to pursue his courtship of the heiress Gematria Pulverington-Wheatwhistle, and was instrumental in helping them establish the Museum of Depressionist Art in our home town. Duchamp left Redbone after Prohibition, saying that as a Frenchman he was constitutionally unsuited to sobriety.

A man named John Dos Passos liked the year 1919 so much that he wrote an entire book about it. He was subsequently sued by a coalition of calendar manufacturers who claimed the year was protected as intellectual property. Dos Passos had little problem proving that he was an intellectual and had as much right to the year as any other doubledome....  

1-25-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I need to know if you have ever had venison from a tin, or canned rabbit stew.

--Gamey in Gammelsdorf

Dear Gamey:

As a matter of fact I could never stand eating Bambi or Thumper. Deer and rabbits, for all their faults, are too gosh-darned cute to put on a menu. They live life to the fullest, they're lively and intelligent and fun to watch.

Cattle are a different story. Cattle have been crossbred and hybridized to the point where they only have a dozen functioning brain cells. You can make friends with a deer or a rabbit, but cattle just stand there looking at you like so much animated stewing beef. Deer and rabbits can scamper and run, whereas cattle do not only move sluggishly when they move at all, but they sometimes forget to move altogether, and on occasion forget to breathe. At the end of every day ranchers find two or three cattle standing there with bewildered expressions on their faces, stone dead.

Cattle are also the world's leading supplier of free methane. They're simply big fermentation tanks on legs, designed to convert grass into vast quantities of flammable gas. This has led to catastrophes like the great Chicago fire in 1871 and the Hindenburg disaster of 1937 in Lakehurst, New Jersey, which led to legislation prohibiting the transport of cattle on dirigibles. 

1-26-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I noticed an ad for 4-H Clubs that had an address smack-dab in the worst part of our not-so-fair city. Whatever happened to farm kids and livestock and all those other rural concerns?

-- Bucolic in Butte

Dear Bucolic:

Hmmm.... It appears that 4-H has changed considerably in recent years, as the following Dissociated Press article indicates:

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

------------------
© 2004 The Dissociated Press 

1-27-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I've been reading your column for a long time now, and have been struck by the odd names of the people who live in and around your home town of Redbone. They're unlike names in any other part of the country. How did that come about?

-- Onomastic in Oneonta

Dear Onomastic:

You have to understand that Redbone was settled by inmates of British and Continental lunatic asylums, and either did not know their own names or had only a first name. That wasn't a problem until the first US census in 1790. The census takers, who were annoyed to stumble across Redbone in an area that the maps said was uninhabited, were outraged to discover that no one had a last name, and that there was only a handful of first names in use. They had to set up a meeting place and call together all the residents and assign them names as a first order of business.

According to the current Redbone town historian, Narby Danweegum Poonfarb, the naming ceremony was generously lubricated by many pints of strong ale. The census takers used names they had already collected, but scrambled them inventively to create new, Redbone-exclusive names. Each resident was given a wooden plaque with his or her name painted on it, which they were supposed to wear until they and their neighbors had become accustomed to their new monikers. Conditions being what they were back then, this was not strictly carried out, and some residents began using their plaques as a medium of exchange, until at one point Ebenezer Ventgas had cornered the market on them, then exacted a fearful charge to redeem them.

The census of 1820 was even worse. By that time the original names had gotten completely mixed up thanks to mental indisposition combined with illiteracy, so the census takers quietly erased Redbone from the map, replacing it with a tag that read, "Here be Dragons." 

Hence Redbone's unique nomenclature. Where else would you find Nutclusters living beside Turkeybangers, with the Buttforths and the Monsterknockers across the street? After all these years we've come to take pride in our uniqueness... but not much.

1-28-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Am planning a trip to Mexico but am concerned about Montezuma's Revenge. What on earth is that? I've yet to meet anyone named Montezuma, let alone anger one! Who should I watch for? What protocols should I follow?

-- Hot to Trot in Hotstader

Dear Hot:

Montezuma (or Moctezuma) was the ruler of the Aztec Empire of Mexico. When the Spanish brigand Hernán Cortés arrived in Mexico in 1519, Montezuma invited him into the celestial city of Tenotchitlan. Cortés repaid the courtesy by taking Montezuma hostage, holding him for a ransom of several tons of gold, then killing him after he secured the ransom. He also flooded the country with smallpox, influenza and missionaries, which took a dreadful toll on the population.

Needless to say this annoyed the Aztecs, who have revenged themselves on impolite tourists ever since. I suggest you be extremely courteous during your Mexican trip, tip heavily and say nothing good about Spain. Should you slip up, you are likely to be taken by the light of the full moon to an Aztec temple where your heart will be removed without benefit of anesthetic and your body rolled down the temple steps to be consumed by the faithful. This practice has put a crimp in Mexican tourism, but has brought about a wonderful revival of the Aztec religion as well as adding needed protein to otherwise meager diets.

1-29-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Can you explain the purpose of hockey to me??

--Mystified in Myrtle Beach

Dear Mystified:

The origins of hockey are lost in history. It's hard to imagine what motivated the first Neanderthal to go out of his warm cave onto the frozen surface of a lake and bash around a frozen cow pie with a bent stick in the hopes of starting a fight. But, then, the Neanderthals were not too bright, and this quality has come down through the ages in both players and spectators. The name of the sport was originally "hawk-ptui," echoing the sound of teeth being spat out on a frozen surface.

As the glaciers retreated, the Neanderthals moved north, eventually crossing into Canada and settling in around the modern province of Quebec, thus explaining a lot about the local government, founded on the principle of not learning English. Quebeckaneers, or Quebuckskins, prefer to communicate in a language which is called "French," but which bears the same relation to real French as Bangladeshi English does to what people speak in England and America. This is actually an advantage when it comes to the game of hockey, in which language is replace by grunts, cries of pain, oaths and post-game interviews.

In and of itself hockey is a simple game, in which one person ("the parolee") balanced on thin metal blades, attempts to strike a frozen disk of rubber ("the *uck") with sufficient force to cause it to fly through the air and kill the "ghoulie," while members of the opposing team strike him repeatedly with their sticks in an attempt to disable or cripple him. A member of the opposing team also stands in front of a small net enclosure wearing enough armor to qualify him as a hardened missile silo under the terms of the SALT treaty. He attempts to prevent the *uck from either entering the net or ripping his head off at the neck. Logically, the larger the ghoulie, the less chance there is of either event occurring, which is why ghoulies are bred from supposedly extinct Giant Ground Sloths.

The violence on the ice is matched, and occasionally bettered, by the behavior of the fans, who are composed of the kinds of people who own police scanners so they can drive to the scenes of road accidents and pick up body parts for their collection. They drink vast quantities of beer and revile the players and the other fans until mayhem breaks out, the police and national guard are called in, arrests are made, bodies identified, and the arena hosed down for the following night's game. 

That, in essence, is the sport of hockey as we know it. It's often confused with urban gang warfare, except that firearms are prohibited in hockey-- at least according to this year's rules.

1-30-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

This has been puzzling me for quite a time now. Why is it that after two small, delicate drinks of sherry I feel just a bit tippy and ready for "night-night," whereas after two sumptuous Kahlúa and Creams, I feel energized and raring to go?

-- Tippler in Tipperary 

Dear Tippler:

This is because Kahlúa is fermented and distilled from old coffee grounds, and consequently contains a sizeable jolt of pure caffeine. 

Mexican peons discovered the fermentability of coffee grounds by watching Mexican roadrunners, which have a peculiar fondness for the stuff. They noticed that the roadrunners would find a pile of deteriorating grounds behind a restaurant or shop, chow down, then take off at high speed and run smack into a tree, where they were easy prey for even the most inept coyote. The peons noted that the same thing happened when one of their own fellow-peons bolted down too much tequila and took off at high speed on a motorcycle. The connection was obvious.

After careful experimentation the peons discovered the perfect fermentation process, which involved hand-pressing the grounds, delicately balancing the caffeine and the alcohol content, and adding a secret blend of eleven herbs and spices, nine of which were jalepeño peppers. They named it Kahlúa, after an old Aztec word meaning "awake but insensible."

So what you're feeling is the worst of all possible states, a combination of woozy and wired. I suggest you lay off the coffee and stick with the sauce. 

1-31-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

What is meant by the term "Big Six" accounting firms...? It seems that just a short time ago the news was filled with reports of the "Big Eight," and just before that the "Big Ten." It seems from my uneducated viewpoint that, as the number decreases, the scandals increase!

-- Arthur in Andersonville

Dear Arthur:

It's the Big Five now, since the sandwiching of PricewaterhouseCoopers. Eventually the Big Five will become the Big Three, then the Big One, named something like AndrsnPricewatrhseCooprsDeliTouchErnstYungKPMG. Pronounced "asafœtida."

This is one of the well-known hazards of oligomonopolies, that they tend to swallow each other like a flock of piranha on a slow cow day. Which is precisely why America dismantled them around the turn of the 20th century.

MUSEUM OF
DEPRESSIONIST ART

GALLERY OF
THE UNIDENTIFIABLE