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6-2-2005

Everybody's talking about wireless this and wireless that. What's next? A wireless yoyo?

-- Wired in Wachovia
 


Dear Wired:

I'm looking forward to the wireless high-wire act, myself. And the wireless-haired fox terrier, of course. Perhaps they could combine the two in a circus act....
 

 


6-4-2005

Dear Aunt Nettie:

In how many "Star Wars" films does the android C-3PO lose at least one body part?

Fan in Fearnot
 


Dear Fan:

All those edited and released by the American Family Association. Reverend Wildmon took umbrage at the robot's pelvic swivel trunnion, which he referred to as "that tin man's naughty bit." He also wanted Natalie Portman to wear a burka in every scene, because her appearance, as he put it, "made him want to think shame-shame."
 

 

 


6-6-2005

Dear Aunt Nettie:

When did Niagara Falls stop flowing and when did it resume flow?

-- Misty in Missoula
 


Dear Misty:

The flow was halted during the notorious Waterfall Maintenance Workers Union, Local # 102 strike in 1934. The workers were demanding better raincoats and gum boots, plus hearing protection and free rides on the "Maid of the Mist." It was settled by binding arbitration on April 3rd, 1935. The falls were operating again the following day, much to the relief of stranded honeymooners.
 

 


6-8-2005

Dear Aunt Nettie:

What is the origin of the term "Portland Cement?"

-- Sammy the Bull in Cognito
 


Dear Sammy:

Portland Cement is the type of footgear worn by minor Oregonian mobster Pauly "No Anchovies" Antipasto on the day he disappeared after crossing the capo di tutti frutti capi Alphonse "Holdthemayo" Jacuzzi during the Fast Food Gang Wars of 1957-1959.¹

¹Not to be confused with the infamous Burger Wars documented in paintings by Depressionist artist Jerome Gerôme.
 

 


6-9-2005

Dear Aunt Nettie:

What famous statesman sold 18 canvases to Hallmark cards for reproduction on greeting cards?

-- Greta from Greeley 
 


Dear Greta:

That was Gaspar Widdershins, President of Prime Meridian, who sold the front and back engravings to the American $1-, $2-, $5-, $10-, $20-, $50-, $100-, $500- and $1,000-dollar bills to Hallmark for its popular "Artificial Currency" series. Alas, greed was his downfall. A few months later he attempted to sell Hallmark the front and back engravings to an American $8-dollar bill and wound up wearing the same footgear as Pauly "No Anchovies" Antipasto mentioned yesterday.
 

 


6-10-2005

Dear Aunt Nettie:

Do you have any favorite columnists these days?

--Abby in Abingdon 
 


Dear Abby:

As a matter of fact I do have a few faves.  Right now I'm reading the collected works of Waylon Miles, a writer who escaped the bonds of Redbone and tried his luck in the Real World®.  Waylon lives here at Living Dead "R" Us now, having finally discovered that in the Real World®, he's a bondage freak.

Anyway, here's one of his classics:

AT THE PEDAL TO THE METAL PASSAGE
By Waylon Miles

Highway 81 Revised

I was driving in the rain with the crazies who thought they were Bobby Labonte on the Charlotte Speedway. Actually a little later I discovered it *was* the Charlotte Speedway, as I had apparently taken a wrong turn at Gastonia. But it got me to thinking about speed, especially as the ambulance took me to the hospital with sirens screaming and lights flashing. Why are we going so fast? I asked metaphorically. Or perhaps rhetorically-- the morphine was just beginning to kick in. The EMT said it was because they had to reach the hospital at the same time as the other ambulance, which had the rest of me. Comforted, I reflected on my day, on our national mores and Weltanschauung, and our need for speed. Morphine does that to me. Heroin too, if it's a good batch and relatively uncut.

I remember it was Memorial Day. I remember I was driving alone in a pickup truck. I remember the country music on the radio. But most of all, I remember Mama....

Mama was a fast driver, but she more than made up for it by her incompetence, once having been ticketed for doing 120 mph through a school playground. They never would have caught her except she hit the swings at a funny angle. She blamed the state troopers, who seemed to be persecuting her for such trivial offenses as driving the wrong way on the Interstate and for not stopping when the car caught on fire, as it often did whenever she tried to save money by using gasoline in her cigar lighter.

It was really a nightmare when she drove a big truck. I know they are the lifeblood in the economy's arteries. Where would we be without the big trucks hauling our consumer way of life to Wal-Mart? Then on the return trip hauling our money to Mexico, India and China? Then on the way back again hauling Mexicans north to work in the Wal-Mart? But trucks and cars don't belong on the same roads, at least when my mother was driving an 18-wheeler. She would labor up the hills in the slow lane at fifty or fifty-five, cursing like the dickens, then at the top shift lanes and make up time on the downhill run, riding the bumpers of the cars in front until they ran off the road at a hundred and thirty miles an hour. God damn them, she would opine, get 'em off the road or I swear I'll let 'em have it.

Which is what she often did north of Lexington. Perhaps this is why my father left home. If he did indeed leave, and is not secretly buried under the new floor in the garage. I've always wondered. At any rate *somebody's* hand is sticking up through the concrete, and I seem to remember my father had a watch like that. I always wanted to ask Mama, but somehow I could never work it into the conversation. I also seem to remember having a brother at one time. He used to like to play in the grease pit. Then one day Mama had it filled with grease. I miss him, if he actually existed.

Oh, speed again. I was talking about speed, wasn't I? My memory isn't what it used to be, and I think most of it is in the other ambulance. When did this kind of mass psychosis take a hold on us? Speed, I mean. At every moment along the Interstate I could see lines of cars driven bumper to bumper to bumper to bumper to bumper to bumper to bumper to bumper to bumper to bumper to bumper to bumper to bumper at high speed, even though every single driver knew that they were helpless if a car came along without a bumper and they were forced to improvise.

As I watched the train of suicide cars flowing past, anxious to get to their supper or television set, I observed with a certain profundity that it was a metaphor for our hectic society. The cars represent the people, and the highways represent our political systems. The filling stations along the highway represent organized religion, and the Stuckey's are the embodiment of the human quest for meaningfulness in a chaotic world. The bridges and overpasses... the bridges and overpasses... well, I'm sure the bridges and overpasses represent something, perhaps human aspirations or the heartbreak of psoriasis, or whatever. I'll have to work on that one. And I haven't decided where telephone poles fit in. But they must have a meaning, or what's a metaphor? Or is it is a symptom, a fever that runs through our communal psyche? Or merely that our underwear is too tight? If we can act in this frantic, heedless way on Highway 81, how careful will we be about entering underground garages, especially the ones with the little gates where if you back up !KERPOW! go your tires? The fast lane is going to wreck us if we keep riding this speedway. But getting wrecked in an ambulance is a whole different can of wax, or whatever the expression is. The morphine is first class.

However, in spite of the buzz my day is definitely going downhill. The other ambulance just ran a red light and got creamed by an 18-wheeler. It was my mother. I'd recognize her laugh anywhere....

I'm sure you can see my attraction to the man's writing....
 

 


6-15-2005

Dear Aunt Nettie:

What early rock 'n' roll group performed under the name "Saddle Pals" when it first started out - as singers of country music?

-- Cowgirl in Cargill 
 


Dear Cowgirl:

That was the American band "AC/DC." Their first country-western hit, "Dirty Stable Deeds Done Dirt Cheap," brought them to public attention. It was followed by "A Touch Too Much Sun," a ballad about the travails of a cowhand on the long cattle drive to Kansas City. Then came "Nell's Belles," a sad tale about the madam and the 'working girls' of a Texas bordello.

"Saddle Pals" would have continued its slow rise to c-w famedom but for a odd turn of events. In 1974 they were invited to perform at the London Palladium, which was holding an American-Western-themed Colonial Music Festival. Everything that could go wrong went wrong the night of their first appearance. Their traditional black cowboy hats for their "Back in Black," Johnny Cash tribute never arrived, and their cowboy outfits were inadvertently shipped to Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum by a hotel employee who thought such bizarre attire could not possibly belong to a guest. As performance time neared, one of the lead singers was forced to don a British schoolboy's uniform and cap-- all that he could find to wear.

Then, as the curtain opened on the mortified quintet, mere misfortune turned to full-blown catastrophe. They had not adapted their electric guitars, amplifiers, microphones, etc., from US 120 volts to the UK standard of 230 volts. The moment they began their signature harmonization piece, "A Byway to Del's," that bittersweet narrative of a cowboy's visit to a crippled friend, the band literally crackled to life, the lead singers bouncing around the stage like madmen as they gamely stuttered out the slurred words of the song to the end. They segued immediately into another overpowered performance, despite the lead singer's frantic calls for someone to "[Pull] the Jack. The Jack! The Jack!"

Well, the audience, expecting the traditional three-chord variations on the eternal themes of pickup trucks, bars and absent women, was at first stunned, then wildly enthusiastic. "Saddle Pals" managed to survive the set with minor burns and contusions, but they realized after the curtain went down that their performing careers had changed forever. The new name for their band was obvious, and they played it for all it was worth in new songs like "Live Wire, " "High Voltage," and "Powerage." This last song became the title of an eponymous album which actually featured a photograph of one of the lead singers, in the schoolboy's outfit he had so dreaded wearing onstage, at the precise moment the 230-volt power surge first hit him.

The rest, as they say, is history. The lads were forced to move to Australia to be assured of a constant supply of 230-volt current, as their petition to the American government to change the national electrical standard was turned down on the grounds of national security.


 

 


6-16-2005

Dear Aunt Nettie:

How many bee trips from flower to hive does it take to make a pound of honey?

-- Sweetie in Sweetwater  
 


Dear Sweetie:

It depends on the size of the flower and the size of the bee. The Great Sumatran Honeybee (Apis Gargantuus), which has a wingspread averaging 28 feet (8.5 meters) and feeds on the huge flowers of the Corpse Plant (Titan Arum), generally brings back enough pollen to make 2 pounds of honey on each trip. This might seem like the perfect species for an apiarist to raise, but the hives of the Sumatran bee are the size of zeppelin hangars, their stingers are 4 feet long and fiendishly barbed, and, of course, feeding as they do on the Corpse Plant, their honey smells like midsummer at a badly-run plague pit. No one has ever worked up the courage to taste the stuff. For all anyone knows it might, like durian fruit, taste divine in spite of its reek, but this is unlikely, given the behavior of the larvae which are fed on it (gagging, retching, blind staggers).

Conversely, the world's smallest bee, Apis Teensyensis, which flourishes in the swampy marshes of lowland Tibet, is so minute it actually collects pollen using quantum principles, feeding on the outermost electrons of the world's smallest plant, Schrödinger's Pussy Willow. Electron microscope cinematography has revealed that the Apis Teensyensis leads a very frustrating life, as only half its painstaking trips will result in pollen being brought back to the hive, and it can never be certain which trip will be productive and which futile. That, plus quantum tunneling within/without the hive itself, means that, although the species evolved nearly a billion years ago, and has 10²² members on Earth alone, it has yet to produce any honey whatsoever, and probably will not until the Earth is enveloped by the expanding Sun about 5 billion years from now. The species apparently flourishes on vacuum energy alone. Mathematical models have shown that any honey produced by the Apis Teensyensis would theoretically be quite tasty, with a light clover base accented with notes of sage and eastern gentian and a distinct eucalyptus finish.
 

 


6-17-2005

Dear Aunt Nettie:

What were the first objects in the solar system discovered by means of a telescope?

-- Stargazer in Stockholm  
 


Dear Stargazer:

That would be those of the celestially well-endowed beauty Signorella Valentina VaVoom, who lived in the apartment down the street from Galileo Galilei.
 

 


6-18-2005

Dear Aunt Nettie:

Have you made any plans to leave something literary for your descendants so that you might advise them on how to live life with gusto?

-- Diarist in Deadman Reach  
 


Dear Diarist:

Sort of.  Not ever having had any children myself, I'd never really thought about it until recently. Here at Living Dead "R" Us, we just sit around awaiting the arrival of a tall man dressed in black carrying an ax (no, not Johnny Cash, he's passed, lucky him) but we've all considered the possibilities that medical advances might yet be made that would allow the government to keep us alive against our wills.  In the event that should happen to us, my roommates and fellow geezers asked me to write something we could all leave our descendents whether they be children, nieces, nephews, quarter cousins thrice removed, well... you get the idea. As always, I am happy to oblige...
 
Christmas, 2082

My Dear Ones,

I "wrote" this letter in 1902 and it began "Now that you each have a child, you won't have to share anymore...." But it seemed rather pointless so it was put away. I have reread it through the years and although it expresses my feelings-- it seemed for one reason or another not anything you would care for, like that disastrous turnip and Valvoline® soup your mother made one year....

This year, in getting ready to embark on another rejuvenation, the letter is being given to you, or, rather, to your great-great-grandchildren, since I spent all your inheritance on my first rejuvenation during the 20th Century. Not just to clear up a loose end, but because it may have some merit after all, according to my lawyerbot.

Now that your children and grandchildren are grown up and dead (sorry about that, but rejuvenation treatments are VERY expensive and took precedence over the AvFlu vaccine during the 2007 pandemic), I'd like to describe some gifts you might have wanted to give them, had you not been rendered destitute and unemployable after I sold all your saleable organs at the height of the organlegger mania of 2018. I've tried to give them to you through the years, but, being dead, it was difficult for you to accept them. I understand completely.

Give the gift of acceptance. Accept, dear ones, the fact that those around you are worthless, as you were once your vital organs were sold off. Give this gift with a kiss, which costs nothing, after all. Wear a mask.

Give the gift of self-deprecation by helping them understand and accept that anyone but them can be approved of all the time. That when one encounters disapproval he or she should feel immobilized and upset; that he must never trust himself, only the opinions of others, and only if those others are rich and good-looking, as you tragically are not, nor will ever be. Give this gift with a no-contact hug. Shower immediately afterward.

Give them the gift of a life of fears by showing them that something terrible is happening to someone every moment of every day, and the best thing to do is hide in the closet and cry until they spontaneously combust. Give this gift with a maniacal, threatening laugh through the keyhole. Duct tape the keyhole to dampen the whimpers.

Give them the gift of impossibilities. Ridicule them as intellectuals, athletes, little ladies, macho men or whatever. Give them the freedom to try anything, but be sure you've fixed it so they fail every time. Give this gift with a sardonic smile when you pass them on Skid Row.

Give them the gift of being a person who has a spark. (See spontaneous combustion above.) Give this gift as they go up in flames. Bring marshmallows.

That'll teach those government yahoos to muck about with our plans for an easy slide into oblivion.
 

 


6-19-2005

Dear Aunt Nettie:

I don't know what kind of flower this is.  It's growing in the garden of my new home and I sure hope you can identify it for me so I know what to do with it.

-- WeedEater in Wahoo  
 


Dear WeedEater:

It's hard to tell the scale in the photo, but if the blossoms are five or more feet across, it's probably a Greater Yellow Titanicus. Does it answer you when you talk to it? Then it's probably a Mock Greater Yellow Titanicus, as shown below, a fairly intelligent plant which closely mimics the other Titanicus species in order to snare and eat small songbirds attracted by the strong aroma of Budweiser® it gives off in warm weather.


 


6-22-2005

Dear Aunt Nettie:

Where did the countdown used in rocket and spaceship launchings originate?

-- Descending in Des Plaines

 


Dear Descending:

From the alleged sport of boxing. Referees usually counted from ten down to one to give a floored boxer the precise information that his time was rapidly running out. It also allowed the fight to be postponed by calling out, say, "minus 6 and holding," if technicians noticed an anomaly in the boxer's condition which would make it unsafe for him to continue, as in the case of a sudden liquid oxygen leak or unusual readouts on his telemetry panels.

This accidentally gave the USA a distinct advantage over the Soviet Union, by the way. When you count down from ten to one in Russian it sounds exactly like the punch line to that Old Slavonic joke about the Orthodox patriarch and the giraffe. Very often the launch crew would be so broken up by the joke that they would forget the actual launch, moving instead to the vodka victory celebration, in the course of which the engineers would consume enough fuel to put them into low Earth orbit. A few days later somebody would look blearily out of the bunker porthole at the launch pad and see the rocket sitting there, and think to himself the Russian equivalent of "Golly gee whillikers, another rocket already? They work us like serfs around here."

 


6-25-2005

Dear Aunt Nettie:

I've always loved the old song, "You're the Cream in My Coffee" but I'm having trouble finding a recent recording of it for my collection.

-- Jittery in Java

 


Dear Jittery:

You're in luck. The musical group, "National Brands,"  just released a new CD entitled "Contemporary Oldies," a collection of old songs which required some serious updating to be comprehensible to the younger generation:

You're the Non-Dairy Whitener in My Latté

You're the non-dairy whitener in my latté,
You're the salt substitute in my Atkins-friendly stew
You will always be my co-dependency,
I'd be GPS-less without you.

You're the polyester in my collar,
You're the velcro in my shoe
You will always be my co-dependency,
I'd be GPS-less without you.

Most men send e-mails,
And give cell phone details
You've heard each known way,
This way is my own way: ¹

You're the entertainment center in my loveboat,
You're the equal opportunity captain and green-carded crew,
You will always be my co-dependency,
I'd be GPS-less without you.

You give life savor,
Bring out MSG flavor,
So this is clear, dear,
You're my low-carb beer, dear!

You will always be my co-dependency
I'd be GPS-less without you.
___________

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6-27-2005

Dear Aunt Nettie:

Is there ANYTHING you can do with okra besides gumbo?

--Culinary in Calcutta
 


Dear Culinary:

Well, this one has always been my personal favorite.

Refried Okra

1 teaspoon fresh okra
1 teaspoon large green thingie
1 teaspoon medium-rare onion or banana
1 clove cigarette
10 jalapeno peppers (mandatory)
2 buzzard eggs
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon pepper
1/2 teaspoon milk
1 teaspoon cornmeal
1/4 teaspoon vegetable oil

1. Cut off ends of okra and drain slime into separate bowl. Discard immediately. Chop up the thingie, onion/banana, garlic and jalapeno peppers. In a large bowl, toss all the vegetables with a couple of hamsters to mix.

2. In a separate bowl, combine the eggs, milk, salt and pepper. Mix well by hand. Pour this mixture into hole dug behind the house.

3. Gradually add the cornmeal. Continue tossing the vegetables until everything is gone.

4. Cover a hole in garden with paper towels. Dump the towels in the trash.

5. Head for Taco Bell.

 


6-28-2005

Dear Aunt Nettie:

"Men Against the Sea" and "Pitcairn's Island" were two sequels to what famous novel?

-- Literate in Loco
 


Dear Literate:

The Sumerian classic, "Gilgamesh," which includes the tale of the Great Flood and Utnapishtim's building of a giant ark to save himself, his family, and all creatures which walked the Earth:

"Utnapishtim told a story of a city called Shurrupak, on the banks of the Euphrates. The gods considered the noise made by man in this city to be intolerable, so they agreed to exterminate mankind. Ea, god of waters, warned Utnapishtim of their plan in a dream; telling him to tear down his house and build a boat, giving precise measurements; and to take into it the seed of all living creatures.

"The boat was built and loaded, and the rain came. The storm raged fiercely for six days and nights. The great gods of heaven and hell wept. On the seventh day the storm subsided and Utnapishtim opened the hatch and saw water all around. The boat was grounded on the mountain of Nisir [now Pitcairn's Island].

"When it had been becalmed for seven days, he released a dove, who found no resting place and returned. A swallow was then released who found no perch, but the raven did not return.

"Utnapishtim made a sacrifice and poured out a libation on the mountain top. All of the gods were pleased except Enlil, who had intended to destroy all mankind. Ea calmed him down, and Enlil took Utnapishtim and his wife into the boat and made them kneel down on either side of him saying 'In times past Utnapishtim was a mortal man; now he shall live at the mouth of rivers.'"
---
Epilogue: Utnapishtim, being immortal, successfully won a plagiarism suit 2,000 years later against Moses, whose "Noah" story in the first book of the five-volume set "Pentateuch," was determined by the courts to be an obvious copy of Untapishtim's account.   

 


6-30-2005

Dear Aunt Nettie:

Where was the sprawling family estate of early American novelist James Fenimore Cooper?

--Natty in Nut Plains
 


Dear Natty:

His family estate was called "Los Angeles" ("The Angles," after Cooper's English heritage) and it got out of control rather early. Today its center is everywhere and its boundaries are nowhere.
  

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