CSotD: Morning Frivolity
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Thought I’d better get this Banx cartoon in before he has to change the sign over the door. though I suspect making the sign politically correct won’t change the gag.
I could, of course, have run it last along with the song about signs, but that song was in heavy rotation when I worked in a restaurant kitchen and I hated it the first time I heard it.
Fortunately, I also hated the job so things wrapped up fairly promptly. If you don’t know the song, lucky you. If you do, my apologies.
According to Joy of Tech, Trump’s fetish for renaming things is not just an offense against them in general, but puts a great deal of pressure on them to live up to whatever he decides to call them.
It’s possibly best to remember that he calls himself a Stable Genius and insists that he’s America’s favorite president. You shouldn’t take this stuff too seriously.
Herbert raises a particularly evil source of suffering, which might, I suppose, prove that certain things travel slowly and loudmouthed people have finally reached New Zealand.
I rather doubt that, though, and since she is considerably younger that I am, her cohort probably wears headphones or earpieces or something for music, leaving the public nuisance factor to old people.
At my advanced age, by contrast, I spend a lot of time at the hospital, so I get to hear old people who not only don’t know about earpieces but can’t hear very well and so have to crank up not just their phone calls but any TV shows they’ve decided to watch.
Receptionists at hospitals should be given a supply of earpieces.
Or sledge hammers.
I haven’t decided.
Juxtaposition of the Day
Here’s a pair I can relate to, more and more all the time, though I still remember all those commercial jingles and casts of TV shows that haven’t been on the air in half a century.
Yesterday, I told a doctor a semi-dirty joke I hadn’t heard since third grade. Dirty for eight-year-olds, then, but it broke him up, which reminds me that Morey Amsterdam said you don’t have to be clever to be funny; you just need a good memory. And now I can’t remember the joke I told him.
It has been my observation that nearly every couple of retirement age has an agreement that, if I don’t introduce you to somebody, introduce yourself so I can know who the hell I’m talking to.
We won’t get into the topic of how cartoonists profit by drawing old jokes their readers don’t remember. I wonder if Morey even bothered to read the funnies.
And I just figured out the video I’ll finish with today. Finest Borscht Belt pro ever. Stay tuned.
Jimmy Johnson and I are of a comparable vintage, though he went to Bama and I went to Notre Dame and neither of us went to a school known as the Hawks, though I would suggest that you visit Alabama next month if you want to see a Crimson Tide.
Both schools were almost perennially ranked in the Top Ten, which meant they were on national TV fairly regularly. When they weren’t, the pace of the game was markedly better, because they only had to stop for local commercials, not the Big Boys. The difference was that we were sitting in raging snow, not pouring rain.
And you can’t throw rainballs at the other team’s band.
Following that one with this one does an excellent job of setting up an unexpected punch line. The Bears are two-and-one at the moment, so their highlight reel isn’t likely as hilarious as it has been in other seasons.
I clicked on a video from a local place that fosters cubs, and so now I am inundated with videos of cubs, which are more sweet than funny, but they certainly do raise a smile.
Bears are in their prewinter hyperphagia cycle right now, so if you go down in the woods today you’d better go in disguise.
I just saw that egg prices are going down, which might not be good news for everyone who has entered the chicken-raising universe, particularly since a lot of suburban chicken farmers have given them names which tends to limit the number of things you can do with them once you no longer need the eggs.
It’s a lesson farm kids learn in 4-H or FFA, but I don’t think a lot of the current crop of chickeneers view them as potential food.
I saw a play at the Abbey in Dublin in which an American came to Ireland in search of her roots and was staying on her cousin’s farm. She comes down to breakfast one morning and the farmer comes from doing chores and says to her and mostly to his wife, “The cow’s had her calf.”
The American burbles with excitement and asks “What are you going to call it?”
Pause.
“The calf.”
Something else city folks don’t know about chickens is what they will eat, which is anything. The standard farm wisdom is that you toss garbage to the pig, and when he’s done eating, you let the chickens in to finish it up.
With or without hot sauce.
Here’s something else city folks in a certain income bracket don’t always learn.
My grandfather’s expertise was in iron mining and he was good enough at that, and born in the 1890s, such that he’d never gone into a fast food place. He ate at home or at the sort of restaurant that has plates and glasses and silverware and cloth napkins. (Ask your grandparents. They probably remember them.)
And then, on some family outing, we took him to Burger King.
He’d had hamburgers before, and french fries, and Coke, and so the food didn’t impress him one way or the other.
But as an engineer, encountering their system blew his mind.
If you grew up seeing food marketed, made, packaged and served like that, it’s normal. But it is pretty astonishing to a newcomer.
He was, however, old enough to know this guy and, thanks to Ed Sullivan, so am I.
Mike Peterson has posted his "Comic Strip of the Day" column every day since 2010. His opinions are his own, but we welcome comments either agreeing or in opposition.
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