JEWISH WISDOM, FROM AN UNLIKELY SOURCE

Denny and I - among many others - receive regular heaps of e-mail from the legendary Catfish. Jokes, cartoons, mostly funny stuff. Occasionally a more serious “touchy-feely” piece.

And Denny, when he’s feeling a little lazy (admit it, bwah) will post one of those Catfishy pieces. With appropriate credit, of course.

Yesterday, Denny posted a joke that was not only familiar, but one that brought back some nice memories.

It’s an old chestnut about an old guy who prays at the Western Wall. I won’t quote it here, nor will I spoil the punchline - go and read it at Denny’s site.

Old? Yeah, it’s been around a while.

Buried in the Archive d’Elisson, there’s an old VHS tape that we recorded 21 years ago, back when we were living in Atlanta the first time around. We were visiting the ’Rents d’Elisson in the herbaceous suburbs of New York at the time, and someone had managed to latch on to a videocassette recorder. Big and cumbersome it was, but it worked just fine.

One night, I had the machine set up to record Eli (his ownself) telling jokes. Eli was, and is, a consummate storyteller, and he can make the most horrible jokes sound funny. One of his specialties is telling jokes in (moderately ungrammatic) Yiddish, which adds greatly to the comic effect - provided you understand it to begin with. There’s one that, translated, goes like this:

A teacher is reviewing the idiomatic expression “It seems to me” with her class. She asks little Mendel to stand up and tell a story that includes a sentence containing the words “it seems to me.”

“This morning, my father got up and went into the bathroom. He shaved, took a shower, and got dressed. Then he had some cereal and coffee for breakfast. Then, he picked up his briefcase and went out the door. It seems to me that my father is going to work.”

“Very good, Mendel. You may sit down. Deborah, please stand up and tell us a story with ‘it seems to me.’”

“Today I went to the food market with my mother. She bought eggs, milk, butter, flour, nuts, and raisins. It seems to me that she is going to bake a cake.”

The teacher thanks little Deborah and calls upon Josh.

“My 17-year-old sister is taking piano lessons. Yesterday, the piano teacher came over, and the two of them went into the music room and closed the door. One minute, two minutes, three minutes go by, and I don't hear the piano. So I go and look in the keyhole.

“And I see the piano teacher with his pants down around his ankles, and my sister has got her dress lifted up over her head. And it seems to me...

“...that they’re gonna piss on the piano.”

Yeah, I know. It’s funnier in broken Yiddish.

But that night, my Dad told the joke about the old man praying at the Western Wall. I have it on tape: Dad sitting on an ottoman with my Mom behind him, holding him about the waist, using her hands to punctuate the story as it’s being told.

It’s fun to take out those old tapes and watch ’em from time to time, but it’s bittersweet as well. Mom’s been gone for almost eighteen years now. Yet watching those tapes, hearing her voice (with a Lawn Guyland accent you could cut with a knife) - it all brings back some warm memories.

So: thanks to Denny and Catfish for the trip down Recollection Road. Cat, you’re a Good Man in more ways than one. Heh.

HAKUNA MATATA

[Sung to the tune of “Hakuna Matata”]

Hakuna Matata! What a wonderful phrase
Hakuna Matata! Ain’t no passing craze
It means no worries for the rest of your days
It’s our problem-free philosophy

Hakuna Matata!
Hakuna Matata?

Yeah. It’s our motto!

[What’s a motto?]

[Nothing. What’s a-motto with you?]

Those two words will solve all your problems

That’s right. Take Matata here
Why, when she was a young kitty cat...

When I was a young kitty cat

[Very nice]

[Thanks]

She found her aroma lacked a certain appeal
She could clear Atlanta to Savannah after every meal

I’m a sensitive soul though I seem thick-skinned
And it hurt that Hakuna never stood downwind

And oh, the shame [She was ashamed]
Thought of changin’ my name [What’s in a name?]
And I got downhearted [How did ya feel?]
Everytime that I...

[Hey! Matata! Not in front of our Esteemed Readers!]

[Oh. Sorry...]

Hakuna Matata! What a wonderful phrase
Hakuna Matata! Ain’t no passing craze

It means plenty of kibble for the rest of your days

It’s our problem-free philosophy
Hakuna Matata!
Hakuna Matata! [Hakuna Matata!]
Hakuna Matata! [Hakuna Matata!]
Hakuna Matata! [Hakuna Matata!]
Hakuna Matata! [Hakuna -]

It means no worries for the rest of your days

It’s our problem-free philosophy
Hakuna Matata!
(Repeats)

I say “Hakuna”

I say “Matata”

[Matata, won’t you quit bitin’ on my ass?]

SOMETHING FISHY

Something is fishy in Atlanta…and it just may be the Georgia Aquarium.

The assembled Clan d’Elisson and its various hangers-on spent several of the closing hours of 2005 at this, the newest Tourist Attraction in the city of Atlanta.

I’ve seen a lot of Big-Ass Fish Tanks in the fifty-three odd years that I’ve walked this planet. Visits to Florida in my Snot-Nose Days were never complete without a trip down the Rickenbacker Causeway to Key Biscayne, there to while away a day at the Miami Seaquarium. I’ve pissed away Tourist Bucks at Seaworld, had fancy dinners at the Shedd Aquarium in Chicago. But this…this was something else.

The Georgia Aquarium is touted as being the largest aquarium in the world, with over 100,000 fish and other assorted Marine Fauna representing over 500 different species. It is an Olympic Size Swimming Pool next to which the others are mere blow-up wading pools.

Owing to the need for Morris William and his brood to get on the road for their return trip to Texas, we were only able to stay a few hours, which meant seeing only a few of the multifarious Fishy Attractions. But what we were able to see was Mighty Damned Impressive.

Beluga whales, for one – a tank with several of ’em. As whales go, they’re not Leviathans, but they’re still fairly large animals. Disturbingly human, they looked – almost as though they were men encased in white, waxy, living sarcophagi. Playful, too: one of their favorite games was to exhale a puff of air to make a perfect ring-shaped bubble, which they would then swim up underneath and snap right up.


Beluga whale: disturbingly human.

It’s easy to imagine them being intelligent, although without opposable thumbs, a tool-building, mechanized warfare-making, income-tax-driven lifestyle is most likely beyond their capabilities. [Which may mean they’re really intelligent.] Do they enjoy their life in the big tank? Do they have a sense of humor? Do they have enough brain-wattage to think we’re assholes?

Fascinating as these beasts were, I was hoping to see something really impressive. With fishtanks, as with dicks, size matters. Length. Girth. Depth. And the Ocean Voyager exhibit had it all, including a tunnel right through the heart of the tank.

Good Gawd. Whale sharks. Huge-ass fish. These were juveniles – impressively large, yet well short of the 40-foot length they will ultimately attain. As they swam though the tank, they were surrounded by clouds of smaller fish, no doubt under contract to provide essential services:

“Yeah, buddy, could you scratch my back, there? Yeah, right there...about a foot to the left of my dorsal fin. A little higher...yeah, right there...aaaaahhhhhh.”



Looking up from the tunnel at the bottom of the tank, you could see a mosaic of manta rays – hundreds of ’em – silhouetted against the firmament, moving along the upper reaches of the water, resembling nothing so much as one of those M. C. Escher lithographs in which repetitive patterns change shape and blend into one another - an eerie underwater tapestry.


A mosaic of manta rays.


Hammerhead shark.

Our little nephew William was goggle-eyed - and so was the rest of our little mob. Seeing Remarkable Things somehow awakens the awestruck kid in each of us, and that Inner Child of mine was bouncing against the walls as if he had had a caffeine enema. We left reluctantly, resolving to come back before too long. Since the Missus and I have purchased annual passes, that shouldn’t be too hard to do.

If you needed an excuse to visit Atlanta, now you have one. Besides the opportunity to be in close proximity to alla them fine Jawja Blodgers, that is.

BONFIRE OF THE VANITIES #132

The latest pile of Bloggy Nether-Nuggets is roasting merrily away at The Business of America is Business, home port of Professor Starling Hunter. Great job, ’Fess.

FINALLY

A foolproof recipe for Roast Turkey.

The problem with roasting a turkey - for neophyte cooks, anyway - is that it’s hard to know just how long to cook the bird. Too little oven time, and you have an undercooked bird, with a chance for salmonella poisoning to boot. Too much, and the damn thing dries out. And those “pop-up” thingies are not always reliable.

Here is a turkey recipe that includes the use of popcorn (!) as a stuffing. It is unusual, surprisingly tasty, and perfect for people who need a little extra help figuring out the roasting time.

10-12 lb. turkey (fresh, or thawed if purchased frozen)
1 cup melted butter
1 bag stuffing (Pepperidge Farm is good.)
1 cup uncooked popcorn (Orville Redenbacher’s Low Fat)
Salt, pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 350°F. Brush turkey well with melted butter; sprinkle all over with salt and pepper. Fill cavity with stuffing and popcorn.

Place in baking pan with the neck end toward the back of the oven. Listen for the popping sounds. When the turkey’s ass blows the oven door open and the bird flies across the room, it’s done.

Foolproof, I tell ya!

[Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Mayer (Hizzoner) Smith.]

A MYSTERIOUS AND EXOTIC ELIXIR

Actually, the only thing mysterious about an Egg Cream is its name: it contains neither egg nor cream. And as far as being exotic is concerned, it is only exotic to those who have never walked the streets of Brooklyn.

Hmmm. I guess that would make it exotic. To most residents of these parts, anyway.

She Who Must Be Obeyed and I were visiting our friend Gravel-Voiced Larry and his wife Ina in the hospital yesterday. Larry, a retired Miami cop, is still dealing with the aftereffects of a heart attack that struck him about the same time Hurricane Katrina laid waste to N’Awlins. And, as with N’Awlins, the recovery has been slow, difficult, and painful.

As we all sat together and talked about this ’n’ that, the topic of Egg Creams came up.

The Egg Cream is the quintessential Soda Fountain Drink from Olde New York. Simply put, it’s a chocolate soda. But, as with so many things in life, the devil is in the details.

Egg Creams hearken back to the days when seltzer water was sold in heavy glass siphon bottles. Two-Cents Plain, it was called in the soda fountains, because that’s how much you paid for a glass. If you wanted flavoring, you paid extra. Prepackaged soft drinks were not an option, as you might gather.

Today, the Two-Cents Plain is a distant memory. If you want a bottle of Carbonated Water, you may end up with some fancy-pants imported Fizzy Stuff: Perrier, San Pellegrino, et alia. And it ain’t cheap. Two-Bucks Plain, is more like it.

But I digress.

To make a Classic New York Egg Cream, squirt about an inch of Fox’s U-Bet chocolate syrup into an 8-ounce straight-sided glass tumbler. You may substitute other brands of chocolate syrup only at the peril of your immortal soul.

Next, pour in an inch of cold milk.

Now, dump in ice-cold seltzer water to fill. The Classic Technique involves using an old-fashioned soda siphon (think Clarabelle the Clown and that damned seltzer bottle), squirting the seltzer into the glass onto an inverted spoon. This directs the seltzer to the edges of the glass and ensures the optimum Foam-to-Liquid Ratio. If you do it right, the drink will have a big, frothy head.

Stir and serve immediately.

There is no beverage that better summons those old, warm memories of growing up in New York...even for me, just a suburban kid. It was almost like a Secret Handshake. You couldn’t bottle it; you couldn’t fake it. Simple perfection, it was. And still is.

I’m sure this post will elicit plenty of comments from those of my Esteemed Readers who have their own Egg Cream Memories. If your technique is a little different, share it with us!

Update: With a tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Velociman his ownself, who mentioned Lou Reed’s salute to the Egg Cream - the lead-off song on Set The Twilight Reeling - in the comments, I now present for your delectation the following:

Egg Cream

When I was a young man, no bigger than this
a chocolate egg cream was not to be missed
Some U Bet’s Chocolate Syrup, seltzer water mixed with milk
you stir it up into a heady fro, tasted just like silk
You scream, I steam, we all want egg cream
You scream, I steam, we all want egg cream
Now you can go to Junior’s, Dave’s on Canal Street
and I think there’s Ken’s in Boston
there must be something in L.A.
But Becky’s on Kings Highway, was the egg cream of choice
and if you don’t believe me, go ask any of the boys
You scream, I steam, we all want egg cream
You scream, I steam, we all want egg cream
The only good thing I have to say about P.S. 92
was the egg cream served at Becky’s, it was a fearsome brew
For 50 cents you got a shot, choco bubbles up your nose
that made it easier to deal with knife fights
and kids pissing in the street
You scream, I steam, we all want egg cream
You scream, I steam, we all want egg cream
So the next time you’re in Brooklyn, please say hello for me
at Totonno’s for Pizza and ice cream at Al and Shirley’s
But mostly you go to Becky’s, sit in a booth and say hello
and have two chocolate egg cream, one to stay and one to go
You scream, I steam, we all want egg cream, ah
You scream, I steam, we all want egg cream
You scream, I steam, we all want egg cream

[Lyrics copyright (c) 1996 Lou Reed]

A PLEASANT SURPRISE...

...is a Tit full of Whisky.

The quote is from B. S. Pulley, nightclub comedian and actor - you may remember him for his role as Big Jule in the 1956 production of Guys and Dolls - and a favorite of my friend Irwin, AKA “Moishepipik.”

CARNIVAL OF THE RECIPES #73

Techno Gypsy hosts the seventy-third Carnival of the Recipes - this week, with a Russian Christmas theme, seeing as how Eastern Orthodox churches observe Christmas according to the Julian calendar.

“Gregorian calendar? Who was this Gregory, anyway? We don’t need no steenkeen’ Gregories...”

How my Waffle Recipe fits into a Russian Christmas is anybody’s guess, although all y’all Eastern Orthodox types still eat breakfast on Christmas, am I right?

Anyway: plenty of good eatin’ there. Go visit the Gypsy and tell him Elisson sent ya.

CARNIVAL OF THE CATS #94

Pages Turned hosts this week’s Carnival of the Cats, with the generous assistance of Claudius, Nicholson, and Ellie. It’s a sizable Carnival, meant to be savored.

Much as Hakuna and Matata savor their daily ration of Food-Pellets. Harh.

IN THE COUNTRY OF THE DEAF...

the one-eared man is king.

WHAT - FIFTEEN ALREADY?

Dad and Toni. Photo taken last May on his 80th birthday.

Yesterday, my Dad - Eli, his ownself - and Toni celebrated their fifteenth wedding anniversary. Fifteen years, being a Year That Is Divisible By Five, qualifies as a Major Anniversary.

Their marriage is now old enough to get a Learner’s Permit in the State of Georgia.

Dad and Toni are celebrating their Big Day by piling in the car and driving to their new winter home in Florida. It will be two full days in a sedan packed with luggage - six months’ worth - and Sam, their Reclusive Cat. Then, it will be several days of Arranging Crap: telephone installation, appliance delivery, all of the Fun Stuff attendant on establishing a new household. They’re a little nervous and a lot excited.

Meanwhile, I wasn’t sure what the Traditional Fifteenth Anniversary Gift was. I mean, I know the third anniversary is leather, and the seventh is Molded Rubber Devices (Batteries Not Included), but I was drawing a blank on fifteen. Papier mâché? Prunes?

But thanks to the kind offices of Google, I was able to establish that the traditional gift on the fifteenth wedding anniversary is Crystal. Modern-thinking sorts may also consider Watches...although, when you think about it, a watch does have a crystal, doesn’t it?

[Not that they will see any crystal from me...except maybe for the vase their flowers come in. For we have arranged for flowers to arrive at their new pied-à-terre in MiddleofFuckingNowhere, Florida the day after they do. Flowers always look good...for a few days, anyway.]

Happy Anniversary, to the guy who provided me with a loving home, a fine education (in so many things!) and 50% of my DNA - and to the lady that is the apple of his eye and the light of his life. Health, happiness and love for many, many more.

HOMECOMING

Being on the road can be a Royal Pain in the Ass.

When I was working a sales territory for the Great Corporate Salt Mine - either as an Account Representative or as a Regional Sales Manager - I was gone for at least a few days almost every week of the year. And in my various international sales and marketing assignments, I’d be throwing in the occasional 2-3 week overseas jaunt.

Going away for a lousy one-nighter, therefore, is Not A Big Deal.

Except, of course, when it follows a week of vacation with a house full of friends and relatives to keep you happily occupied.

My Thursday-Friday jaunt this week was pretty routine. Fly out to Sweat City Thursday. Rent car. Drive to office. Work until late o’clock. Check into hotel. Sleep. Drive to office. Leave early enough to catch flight. Act amazed when flight actually leaves on time.

I love that 32-mile drive to the airport. It’s a two-tollbooth stretch on the Sam Houston Tollway. And no matter how many times I drive that road, it never ceases to amaze me what Tollroad Fucktards they grow in Texas.

Get in that Exact Change lane, and you can make book on there being at least one Gaping Asshole who will either have nothing but a Double Sawbuck, or who will rummage throughout the entire cabin of his or her vehicle, looking for the exact change that they almost certainly don’t have.

Morons.

Behavior like that would get you shot and skullfucked on a New York toll road.

They even have gone so far as to relabel the “Exact Change” lane to say “Coins Only.” Just in case you are one of those idiots who think Exact Change on a tollroad includes paper money.

But this is just carping, for I got to the airport in plenty of time, and the flight was neither overcrowded nor late. We arrived in Atlanta a few minutes ahead of schedule, and, thanks to some well-timed traffic signals, I was able to get to Chez Elisson within an hour of stepping off the aircraft.

She Who Must Be Obeyed greeted me upon my arrival with a glass of wine in her hand and a “come hither” look in her eye. There would be no Friday Evening Blog-Posting, no, no.

Time to make some waffles...

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN - SLIGHTLY LATE

Of course, where would I be on the first Friday of 2006 but at the headquarters of the Great Corporate Salt Mine in sunny Houston? Occupied with actual work as I was, I had no time to post my usual Friday Random Ten...so here’s my Belated List of Choons from the Little White Choon-Box:

1. I Should Have Known Better - The Beatles
   
2. Saved By The Buoyancy - Mitch Hedberg
   
3. You To Thank - Ben Folds
   
4. Where The Wild Roses Grow - Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds
   
5. Across The Universe - The Beatles
   
6. Reality Blows - Laurence Simon
   
7. Get On Top - Red Hot Chili Peppers
   
8. Fortuna Imperatrix Mundi - Christian Thielemann, Orff: Carmina Burana
   
9. Where’s The Money? - Dan Hicks & His Hot Licks
   
10. How Could I Be Such A Fool? - Frank Zappa
    

It’s Friday Saturday. What are you listening to?

WAFFLING

It might have been during the recent Family Invasion Week that She Who Must Be Obeyed suddenly decided that we needed a new Household Appliance.

At one point during the week, she had cooked up a big Mess o’ Pancakes. Pancakes are a very occasional treat at Chez Elisson, and there is no better time to have them than when there is a house full of people. Hot off the griddle, slathered with just-melting pats of fresh creamery butter and drizzled with pure maple syrup...ahhhh, that is heaven, bruthuh.

And it was likely with the warm smell of those flapjacks drifting through the house that the idea crystallized in her mind. That smell sparked a mysterious mental connection, perhaps a reminiscence of the free continental breakfasts at the Cheap-Ass Lodging House at which we stayed on our last trip to Savannah.

“Honey, don’t you think we need a waffle iron?”

“Why…yes! I believe we do!” So easy was it to gain my assent to this Essential Acquisition.

Understand this: I grew up in a Waffle-Free Household.

Back in my snot-nose days, we had no waffle iron in the house. In the New York suburbs of the 1950’s and ’60’s, Waffle Houses were thin on the ground; nay, nonexistent. Sometime in the 1960’s, we had the International House of Pancakes – but who orders waffles in a Pancake House, anyway? It’s perverse. To us, the very concept of waffles was just this side of being alien. Pancakes, si, waffles, no, in Chez Eli.

In 1964, the World’s Fair came to New York, and among the Exotic International Foods that came along with it were Belgian Waffles. Big, inch thick waffles, sprinkled with powdered sugar and topped with a huge dollop of whipped cream, amidst which was nestled a strawberry. But I did not have One Fucking Belgian Waffle in the two years that the Fair sat in Flushing Meadow.

[As an aside, do you know what they call Belgian Waffles in Belgium?

Waffles.

No, really. Actually, they spell it wafels, and they are everywhere, in a seemingly infinite variety. Honkin’ thick ones; thin, crisp ones; syrup-encrusted stroopwafels. Belgium is Waffle Heaven, friends. Getting a wafel in Belgium is easier than buying a Coca-Cola here.]

Of course, as a result, I lusted after waffles. It was more than just the elusiveness, the unobtainability, the foreignness. Fact is, they tasted damn good. Like pancakes...but with syrup traps!

So we went to the local Household Articles Shoppe. It boiled down to a choice between three irons: a rather flimsy-looking Cuisinart that made thin, round Waffle-House style cakes; an Emeril Lagasse model with interchangeable plates – you could make waffles, pizzelles, and panini-style sandwiches, but each plate bore an insufferable “BAM!” imprint; and a solid-looking Krups machine that had the deep plates needed to make Belgian waffles. The only Krups left was the floor model; we snatched it up.

And, finally, this morning She Who Must Be Obeyed and I put the iron though its paces.

Here’s a useful All-Purpose Waffle Recipe:

2½ cups all-purpose flour
½ tsp salt
1 tsp baking powder
4 tbsp granulated sugar
3 eggs, separated
2 cups milk
½ cup vegetable oil

Sift together the flour, salt, baking powder, and sugar. That’s what the standard instructions tell you, anyway. Screw that. I just aerate the flour with a dry wire whisk before I measure it, and I use the same whisk to mix the dry ingredients.

Combine the egg yolks and the milk: mix well and add to the dry ingredients. Add the vegetable oil. [Today I used only ¼ cup of oil and it worked just fine.] Mix well.

Beat the egg whites in a separate bowl (add just a pinch of salt) until they form soft peaks. Fold the egg whites into the rest of the batter.

Heat up your waffle iron and you’re good to go. I found that with our model, four minutes gave us waffles that were crispy and brown on the outside, yet just perfect in the center – not overdone. You will, of course, need to adjust the timing to your own machine’s needs and to your taste.

To these fine waffles, all that was necessary to add was a little dab of fresh butter and some 100% pure maple syrup. But waffles are extremely versatile, and you can top ’em with almost any damn thing you like. Fresh fruit? Honey? Confectioner’s sugar? Go wild! It’s your waffle!

POSTSCRIPT:

So this morning She Who Must Be Obeyed and I were sitting in shul, and our friends Gary and JoAnn came in and joined us, sitting next to us in our pew. We exchanged greetings, and then JoAnn asked, “So, what have you-all been doing this morning?”

“We made waffles.”

JoAnn leered at me. “So that’s what they’re calling it these days.”

It was obvious right away that in her house, “making waffles” has an entirely different, far more lascivious meaning. Gary’s lewd wink confirmed my speculation.

“Yeah, we ‘made waffles,’ too.”

“Well, then, I guess we ‘made waffles’ and then we made waffles…”

Gotta love them waffles!

FRIDAY ARK #68

Come visit and ride the Friday Ark.
It’s the Modulator’s weekly Zoological Park.
The perfect place, if you wanna
Get your dose of Virtual Fauna.
A spot in the Bloggy-Sphere with no politics –
Just kitties, doggies, snakes, birds, and jolly ticks.

MONTHLY STATEMENTS

Being a compilation of the first lines from the first post of each month of the past year. [Moom stolen shamelessly from here.]

January: What a way to begin a New Year.

February: 99.9% of the acting, singing, and dancing talent in Family d’Elisson resides in the collective bodies of Elder Daughter and the Mistress of Sarcasm.

March: In October 2001, She Who Must Be Obeyed and I, along with the Mistress of Sarcasm, took a mini-vacation up in the Boone - Blowing Rock section of North Carolina.

April: Jeezum Crow, there are so many Carnivals these days, I feel like the barker at the side-show.

May: I inadvertently stumbled upon the Magic Summoning Ritual that causes Matata to appear instantly...and it doesn’t even require a can opener.

June: Yep, the Bonfire is now in its hundredth crap-spewing incarnation.

July: The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated. - Mark Twain

August: Pete Vonder Haar (A Perfectly Cromulent Blog) has shit on my dinner table tagged me with a meme, and since those who live by the meme die by the meme, I am honor bound to play along.

September: There are plenty of people who see God’s hand in the devastation that has struck the U.S. Gulf Coast.

October: Kimberly, who understands that life without Music and Cats would be Boring and Pointless, hosts the eightieth edition of the Carnival of the Cats.

November: The Smegmaster at smegmaster.com (sounds nasty if you parse it just so) hosts the 122nd Bonfire of the Vanities, complete with snazzy non-flaming Official-Looking Seal.

December: At breakfast today, my Morning Minyan compadre Barry R. told me a story of a colleague of his that is, in his words, “dumber than soap.”

It occurs to me that there are way too many Blog-Carnival and cat posts represented here, given the Random Sampling. It also occurs to me that you could have some fun with this meme moom. F’r instance, you could post the last sentence from the last post of each month. Or you could, you know, just ignore this stupid crap.

CARNIVAL OF SATIRE #15

I never tire
Of Satire.
It’s a downright miracle -
My love of Things Satirical.

Mark A. Rayner has posted the fifteenth Carnival of Satire at the skwib.

BREWSTER COCKIE

Copyright (c) 2006 Tribune Media Services, Inc. All rights reserved.

Brewster Rockit, Space Guy, that is.

Ya gotta love a comic strip that slips a Fecal Humor gag past the syndicate.

CARNIVAL OF THE VANITIES #172

Harshly Mellow (gotta love that name!) hosts the latest edition of Carnival of the Vanities.

Was it my imagination, or did last week’s Carnival never get posted? Just curious...

...and Zeuswood, the Harshly Mellow One, has filled me in. Carnival #171 was posted at Chicken Soup 4 the Damned on December 28. Hmmm...musta missed it in the midst of the Frenetic Holiday Rush.

DUCKS REDUX

It’s not exactly a Wildlife Preserve we live in here, in this, our Little Patch o’ Suburbia, but every so often we see a scene right out of Nature, Red in Tooth and Claw.

Here we present Mr. and Mrs. Future Turducken Mallard, out for an afternoon stroll.



A handsome couple, to be sure, but why is it that I am seized with a sudden desire for Sauce Bigarade?