“Although it is true that many of the Munchkins had crushes on Judy Garland, nothing actually happened, except for a few getting caught under her dress, and no Munchkin committed suicide or died during the production of the film (The Wizard of Oz), although one got stuck in a toilet.”
Where are they now? Tell me. They’re magically delicious. (Looking down at furry feets.) Oh right, yes, I am a dog. Everything is magically delicious. Nom nom. (Eating of pointy shoes.)
Photo from Two Barking Dogs. Arf arf!
A painting by Andy Worhol sold for $43.7 million in November, 2009. The Work? 200 one dollar bills. That makes each dollar in it worth more than $218,000. Huzzah! This is awesome, because, Ahem...
Step right up, folks! I want to introduce you to the Sale of the Century. What I have here is a genuine $5 bill, a bill of superb printing and quality, with nary a crease or a fold on it. Yes, nary a crease! Little lady, won’t you come up to the stage and give it a look-see? See that born-on date there? What does it say? 2004? 2004, folks. And is it a real bill, in your honest opinion? Yes? Yes. The little lady has spoken. Yes, my good neighbors, this is an honest-to-goodness paper bill manufactured in and by thee glorious United States of America. Now, you might expect to pay, how much for a bill of this quality... one-hundred, two-hundred thousand dollars? Two-hundred eighteen thousand dollars? Hah ha! Oh, no sir! Sure you’ll see them advertised for that, sure, sure. But not here. Not now. Not from me. In fact, I will sell it to you, now, limit one per customer, for the astonishingly low, low price of—are you ready for this—these perfect little beauties, of exceptional construction and whereabouts, are available to you, now, for but a mere $75,000! Wo! Easy now, there’s enough for all. Please, sir, madam, no need to shove. Let us maintain decorum. After all, this is art.
Make your order by commenting.
This is from 2008 when I bought three young chicken hens at auction, two of which turned into roosters just three months later. No, I didn’t buy the turkey too; the turkey head was attached to a turkey body and what do you do with a waist-high bird?
The comma is man’s best friend. It’s a dot with a cute little tail, poised in mid-air, wagging just for you. The comma is a tilted ice cream cone and a young minnow and one of them old timey bone horns you blow into, like the Jewish shofar. (Your sentence could substitute a flugelhorn but it’ll lack pagentry.) Commas also signify when to take a wee breath, a little pause, a rest. And, commas help form sentence grammar.
My beef is that last bit, sentence grammar. There aren’t enough commas in U.S. sentence grammar these days. Technically I have no business being irritated: my grammar is founded on speling errors and trendy word combos like “gassing the Mason jar” and “feline fart farm.” Plus I have not eaten beef since 1986.
Okay, I’ve never used those word combos and just wanted you to click my links there, but “feline fart farm” is awesome and I will definitely add it to my vocabulary and maybe even trademark it. (Small & Big: A Feline Fart Farm.™)
Anywho, that issue with commas. Let me show an example. Read this:
Careful to be extra quiet so as not to disturb the other Library patrons, I was moseying amongst the magazines when my shoe stepped on a thick, slick People. In slow motion I watched my left foot slide lefter, my legs doing the splits, the Chinese splits not the American splits, and the process knocked the wind out of me. Unfortunately the wind exited via my Southern pipe, not the Northern, and was accompanied by a series of vigorous Booms! and Rat-a-tats! After about six years the explosions subsided and I shouted “It’s People! It’s just People! Continue to move about your business. People.” I don’t know why any of this happened, especially the yelling part. Life is mysterious.
Wait, that doesn’t work. I don’t know where that came from. Here’s what I meant to type, these two examples:
1) Mary had a little lamb, a little duck and a little chicken for lunch.
2) Mary had a little lamb, a little duck, and a little chicken for lunch.
The first example is how I notice lots of professional American English writers using commas. But I prefer the second. To me the second is clearer: the duck and chicken are merely number two and number three on a list. The missing comma in the first example implies that the duck and chicken are together — duck and chicken — and that presumes a relationship, leading to questions like: are they married, dating, just friends, or exes with a long history of relationship troubles? (Good thing Mary put them out of their misery.)
There are better examples out there, like in the book “Eats, Shoots & Leaves: Why, Commas Really Do Make a Difference!
The wonderfully uplifting writer and artist known as Sark is offering a deal during February of 2010: save $20 off her eProgram, SARK's Awesome Anytime Adventure, an inspiring 30-day tour of joyfull self-care, surprise and wonder. That makes it, like, $39. Click here to visit Planet SARK. Ahhh! Color that lifts the spirit just lookin’ at it! Why yes, I am a fan.
Remember this “How to Be an Artist” poster from the 1980s or 1990s? It was hers.
Americans don’t say the word toilet, thinking it too descriptive. Instead we say stuff like “use the facilities” or “visit the ladies’ room” or “see a man about a horse.” When I tell you I need to visit the bathroom and I go into the room with the toilet and no bathtub, I’ve successfully tricked you for you have no idea I’m going in there to use the toilet, no matter how much flushing you hear.
But that’s not the point. The thing I wanted to show you is what I encountered on vacation in Arizona or Nevada, I forget which, is this — this vague threat of a sign here:
This sign was meant to be read and learned from while seated upon the toilet, and it seemed to me at the time and even now that it’s a warning that, any moment, precocious children will scramble in, elbow me aside, and show how it’s done via a dramatic three-act play.
This little feller, clearly the Star, is he supposed to be me?
Because I’m not currently smiling. Where are his pants? Did he roll them into ankle bracelets? He didn’t even carefully arrange 7 feet of toilet paper on the seat before sitting down!
And this guy —
How dare he critique the miraculous process of digestion? The Star cannot help it! Get away from the door if you don’t like it then. And shave those legs.
And the girl —
She is both breaking in and enjoying the peep show.
I’ll bet those kids all ignore the No Smoking symbol. Never trust children with prominent elbow knobs.
And THAT’S why I returned from vacation.
Which did come first, the chicken or the egg? Why did the chicken cross the road? SOMEbody knows.
A: Scary signs like this:
To feel better I told myself it’s a man wearing his favorite 4th of July hat, the one with fireworks.
Another correct answer would probably be:
A: Lawyers.
I'm on vaycayshun. See you after I get back. In the meantime, talking animals:
“I asked my son what his favorite color was,” says the woman in the tiny French cafe. She’s polished, dyed, and leaning over a double espresso into her friend’s face. “And he said pink. Pink. I told him, ‘You’d better not let your father hear that.’”
Instead of a 1950’s type brown-Jello-meatloaf ambush, letting the boy think there’s no wrong answer to his personal opinion and then pouncing, it would have been more effective to approach the topic as a teaching moment. Mom could have prefaced her question with: “Here are the six colors you’re allowed to like, because you’re a boy: brown, black, blue, navy blue, grey, and camouflage,” and then ask, “Which is your favorite?” See, ’cuz that gives the lad a chance to grab the camouflage and run, run for the hills!, where he’s free to enjoy any and every color. Plus, in the 21st Century, where some of us live, camouflage is available in pink.
Here’s thee Craigslist link. Below is the actual ad. Do extra chores around the house and save up that allowance! Combined, we can easily put $36 down.
. . . . . . . . . .
4 SALE: BARELY-USED LATE NIGHT TALK SHOW – MAKE ME AN OFFER!!! (Universal Studios)
Date: 2010-01-13, 3:48PM PST
Reply to: sale-tntdd-1551463643@craigslist.org
This is a chance of a lifetime to own your very own late night talk show--guaranteed to last for up to seven months!! Really must see to appreciate.
Information for potential buyers:
- Measures 100’ x 100’ x 32’ – plenty of room for a futon!
- Designed for 11:35 but can be easily moved
- Band can be sold separately
- Buyer must honor Barry Manilow booking next Thursday
MAKE ME YOUR BEST OFFER!!!!! (Also willing to trade for Coldplay tickets.)
The following was taken from the 124th sutta of the 1,417 page book “The Middle Length Discourses of the Buddha: A Translation of the Majjhima Nikaya” by Bhikkhu Nanomoli and Bhikkhu Bodhi and helpful commentary by me. Names below have been changed to protect privacy.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
THUS HAVE I HEARD. On one occasion the venerable Bubba was living in Rajagaha in the Bamboo Grove, the Squirrels’ Sanctuary. (Ooh, squirrels!)
Then Ace, a former companion of the venerable Bubba in his lay life, went to the venerable Bubba and exchanged greetings with him. (“Bubba, dude, how are you?” “This morning I had a fine sit.”) When this courteous and amiable talk was finished, he sat down at one side and asked the venerable Bubba:
“Friend Bubba, how long is it since you went forth?” (“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it.”)
“It is 80 years since I went forth, friend.” (“80 years. In squirrel years, 800.”)
“Friend Bubba, in these 80 years how many times have you engaged in sexual intercourse?" (“I’ve been dying to ask about the sex.”)
“Friend Ace, you should not ask me such a question as that. You should ask me such as question as this: ‘Friend Bubba, in these 80 years how many times have preceptions of sensual desire arisen in you?’” (“Don’t ask me about the sex.”) (“But ask me about the sex.”)
“Friend Bubba, in these 80 years how many times have perceptions of sensual desire arisen in you?” (“I’m not giving up. I really want to know.”)
“Friend Ace, in the 80 years since I went forth I do not recall any perception of sensual desire to have ever arisen in me.” (“Over an entire 80-year period? None presently come to mind. Ooh, look, squirrel!”)
...and his killer 37-second scream. If you’re watching from work, turn the sound down low or it’ll scramble your eggs.
Ted Danson is the un-sunburned one.
Hell, where everybody knows your name.
Once, when my spouse came home, I told him about the disgusting litter-encrusted turd the dog ate today. He was silent a good long time, staring at me. Finally he asked, “What are you EATING?” I looked. I was munching on one of those oatmeal-encrusted date bars like what you get at the health food store. If you know the stuff, you know what it looks exactly like, this:
A moment on the lip, of kissing there is zip.
Image from Organic Road. They look to sell lots of yummy stuff there in Australia.
Gray winter clouds heaved over the trash landscape. Santa lay within his cardboard box, awaiting adoption with his usual cheer. He couldn’t live with me any more. I’d taken him to the town dump, the Transfer Station, where they have a Take It Or Leave It section. You know the place.
I looked into his eyes. For five years he had been the only Santa for me. Then one day a friend whispered that Santa was, “Ah, a bit of a caricature.”
“That’s Santa,” I chuckled. “Santa is a caricature.”
“Still,” he said. “Maybe if you had Santa displayed in multiple races, it wouldn’t seem so... well, not racist exactly but—”
“Racist? You think my Santa is racist?” I looked at the jolly foot-tall man, admiring his artistic detail: a frolicking puppy at his boots and a dolly in his bag, his flowing crimson robe, his walking stick, his thick red tongue.
“No, just, some might find it offensive.”
“Offensive? But I like him. How could I be fond of something offensive? That’s the opposite of... what....”
He shrugged and looked away.
Since that day Santa spent Christmas in the attic, in the in-between world of Won’t Throw This Away and Won’t Display This In The Living Room. Then I remembered the dump. Maybe, just maybe, a loving family would adopt him for their very own, adding him to their diverse, award winning, all-inclusive collection of fat men in red suits. So that’s where he went. Good-bye, Black Santa.
It has since dawned on me that leaving an African-American Santa on a trash pile sends not the most respectful of messages. And I’m pretty sure my address was on the box. So, if you are the person who collected him: I love Santa, and I hope you do too. Please oh please don’t let us be racists.
Dirt Rich
Her first business was a little worming operation. A green business with no overhead. Kaitlin Herringtrotter ran it out of the garden owned by the people she lived with, the Parents. Well, not ran it but biked it from the Parents’ garden to the little store down the road, because wormses won’t be herded you know. Anyway, Kaitlin was a child, about seven, and she had money on her mind and her mind on her money. And that dollar-a-week allowance wasn’t cutting it. (Readers: Dollars were something like knarnacks, only 500,000% smaller. This was back in the 20th Century.)
In the beginning, before the business venture, worms were intimidating to Kaitlin. Scary even. Like scary little brown scary snakes. And snakes were like little brown inner tubes that had broken and had a hissing hole and could quicken themselves, and you wouldn’t want to float on the lake on one of those, would you? The Parents explained that worms don’t hurt, that “they help the dirt and the grass and they don’t even have teeth. Look. See? No chompers.” Kaitlin stared suspiciously at the worm wriggling in the paw of the man Parent. She didn’t buy it. The Parents were often confused, giving advice like “Never take candy from strangers, they kidnap” while promoting a guy named Santa Claus, letting him break into the house every year. Santa gave candy canes but at what cost?
Then along came Rhoda. Rhoda was the girl across the street, a year younger in years but years older in terms of bravery and brains and pooping in suitcases.
“Hey you can get money from these wormsies, you can,” Rhoda said, her upper lip stained red with either cherry Kool-aid or blood.
“Worms give money?” Kaitlin examined the worm, her fear miraculously cured. She couldn’t discern the location of the payout system. Unless the dollar bill was rolled up inside, there—
“The man from the little store, he gives a penny a worm.”
“Why’s he want worms?”
“Says fish like ’em. I dunno, who cares. A penny a worm.”
Kaitlin looked down at the penny wriggling in her hand. She and Rhoda were in business.
"But really, when you come right down to it, there are only four basic prayers. Gimme! Thanks! Oops! and Wow!” says Rabbi Gellman.
“That’s it?”
“Yep. Wow! are prayers of praise and wonder at the creation. Oops! is asking for forgiveness. Gimme! is a request or a petition. Thanks! is expressing gratitude. That’s the entire Judeo-Christian doxology. That’s what we teach our kids in religious school.”
From “The Right Way to Pray?”, posted in the New York Times.
If the English language made any sense at all, grave and gravy would be closely related words. Gravy would be a cute nicknamey sister of grave. As in, “Grampa’s gone gravy.” or “That vampire just isn’t gravy enough for me. Gimme that pointy stick.” And gravel would be the stuff used to fill in a grave, like it is, but you’d pronounce it with a long a, like navel: GRAVE-el. Way cuter. So now we come to graven. That would be the visiting part. Instead of “going to visit” Grandpa or the deceased vampire you’d say you’re “goin’ graven.” It’s sportier, like an Olympic event.
The downside to all this is that Eatin’ Gravy would be renamed animal oil juice. But you shouldn't be consuming that stuff anyway, unless you want the early gravy.
Get your free tombstone generator.
Wishing you a playful, enlightening 2010, full of love, healing, and joy. May your bounty increase as you uplift, and are uplifted by, others. If you choose, remember this year that sharing an honest smile or kind word with someone who’s experienced a bad day, or a bad life, is a holy gift. Kindness rocks.
I am so grateful that you’re there, sharing in my endeavor to become a humor writer, or humor draw-er, or something. Thank you.
And, since it wouldn’t be Small & Big without a little something extra, here’s an ugly pile of mushrooms:
Happy new year. May peace be unto you and yours.
Those are wonder drugs that promote “male enhancement.” I like that. I like that it makes better men; better at whatever they can be better at: singing, cooking, vacuuming, surfing, skiing, poetry, buying presents, being peaceful, thoughtful, gentle, being all muscley. Through the wonders of genetic science, something so tailored to each man's needs, wow, it's a miracle. Heck, give them to the females too. Have everybody take them.
What? No? It’s a euphemism for “penis hardener”? Oh. That is a disappointment.
I just discovered him. I just enjoyed him. Lord Likely, aristocratic adventurer and gentle-man of action, is an astonishing chap. I’m not sure why, really, as his posts are unfinished. And rather lewd. See for yourself: www.lordlikely.com.
Be sure to sign up for his Twitters at twitter.com/lordlikely.
As a fan of Building #19 (motto: Good Stuff Cheap) (and where it helps to believe Cheap Stuff Good), even I had sworn that I would never, ever, ever purchase food there. Ya-uck. Busted up cartons of pie, next to tires and Maxim magazine hair dye. Sure, I’d buy food at Ocean State Job Lot (Peace mango peach passion cereal, $2.50). The Lot is nearly as icky as the #19, but right next door is the name-brand grocery selling the same cereal ($6.50) and so it’s like they’re GIVING me $4 a box.
Tonight that all changed. I walked in and the food aisles were GLOWING. They’d been moved to a separate area, well-lit and a good 40 feet from the dusty wool area rugs (no price because I’m allergic). There I was, traipsing under Jerry Ellis’s larger-than-life caricature, my rusty Meijer’s store shopping cart jammed with gluten-free pretzels (Ener-G sesame pretzel rings, $0.39) and orange chocolate chip cookies (Newman’s organic, $1.29). I had to stop twice to tear off the brown tape impeding the back wheels (or was that really thick toilet paper (generic brand, $1.39)?).
Maybe it was the economy. Or maybe it was inevitable, like a gay man’s fateful appreciation of show tunes, whether he likes it or not. (It starts with Shirley Basey. She’s FABulous.) Either way, I crossed a line at Building #19.
A guy in Tokyo believes he can: he married a video game character. (Go to article.) That Cialis “male enhancement” drug there, it won't help.
My favorite starts at the 1:23 minute mark. Heh heh!
Is the video more funny or less funny because of star fisherman Bill Dance’s lack of humor?
I saw this posted on Laugh Lines, a New York Times blog that I highly recommend you check out there, Poopy Pants.
If you’re near lovely Cohasset, Massachusetts this SUNday, near Boston’s South Shore, skedaddle your hiney over for an honest-to-goodness cartoon of yourself, drawn by Bill White. Wouldn’t any parent or grandparent love a funny drawing of you for the holidays? Sure! Frame it and it’ll make an affordable, memorable gift. Hot dawg!
You might know Bill from his Ren & Stimpy animating stint, or you might know him as a Building 19 cartoonist. Either way, he’s one awesome draw-er.
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