Small & Big

I may seek a second opinion on the diagnosis. Dr. Bluebuddies, a world renown Smurf expert, insists I’ve got a severe case of... Fortunately, it’s neither malignant nor contagious. Smurfy! I feel an urge to live in a mushroom. Take the Smurf Personality Test (bluebudies.com)

Sometimes humor is about taking a comparison to the next level. About getting out of your shell and falling in love with someone from a separate religion, race, or chemical composition. I like how the tape is so much better drawn than the snails. (Insert wolf whistle here.) And that there's nothing about it that makes it a she other than one snail saying so. Two snails near a tape dispenser. One insists, “I don’t care if she is a tape dispenser. I love her.” Go see more of Sam Gross's funnies on this New Yorker page (it's fun!) or buy stuff with this cartoon on it .

Cute animules talkin’ work-out schedules and committment. What’s extra funny about this cartoon masterpiece is that neither rodent is presently using the wheel. This forces me, or rather, my brain, to take the connection to the next level: a hamster running on that squeaky wheel into the wee hours of the stinkin’ night. Yet hamsters remain chubby. Oh, the mysteries of nature. The description on the New Yorker describes these as gerbils. But they’re not. That one there looks like little Sylvia, the marathon wheel runner in my ’hood. Anyone out there besides me say “hampsters”? One little hammy to another, standing before a hamster wheel: “I usually do two hours of cardio and then four more of cardio and then two more of cardio.” Go see Jason Polan's cartoon on the New Yorker page and buy stuff with this cartoon on it.

We meet at the Lowe’s Home Improvement Store. I am carrying bundles of wire coil and a three-pronged claw hammer that looks to be from the Hundred Years’ War. I hoist myself up into my mangy pick-up and spy You behind the seat, tangled in the bungee cord thoroughly chewed by Godzilla dog. A pen! A classy writing utensil; royal blue and smooth in hand. Intuition tells me you’ll write in those silky thick lines I like. Where have you been all my life? This is no place for your glam, amongst dirt, dog fur, and wadded up Dunkin Donuts napkins. Gently, I lift you into my clean palm. My eyes linger over your cobalt blue and silver trimwork—and, wait, what is this?! Lettering? On your side, a tattoo? Wrought in classic Times Roman font:      Norris Gaynor      Summit Hill Elem. Sch. A fine, educated name for the owner of this personalized pen. The abbreviation tells me that a 22-letters-and-spaces-per-line limit was encountered in its manufacture. Norris Gaynor, I feel your struggle to make t

The first installment of a mesmerizing two-part series on mobile telephones. Rushing down the highway only saves about five minutes so my speedometer stays at a comfortable 70 mph, rarely straying beyond 78. The tink-tink turning signal perfectly syncs with the beat on the radio. I keep it quick and courteous, like Speedy Gonzales. Another ten minutes and the Attleboro exit swoops me off and out of the flow. I pretend my old car is a gas-electric hybrid. All the energy from breaking is being stored as energy for the drive home, a couple trips down to Cape Cod, and the blenderizing of a mango smoothie. Mm, mango. The long S-curve dramatically ends at a red light. This time my tink-tink is nowhere near a music beat. Poop. I look around to see if it mashes with any other sound or sight other than my tapping finger. A blinking yellow light. A crow's flapping wings. A jogger's steps. Nope. Nope. Nope. The rear-view mirror shows an approaching nondescript car. No beat. I look at

All deep yearnings eventually blossom into a many petaled flower—a beautiful flower that is not a stinky giant "corpse flower" that blooms once every 100 years and smells like rotting carrion. This time, my yearning has gotten me in touch with an ancient Egyptian side. Thanks to a simple and straight-forward online thingy, I learned the Egyptian zodiac symbol that symbolizes the many facets of Me-ness. As of this moment, right now, I confidently come out of the closet as Mouth , the ancient creator goddess who's yawp is heard round the world. Evidently that's why I tell complete strangers, "I brought you into this world and I'll take you out of it." Feminine power and all that. Oh, wait. My mistake. My sign is Mout . Mouth, with an invisible, inaudible, nonexistent h . Crap. Whelp, a simple spelling error ain't causing me to start this post over. Here are the stats. Mout Ironic, tremendous internal wealth, know how to rapidly connect with others, loo

According to the smartest person on Earth, I have a lot of taste. Buds. I have lots of tastebuds. That Marilyn vos Savant , the one listed in the Guinness Book of World Records for highest IQ, mentioned it in her Parade Magazine column . Turns out that maybe the people who love strong cheese like Blue and Gorgonzola (you know who you are!) enjoy the flavors because they don’t have a heck of a lot of taste buds. Those of us who despise strong cheeses might have 100 times more taste buds. We’re the sensitive type. Anything that reeks of stinky old feet is not placed in our collective mouth. Yucky! After reading the words of this Marilyn genius—who hints I may be “gifted” instead of the “cheese hating, cultural neophyte” I have been previously called—well, I’m interested. (Marilyn probably even knows what IQ stands for.) I Googled and found a more academic article at Yale Scientific called “From ‘Supertaster’ to the Taste-blind.” Turns out that maybe the reason soda pop burns my ton

Kettle kind, black behind my slow cooker. Spit fire engine come full steam, chugging charcoal ash still crackling the woodland hearth. Acres of pine felled and stacked along this fire place, sooting it fine. Firey image from State of South Dakota Fire Meteorologist Randall P. Benson, PhD .