Small & Big

Behold, my dearies: the haunting spoon, risen on All Hallow’s Eve, sharp and deranged, seeking soft pink tongues, human tongues. Like your own. Cutlery of the undead, unstoppable by modern methods of recycling, patiently waiting thousands of years to fulfill its destiny. And now, a word from Vincent Price...

The conclusion to our groundbreaking five-part exposé on canines, love, and yuck. This final piece provides guidance on where to go from here, in your poop suit. It is important to give this new wardrobe some settling-in time: go easy on yourself as you adapt to working with an all-brown palette, and to losing some friends. (Earth tones look magnificent on you and those weren’t true friends.) Just look, look!, at how happy you are making the dog. During moments of doubt, and there will one or two, take a calming breath and bring to mind just this morning, before leaving for work, her soulful doggie eyes staring up at your poop shirt. Take note of your mutual love and admiration for each other: the poop socks in your shoes. Allow those poop undies and poop pants to remind you that, no matter how stressful work gets, tonight you will be welcomed home by one very interested dog. Feel the love, the brown-eye love. Please note that clothing is a stopgap measure until science finds ...

Finally, the troubling, yet promising, solution to your pet ordeal. The moment you’ve been waiting on for four nail-biting days. Good for you: the first step in overcoming any situation is accepting what is. I smell acceptance. You are ready to move to the next level: intensifying canine love. The way to do so is, as they say, in your hands. And all over you. The way, it is simple and will also cut your clothing budget by 100%. Ready? Here it is. You can increase your pet’s love by, each morning and for the rest of your days, putting on poop socks, poop underwear, poop pants, and a poop shirt. Tomorrow, part 5: the informative conclusion, Now what?

At part three, we’re in the meat of this five-part exposé on canines, love, and yuck. Yes, of course, your dog loves you from the bottom of her heart. But your dog loves eating the unmentionable from the tip of her wet nose and soft tongue to the bottom of her steel-lined stomach, on through the rest of the plumbing, to that exit point* where her waggly tail attaches. Which love is more far reaching? Which love doesn’t drag her to the vet or slop her with soap? Which love involves digging for pirate treasure? Exactly. It is your lot in life to be number two to number two. * The part cartoonists draw with an X or an O, depending on their preference for kisses, hugs, or Tic-Tac-Toe moves. Or is it? Stay tuned for the facts about this troublesome issue tomorrow, in part 4.

The second installment in a five-part reality exposé on canines, love, and yuck. What is it about dogs and found objects? Found, digested, excreted objects being sussed out for re-ingestment? How can something so cute and furry on the outside, so soft and lovable, have this sick, stomach churning, poop-engrossed love? You know that Groucho Marx line, “Outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend. Inside a dog it’s too dark to read.”? In truth, it’s “inside a dog it’s too disgusting to read.” If you follow but one rule in life, make it to stay on the exterior of the dog. You don’t want to be in there. Tomorrow, part 3: answering questions; asking more questions .

The first part of a five-part exposé on canines, love, and yuck. Her bright brown eyes shining love, the family dog gnaws a meaty mass encrusted with gray sand. It’s half-way back on her molars so she can really chomp it. She’s been quiet the past five minutes, not alseep on the fleece-lined doggie bed, the one that matches her red collar and rain jacket and those velcro booties she got for her birthday, but because she was picking up a to-go order at the cat’s litter box. Tomorrow, part 2: raising questions; turning Marx on his head .

If she’s so smart how come Brain Storm doesn’t clean the kitchen table? Y-u-c-k. Other than that, Yes, this mousey is smarter and more focused than us humans, who, try as we might, cannot slip through the handle of a coffee cup. What we need are smaller, more focused and intelligent brains, anti-gravity dexterity, and bigger cup handles.

Out of all the candy holidays Halloween is the best. It’s pure and unabashedly focused on that powder of the gods — sugar. And costumes. Now, what else does this remind you of? Think, think, think. Give up? The correct answer is, of course, corporate culture. Halloween is like corporate culture, which is also powered by sugar, in the form of candy dishes on desks, and costumes. This dress-up part is what I’d like to talk to you about today. See, business as we know it could be revolutionized by Halloween. And when business is better the economy is better. Here’s the idea, and I’m talking only to the important corporate decision-makers here (you know who you are): Let us turn our backs on the traditional business attire established by the Sears & Roebuck catalog in 1886 — a suit and tie, cummerbund, corset, the whole nine yards. Instead, imagine a world where employees choose work apparel for originality and joy rather than sameness and expensiveness. ...

Well. On Sunday I did my first caricaturing event ever. It was a blast! And I got to sit right outside the toilet. (The seat of power.) My cartooned portrait drawing did not cause a child to cry or, far worse, kick me. For it was a Halloween party: there was candy, there were witches and patch-eyed pirates and pink princesses and sturdy knights and puffy red spaceships. Any kicker, perhaps dressed as the Patriots’ Stephen Gostkowski, whoever that is, could have blended in with the costumed crowd, circled back, kicked me again. But no, these were all sweet little kids who sat calmly in the unheated barn at Codman Farm ( CodmanFarm.org ), steadfast and stoic; unlike myself, who was hopped up on candy corn . It snowed. Sadly, I could not share a stall with goats. How come diary is spelled like dairy ? Dear Dairy. My cartooning teacher, the infamous Mat Brown ( MatBrown.net ) of the Building #19 stores, had invited me to come try my hand at caricaturing, and it all benefited the D...

    Curly-haired singers Susan Boyle of Britain’s Got Talent and Micky Dolenz of the band The Monkeys , separated at birth. This discovery was made by alert reader David Paccia of David Wasting Paper , who shares the primary Sherlockholmesian clue with us thusly: “It’s in the eyes.” Also, “Talk about CREEPY!” As a great appreciator and draw-er of classic movie monsters, David knows creepy.

“I thought if I got into a fight (with the burgler),” said 82-year-old cartoonist Bill Green, “I’d lose my dressing gown and I’d end up starkers.” So instead, he took a couple of seconds to draw up a cartoon of the thief’s face. Bill explains: “I have an affinity for faces and I can remember faces even hours after.” Police used the cartoon to catch the burgler within 15 minutes. Yay, cartoons! Read the full story here.

What’s the best way to respond to the following: “You just turned 60? Heh heh, well, you know what they say, It’s all downhill from here.” ...or... “Now you’re a member of the Over-the-hill Club.” How about, “I certainly hope so!” People describe aging as “going downhill,” supposedly to mean that life only gets worse. But, um, in real life isn’t going downhill way more fun that going up it? So, take it as a wonderful complement, prophecy even, that the uphill trudge is over .

During the autumnal season I’d do just about anything for candy corn, including clean out the back seat of the car (incidentally, this is also the most likely source for finding candy corn). There’s just something about that single fake, buttery corn, layered in white, yellow, and orange, and molded into a unified mass, a fake kernel of monstrous proportion. Oh candy corn, many are your charms. Your sickly-sweet sugar. Your kickin’ food coloring. My rotting Halloween teeth. Rock on, candy corn. P.S. Here’s why my cat is unlike Stephen Colbert .

Pssssst! An exciting whisper is blowing about the grapevine, tickling leaves and supple purple grapes, staining its white shirt. The gossip just may concern a humorous new addition to Small & Big. Maybe. To find out, stay near and dear and periodically use our extra secret handshake: shake your own hand, then pump your right fist from sky to hip while shouting “uh-ooOOOoo-gah!” Repeat five times. In the meantime, here’s Big Wendy Whippet .

Sometimes Mom chooses the music for the bride’s march down the wedding aisle. Apparently, according to a certain NPR audio segment , a percentage of moms choose one special song, one they find to be touching, loving, beautiful: “Send in the Clowns,” by Judy Collins. Yes, Ms. Collins has a beautiful voice, especially when she’s mourning, but there are other matters to consider, like the actual wording of the song, like this:       Don’t you love farce?      My fault I fear.      I thought that you’d want what I want.      Sorry, my dear.*      But where are the clowns?      Quick, send in the clowns.      Don’t bother, they’re here.**   * Tear jerker. ** Marching down the aisle. This has been a Small & Big public service announcement.

I don’t have anything much to share today. But I did find Yoda in the closet, at the back, under a pile of women’s shirts. I can respect that.

Except that unique individual from Malaysia, who, daily and with admirable fortitude, composes the comments I delete daily and with admirable fortitude. As an incentive for everyone else to comment, here’s an ugly pile of mushrooms:

They don’t call her Dangerfield for nothin’. Alice Dangerfield celebrated her 100th birthday by soaring 2,000 feet up into the blue, not on the wing of an angel but of a tandem hang glider. And yes, she wanted to. “I’ve been in a hot-air balloon, and I’ve always loved to fly," Dangerfield said. “They hooked us up to a little plane and flew way up into the air, and then they just cut us loose.” Her granddaughter said, “Now she wants to go kayaking... she said she can do it. I’m going to take her after she works on her arm strength for a while, so she’s been lifting soup cans to build up muscle.” Full story on mlive.com . You go, Alice Angel!

The three police log clippings below are for real. They were taken from a local town newspaper, which shall remain anonymous. They have enough problems. I wasn’t aware I could call the cops on a squirrel. (Mental note: Memorize the number for 911.) A gun being returned to the police station? That would mean it was owned by a cop, right? How does a 22-caliber rifle become misplaced by an officer of the law? Did the incident involve squirrels? And finally, one that needs no commentary:

Recently I was alerted to a unique “bathroom helper” product. It’s called GoGirl and it makes you go Wee! when you wee wee. Apparently it allows l’femmes to go #1 whilst standing up, because the literature describes the product thusly: “GoGirl allows women the convenience of standing up to go to the bathroom.” A close family member who shall remain nameless sent it to me for my birthday. No, I don’t know why. Do you?