Small & Big

☐ I don’t own my own home, but I do have my health. ☐ I own one home outright. (Mortgages are for the poor.) ☐ I own one really, really large home. I have a lot of stuff      to go with the weight gain. ☐ Let’s see, there’s the weekend house, the Monday      house, the third Thursday of every month house,      the antique hand-hewn house, the hermitage, the      slummin’-it house, the Big House, the commissioned      brutalist house... ☐ How many homes do I own? Let me have my secretary      get back to you. (Lest we forget, any home with a mortgage is owned by the bank.)

Here, the jokes are buried deep. Bring a pick axe. My temper is shorter than its half life. I’m so green my hair dresser uses a Brush Hog. I’m unluckier than the leprechaun caught smoking his pot o’ gold, instead of drinking it. My face is redder than an erotic periodical shelved at the local library. Stingy? I’m the fourth descendant of a miser. Or would be if he’d had children. My arms are stronger than the Romanian-Limburger dead lift. And a few jokes left laying out in the open... ‘Unfortunate’ is having a job interview while sitting in your fart cloud. Talk about sexy! My lips are so luscious they’ve been compared to Sophia Loren’s... nail clippings. For the backstory on this humor thing, see my previous post, I Can Learn To Be Funny?

Nubile, Caged, Cheep Waiting for YOU At Your Local Grainery

“Nurse, I feel a little horse. No giddy-up. Run down. Like I’m saddled with a heavy burden.” “Whoa there,” she says, checking my teeth. “Hay, you’re an old nag. But you’re in stable condition.” (I will not apologize.)

Well! An earth-shaking message has been received. It concerns the whereabouts of one Norris Gaynor, infamous subject of “Norris Gaynor, I Found Your Pen.” His daughter discovered the post and, one assumes, immediately scrambled to locate me. It seems Mr. Gaynor is a retired elementary school principal (one sensed he could be no less) of Summit Hill Elementary School and probably “would love to hear from you regarding the whereabouts of his pen.” She then divulged this topper: his email address. I have messaged him fortwidth without delay at once. One can barely contain oneself!

“Don’t think too much. Let it flow.” Trouble is, when I adhere to that I’m the only one who understands whatever it is I’m doing, from writing a post to crossing the street. The Amiglia-matic knows that, for some of us, wanting to be understood by others takes a gob of thinkin’.

The number three (3) surpasses all other numerals in dexterity, passion, and effervescent personality. Since that is the case, as it surely is, three threes would be perfection realized. For what could be more perfect than a family of three threes? 333. Ironically, as this wisdom propagates the third dimension, we realize that this post is the 334th posting of Small & Big. We have peaked. The Amiglia-matic knows that, after “ Hotshot Designer ,” it’s all downhill from here. Although... there is 3 3 3 to look forward to. Nineteen thousand six hundred and eighty-three, here we come.