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.

Mark Twain put it best when he wrote, “rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.” It’s a warm summer morning in 1992, birdies all a’chirp. My first real job after college is at college, where they’ll be paying me for a change. (And mostly in change.) Finally, I’m a graphic designer! After meeting my manager and her assistant, she passes me my first official project. I respectfully take the manila folder of specifications to the empty designer’s room. I sit before the yellowing Macintosh Classic computer, push the On button, and wait. Patiently I admire the tall collegiate windows (my windows!) which open out onto stately evergreens, gently wafting o’er a quiet street. And wait. The warm sun rises lazily, like an elderly beagle from the sidewalk. And wait. Somewhere out beyond Earth’s sun, infinite miles away, a star is born. Then another. And Lo, the computer desktop doest appear. I aim the mouse, double-click Adobe PageMaker, and— “Pa-bang!!!” Loud gunshot, here in the room?!

{ Part 1 | Part 2 } She says, “I’m a huge Patriots fan. I’ve worn this helmet so long my skin grew around it. See?” She makes dumb blonde jokes about your yellow Labrador Retriever. She eats like a T. Rex . Sure, it’s impressive the way she brings down her prey, but those teensy arms are creepy. She mentions that for five years she’s been living in a wild mushroom—but it’s not poisonous. She’s so cheap she reuses band-aids. Robust neck muscles prevent her from nodding ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ She gazes deep into your baby blues and tells you they’re the color of crab blood. During dessert she explains how chocolate causes more constipation than romance. She’s so tall you almost didn’t notice the ogre eye. She snuck out while you were reading the menu. She’s overbearing—especially while clutching that salmon between her jaws. After dinner she insists on tipping... a cow. She’s really bossy. But insists it’s because she’s your boss. She wants a strong man—someone to shoulder the

Welcome! The Small & Big blog, born August 16, 2006, officially turns 2-years-old today. (If you came by private dirigible, there are still a couple hangers available out back.) “Do, do come in. I am tickled pink that you stopped in for my little soiree . Tickled! I shall be accepting mementos for the auspicious occasion in the drawing room. In here. Oh, why, you needn’t have gone to the trouble. Pepper, please place this delicately atop the pile. More to the left. Little more. Too far. Back, back. STOP. Just there, yes. Close enough. “Now, should you become misplaced during the celebration keep a lookout for the ‘You Are Here’ kiosk. There is ballroom dancing out the hall. Mr Gates is offering tutorials. If you have the opportunity, do catch up with him. He now owns rights to the 19th Century. Do not wear a black veil or stovetop hat without proper licensing! Ah hah ha. Of course people like us needn’t concern ourselves with infringements. Make yourself comfy, dear. My domain is

{ Part 1 | Part 2 } Dalmatians keep mistaking him for a fire hydrant. Dogs just know. He licks everything gold and calls it his Midas Touch. He compliments your make-up and cute nose, saying it brings back memories of Clown College. On closer inspection, his head is a ceramic planter and that Mohawk is ornamental grass. He refers to himself as ‘Smurfette.’ He doesn’t drink alcohol, but keeps ordering purple nurples from the bartender. His six-pack abs packed up and left. He’s got the long sinewy legs of Kermit the Frog. His lips are thinner and less appetizing than Ragú pizza sauce. His fantasy threesome? George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and whoever’s on the $20. He only smells strong as an ox. He insists he brings good luck. Just keep rubbing his lucky rabbit’s foot. Although he neither ice skates nor roller skates he is an expert cheapskate. The only interest you share is a love of pool... boys. He asks to go to your place after dinner. Shy bladde

It’s been a long time coming... I’ve worked so hard for this... And finally I achieved it... In the end it was worth the difficulties... After all, I wouldn’t be who I am without persevering, without experiencing all this, the process... Wow. There are so many people to thank for this award, phew! Where to start? My spouse. Even the exes, thanks. My parents. My employer. Sorry about last Thursday. The work-out center and their handy antibacterial wipes. So many! Hah ha! Just too, too many people and corporations to thank. Your confidence in me kept me going, while I was going. Thank you, thank you for this award... It’ll have a place of honor, right next to the throne.

This next assignment in my humor training is to come up with 10 images or symbols for specific words. It’s supposed to give me more colorful gags and better imagery to choose from when creating joke relationships. But if you’re looking for fun stories, skip the exercise and go directly to the links within the text below. Words: Red: cherry, sports car , Chinese flag, ruby, raspberry, blood, anger, embarrassed, bull fighter’s cape, clown nose, Clifford (the big red dog), fire truck Blue: sky, water, crab blood, depressed, cobalt, cold, Ford truck, jeans, Patriots football team, cinema Yellow: mellow, sun, Labrador retriever, corn chips, 24k gold, lemonade, blonde, squash, canary, brick road, coward Green: garden, envy, Kermit the frog, hybrid car, U.S. paper money (Washingtons, Jacksons, Lincolns), naive, dragon, pickle, Ireland, Celtic Purple: nurple (a.k.a. the titty twister), people eater, Prince, royalty, velvet, favorite girl color, the Count from Sesame Street, grape, violet,

There’s a touching story in the Boston Globe newspaper about an elderly couple where one half is on the slow slide of Alzheimer’s disease. Rita began to forget even her husband of 61 years, Sol. The 89-year-old man became so depressed that, according to him, he “was shaking all over and I thought I was about to have a nervous breakdown.” Then, he had an idea: “I got in bed with her and loved her up and I got rid of all my depression.” Now Sol goes to the nursing home every day to love up Rita. He spends three hours singing old songs, taking her out to the garden, or lying next to her in bed, squeezing her shoulder, pressing his face into hers and kissing her. According to the nurse’s aid, Rita “couldn’t move at one point, and now she gets up looking for him—every guy that passes by, she says ‘Sol!’” Such a lovely way to go. Read the full article, “A healing touch,” on the Boston Globe website

Why does a bee sting? For the answer you gotta go straight to the stinger. So directly I go, to the honey bee on the red clover there. She looks sharp. “Um,” I say, absentmindedly rubbing the stinging lump on my backside. “Hello, little honeybee...?” “Bzzz,” she says through her fuzzy brown body. The little bee methodically works the field clover, chubby stripes balanced on dark, graceful toetips. Honeybees pick up sound vibrations through sensitive tapered feet; feet made for dancing and hard manual labor. “Good day to you, you ground-bound jumbo.” “Hey.” “Who has zee stinger?” the bee asks, padding across the purpley long-shag clover carpet. I am careful not to stare at her round brown backside; it might signal unhealthy interest. Politeness is in my interest. I breathe in the sweetness of warm clover, listening to the hum of insects happily working. Beneath my bare feet tender green leaves and stems percolate up the dirt’s moist humidity. For this quest why did I not wear s

Here’s where I take five celebrities who are noted for a particular characteristic and write a joke about each. Here goes: “Although classical music is becoming wildly popular in Asia, the Dalai Lama doesn’t attend the symphony. He’s into non-violins.” “Scientists discovered a new genetic disorder that is the real reason behind Barry Bonds’ beef-steroid look. Turns out he suffers from Michelin Man disease.” “I hear the Q-tip company recently signed the top lobbyist on Capital Hill. My congratulations go out to Q-tip and Mickey Mouse!” “Everyone’s going Green nowadays. Reduce, reuse, recycle; plant, grow, transplant. Even celebrities. Did you know that Joan Rivers is into transplanting? Yup. Face transplants. Next time you see her, help get her roots established: dump compost on her head.” “There isn’t going to be a presidential election this year. Obama vetoed it.” Well, I tried. For the backstory on this humor thing, see my previous post, I Can Learn To Be Funny?

Curious to discover whether that big butt is really big bones? Here’s how to find out: you measure a body part that doesn’t have much fat or muscle on it. What you need for this: – A tape cloth ruler – A rough idea of your height and gender – One wrist 1) Measure your wrist with the ruler. If you’re a woman, you have a large skeleton when your wrist measures 6.5 inches (and you stand 5'5" or taller), 6.25 inches (if you’re between 5'2" and 5'5"), or 5.75 inches (5'2" or shorter). If you’re of the male persuasion a measurement of 7.5 inches (5'5" or taller) puts you in the Big Bone category.