When God first created Greenwich, He looked down and saw people who were happy, contented, rich and Congregationalist. This, for some reason, disturbed Him greatly. God got nervous when people were tranquil, so He said to Himself “Behold, they are one people and they have one church; and this is only the beginning of what they will do. Come, let us go down and bust their chops, and create new, contentious churches, so that they may give each other the business.”
So God descended upon them and put a bee in their bonnet, and the people of the Round Hill Church began to accuse each other of heresy and tastelessness. One issue divided the congregation. It was whether the precise temperature of hell was 673 degrees, as claimed by the Minister, Dr. Zebulon Tophet, or 95 degrees with 85% humidity, as claimed by the dissidents led by Moses Feake.
The dissidents opened their own church on an adjoining lot in 1782. Dr. Tophet hurled heated invective, vituperation, anathemas, and excommunications across the way, killing two dissidents and injuring one.
Meanwhile, God was busy helping people. It was His policy to hear all prayers. But God stuck to his policy of moving in mysterious ways. Thus, those praying for wealth, health and a new kitchen, failed to show proper appreciation when God gave them hemorrhoids. People continued to believe in God but thought He had an unlisted number.
For example, Elma Sloop prayed: “God Almighty, why haven’t I gotten the Merillat cabinets I asked for last year?” God spoke out of the whirlwind: “Where were you when I laid the foundations of your builder’s colonial? Tell me if you have understanding. Who brought in the plumbing and repaired it when the pipes burst? Who wired the houses so they could hook up seven T.V. sets and six stereos? Who? You? Nooo.” So Elma was chastened, and said “Lord, I know thou canst do all things, and thy reasons are hidden, so don’t worry about me, I don’t really need cabinets, and besides, there’s a sale at Sears next week.”
Over the years other churches were founded. The Episcopals opened Christ Church only to experience that inexorable plunge toward disorder and entropy governed by the second law of thermodynamics. Soon there were High Episcopals, Low Episcopals, and Medium Episcopals. They all disagreed about the same issue that divided the early Church Fathers, Jerome, Augustine, Ambrose and Harry, i.e., whether Christ is present in the bread or just the crust.
Eventually there were so many churches in Greenwich that residents had choices ranging from the Memorial Church of the Very Holy Ghosts, to Randy Tophet’s First Church of Rent-a-God. Randy’s church believes in a hired power. They just don’t buy religion. Randy’s congregation tries harder than other congregations and prays to “Number One.”
Finally, the atheists of town formed their own church, “St. O’Hare’s,” with the motto “Thank God we’re atheists.” Malcolm Feuerbach, minister of the church, was fond of saying that religious people were in for a big surprise when they died because they would wake up and find out that there is no God.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Friday, October 28, 2011
The Coming-Out Party
The Coming-Out Party was originated by the Sinoway Indians. Young Indian maidens of the tribe were stripped naked, smeared with buffalo grease, and required to dance before the young bucks of the tribe while the bucks beat their tom toms. In order to come-out, a pre-squaw needed a large escort, and could not hold a coming-out party without a lot of bucks.
Over the centuries the coming out party has evolved into a charming and graceful affair in which debutantes get to drink champagne, eat caviar, dance all night at the country club, and wear fashionable gowns which cover-up the buffalo grease.
The recent debut of Pricilla Papworth Longbottom is an example. Pricilla, “Pru”, did not want to have a coming-out party. She wanted to give all of the money to the poor people of Darien, Connecticut, and become a nun in the Catholic Church. Her father was pleased, but her mother, a pillar of the Round Hill Episcopal Church, took an overdose of Diet Valium, and spent six weeks in Greenwich Hospital. Finally Pru agreed to have a coming-out party, and Mrs. Papworth Longbottom came home well and ready to hire the caterers.
Pru looked lovely in her white gown with only a hint of buffalo grease in the cleft. She was escorted by Tip Wellsmith, son of the renowned proctologist, Skip Wellsmith, and by Rip Flosswhight, son of the financier and part time beer mug collector, Flip Flosswhight. Everyone danced under the tents to the music of Lester Lanin and his band.
Late that night Sister Mary of the Little Sisters of St. Myrtle parked her van at the dark end of the Longbottom driveway and stole up the road to the back of the house. The ladder was out of the garage, and Sister Mary pulled it up and leaned it against the house. Soon a dark figure descended the ladder carrying a bundle. At the bottom, Sister Mary said, “Jesus is happy tonight. You’ve made the right decision. Now you can spend the rest of your life working for God instead of idling your time in decadent high society.” Mr. Longbottom looked up: “I’ve wanted to be a Trappist monk for twenty years now. Thanks for the lift Sister. Those two women can have the Junior League, I’m off for Kentucky and a life of contemplation.”
Over the centuries the coming out party has evolved into a charming and graceful affair in which debutantes get to drink champagne, eat caviar, dance all night at the country club, and wear fashionable gowns which cover-up the buffalo grease.
The recent debut of Pricilla Papworth Longbottom is an example. Pricilla, “Pru”, did not want to have a coming-out party. She wanted to give all of the money to the poor people of Darien, Connecticut, and become a nun in the Catholic Church. Her father was pleased, but her mother, a pillar of the Round Hill Episcopal Church, took an overdose of Diet Valium, and spent six weeks in Greenwich Hospital. Finally Pru agreed to have a coming-out party, and Mrs. Papworth Longbottom came home well and ready to hire the caterers.
Pru looked lovely in her white gown with only a hint of buffalo grease in the cleft. She was escorted by Tip Wellsmith, son of the renowned proctologist, Skip Wellsmith, and by Rip Flosswhight, son of the financier and part time beer mug collector, Flip Flosswhight. Everyone danced under the tents to the music of Lester Lanin and his band.
Late that night Sister Mary of the Little Sisters of St. Myrtle parked her van at the dark end of the Longbottom driveway and stole up the road to the back of the house. The ladder was out of the garage, and Sister Mary pulled it up and leaned it against the house. Soon a dark figure descended the ladder carrying a bundle. At the bottom, Sister Mary said, “Jesus is happy tonight. You’ve made the right decision. Now you can spend the rest of your life working for God instead of idling your time in decadent high society.” Mr. Longbottom looked up: “I’ve wanted to be a Trappist monk for twenty years now. Thanks for the lift Sister. Those two women can have the Junior League, I’m off for Kentucky and a life of contemplation.”
Thursday, October 20, 2011
The People of Greenwich
Greenwich, Connecticut, is populated by rich, white, anglo-saxon protestants (WASPS). Some of these people are as rich as Croseus, but Croseus lives across the line in Stamford and cannot get into the Greenwich Country Club.
When I first moved to Greenwich from polyglot Manhattan, I said to myself, “Jack” (That’s what I call myself), “Jack, who are these rich Wasps to think that they are superior to everyone else?” I decided to research the question and consulted the leading authorities.
To my amazement, I discovered that I was all wrong. Rich Wasps really are superior to everybody else. They do deserve to live in the best houses, drive BMWs, and shop at Talbots. In every study, Wasps scored higher than other ethnic groups. One leading survey of the subject is the March 1998 Consumer Report’s rating of ethnic groups. Listing the groups in order of estimated overall quality, Consumer Reports puts Wasps first by a wide margin.
The only dissenter in this chorus of praise for Wasps was the consumer advocate Ralph Nader, who said Wasps should be recalled for an adjustment in their senses of humor.
Professor Malcolm Mullet of Harvard University is an anthropologist who has spent many years among the Wasps of Greenwich studying their fascinating customs and rituals. Dr. Mullet says that at first the Wasps were apprehensive and distrustful in his presence, but after years of growing familiarity, they came to accept him into even their most private ceremonies. What Dr. Mullet discovered is astounding and has revolutionized the outside world’s picture of these remarkable people.
In his report for National Geographic Magazine, richly illustrated with pictures of Wasps in their colorful costumes, Dr. Mullet investigates the central ritual of Wasp culture, the ceremony in which they gather to share food and the latest gossip of the tribe-- the dinner party.
The food is carefully prepared and served with a great flourish amid much favorable commentary. It is not, however, something any civilized person would want to eat. To the normal palate, accustomed as it is to the many joys of Big Macs, pizzas, Taco Bells, and General Tso’s Chicken, the ingestion of Wasp comestibles usually results in extensive gagging.
The marketing for these edibles is done at a local establishment by the women in fetching short cotton outfits called “tennis dresses.” Although no tennis is actually played in the supermarket, there is much lively conversation about it among the shoppers who gaily participate in the collective subterfuge that they are coming from or going to tennis matches.
When I first moved to Greenwich from polyglot Manhattan, I said to myself, “Jack” (That’s what I call myself), “Jack, who are these rich Wasps to think that they are superior to everyone else?” I decided to research the question and consulted the leading authorities.
To my amazement, I discovered that I was all wrong. Rich Wasps really are superior to everybody else. They do deserve to live in the best houses, drive BMWs, and shop at Talbots. In every study, Wasps scored higher than other ethnic groups. One leading survey of the subject is the March 1998 Consumer Report’s rating of ethnic groups. Listing the groups in order of estimated overall quality, Consumer Reports puts Wasps first by a wide margin.
The only dissenter in this chorus of praise for Wasps was the consumer advocate Ralph Nader, who said Wasps should be recalled for an adjustment in their senses of humor.
Professor Malcolm Mullet of Harvard University is an anthropologist who has spent many years among the Wasps of Greenwich studying their fascinating customs and rituals. Dr. Mullet says that at first the Wasps were apprehensive and distrustful in his presence, but after years of growing familiarity, they came to accept him into even their most private ceremonies. What Dr. Mullet discovered is astounding and has revolutionized the outside world’s picture of these remarkable people.
In his report for National Geographic Magazine, richly illustrated with pictures of Wasps in their colorful costumes, Dr. Mullet investigates the central ritual of Wasp culture, the ceremony in which they gather to share food and the latest gossip of the tribe-- the dinner party.
The food is carefully prepared and served with a great flourish amid much favorable commentary. It is not, however, something any civilized person would want to eat. To the normal palate, accustomed as it is to the many joys of Big Macs, pizzas, Taco Bells, and General Tso’s Chicken, the ingestion of Wasp comestibles usually results in extensive gagging.
The marketing for these edibles is done at a local establishment by the women in fetching short cotton outfits called “tennis dresses.” Although no tennis is actually played in the supermarket, there is much lively conversation about it among the shoppers who gaily participate in the collective subterfuge that they are coming from or going to tennis matches.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Buying the Castle
A spectacular night of successive winners at Aqueduct Racetrack produced a most unexpected surplus on my balance sheet. Up to this point, I had lived the customary hand-to-mouth existence of a seedy counselor at law residing in New York City. But now, I was able to stop wearing the false beard and rubber nose employed to avoid the hectoring attentions of my many creditors. I looked forward to bright nights in the Big Apple, sampling the haute cuisine and premier vintages of the best restaurants, hitting the hit shows, spending weekdays at the track.
But my wife Grunhilda, descendent of Viking warriors, declared in the dulcet tones of Hulk Hogan that we were moving out of “this dump.” She asserted that the healthy air and wholesome atmosphere of suburbia would help clear up our son’s chronic facial boils and intractable juvenile delinquency. Bowing to the persuasiveness of her arguments, and to the fact that she could beat me in arm-wrestling, I agreed. We were heading for Greenwich Connecticut.
Greenwich is a town of about fifty-eight thousand people of whom fifty thousand are real estate agents. The other eight thousand spend all of their time being shown around by the brokers. It is Hobbs’ war of “all against all” with every agent prowling, protective, paranoid, angry, and armed to the teeth. Every morning the police find the bodies of brokers strewn about the streets of Greenwich, but that is mainly because most real estate agents are heavy drinkers.
Our agent, a burly female martial arts expert in pink blazer and black belt, met us at the railroad station in her armored BMW. She asked what type of residence we were interested in. Grunhilda and I answered in unison (C Flat Major) “something on the water.” After an appraising stare, our agent politely inquired if we meant perhaps something like a houseboat or Chinese junk. We responded that we would prefer something equipped with trees and grass. Disregarding the narrow possibility that I represented some derelict branch of the Rockefeller family, our agent queried whether we were prepared to pay the $10,000 per blade of grass commanded by waterfront property. As the blood drained from our faces, she suggested several alternatives; i.e. something with a distant glimpse of the water, which she labeled “indirect water;” something on a stream, namely “direct creek;” or something attached to the town water line, or “direct pipe.”
Our agent showed us an authentic castle which had been built by an eccentric earwax tycoon who had brought it over, stone by stone, from Nutley New Jersey. The bridge over the moat led directly into a room with a cathedral ceiling. Grunhilda was charmed, but said we would have to get rid of the stained glass windows, pulpit, and pews. We decided to buy it.
But my wife Grunhilda, descendent of Viking warriors, declared in the dulcet tones of Hulk Hogan that we were moving out of “this dump.” She asserted that the healthy air and wholesome atmosphere of suburbia would help clear up our son’s chronic facial boils and intractable juvenile delinquency. Bowing to the persuasiveness of her arguments, and to the fact that she could beat me in arm-wrestling, I agreed. We were heading for Greenwich Connecticut.
Greenwich is a town of about fifty-eight thousand people of whom fifty thousand are real estate agents. The other eight thousand spend all of their time being shown around by the brokers. It is Hobbs’ war of “all against all” with every agent prowling, protective, paranoid, angry, and armed to the teeth. Every morning the police find the bodies of brokers strewn about the streets of Greenwich, but that is mainly because most real estate agents are heavy drinkers.
Our agent, a burly female martial arts expert in pink blazer and black belt, met us at the railroad station in her armored BMW. She asked what type of residence we were interested in. Grunhilda and I answered in unison (C Flat Major) “something on the water.” After an appraising stare, our agent politely inquired if we meant perhaps something like a houseboat or Chinese junk. We responded that we would prefer something equipped with trees and grass. Disregarding the narrow possibility that I represented some derelict branch of the Rockefeller family, our agent queried whether we were prepared to pay the $10,000 per blade of grass commanded by waterfront property. As the blood drained from our faces, she suggested several alternatives; i.e. something with a distant glimpse of the water, which she labeled “indirect water;” something on a stream, namely “direct creek;” or something attached to the town water line, or “direct pipe.”
Our agent showed us an authentic castle which had been built by an eccentric earwax tycoon who had brought it over, stone by stone, from Nutley New Jersey. The bridge over the moat led directly into a room with a cathedral ceiling. Grunhilda was charmed, but said we would have to get rid of the stained glass windows, pulpit, and pews. We decided to buy it.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
An Outlaw Dog
When we lived in Greenwich Connecticut in the 1970s-1980s, we had a dog named Valentine. She was a mutt, and Greenwich is a pretty fancy town. We eventually had to get rid of her. This was my eulogy in the Greenwich News.
The long criminal career of Valentine LeMoult, my outlaw dog, is over. This will come as welcome news to the decent, upstanding citizens of Greenwich, but many a grizzled veteran of the underworld is blinking back a tear as he elbows up to a bar down by the railroad tracks.
Valentine was a legend in her own grime. In her early days, she traveled with Butch Beagle and the Sundance Hound. She was their gun moll and was known to have personally participated in knocking over banks of garbage pails. She once single-handedly held up traffic in downtown Old Greenwich for ten minutes while the gang made a getaway behind the GranCentral Market.
In her old age, Valentine limited her criminal activity to violation of a host of state and local ordinances. Gone were the glory days with the old gang. But like Al Capone, who was ignominiously defeated by the Internal Revenue Code, it was municipal ordinances which got Valentine in the end.
Valentine started out life as the afterthought of a dashing Labrador Retriever passing through to Dodge City and a pliant Springer Spaniel named Kitty, who couldn’t resist the smooth line of her vagabond lover. That was the last she ever saw of the Lab except for one postcard from Juarez, which said he was on the lam - or was it the lamb chop?
We first saw Valentine at the Stamford Pound where she was being held on charges of practicing dogginess without a license. She was named after the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre. We had lived in New York City for 13 years and didn’t know that Greenwich had a rule requiring that all dogs be purebred with lineage going back to the time of William the Conqueror.
We asked the warden the make and model of Valentine. “This is a ‘Basics’ dog” he said. “You know, like the ‘Basics’ products you can buy in some supermarkets.” Well, we asked, is there a name for the breed? “Yes,” he said. “This is a pure Cur, of the hangdog variety.” Ah, we sighed. Of course. We could see that hangdog look, the drooping eyes, the drooling mouth, and fleas. We asked to see her “papers.” He produced a rap sheet showing 17 arrests and six convictions. “And at such a young age,” we said. “We’d like to bail her out.” “Okay,” said the warden, “but this dog is trouble. It’s your problem now.”
I can’t tell you the river of tears shed by my wife over the years because of the wild antics of our wandering acquisition. While we plugged away at the ranch, looking at the horizon for some sign of the fleas and ticks which usually preceded her arrival, Valentine was off with Butch and Sundance casing some veal joint or eluding the long arm of the law. We had both grown up in a frontier gold-mining town called Larchmont, New York, where dogs roamed free and every man packed a gun. We couldn’t bear the thought of locking up this emancipated scion of the wild sagebrush. But we both knew that Valentine would come to no good end.
One day, while pitching hay in the barn, I got a call from a lady in downtown Old Greenwich. “Do you own a small black dog with floppy ears and spots on its paws?” she asked. “Maybe,” I answered, “who wants to know?” “Well I’m a dog lover, first class,” she responded, “and everybody down here says this is your dog.” “Probably is,” I said, “what is the problem?” “The poor dog is lost and wandering around,” she said, deep concern reflected in her voice. “Well ma’am, I’m right grateful to you for calling; I’ll just mosey on down and get her.”
As I hung up the phone, I tried to stifle a laugh. Lost! That dog has never been lost. She could set up an information booth in Old Greenwich and offer tours of the town. She knows every street, house, back alley and garbage can in the area. She was on a first-name basis with the druggist, the barber, and the firemen.
But every dog has its day, and Valentine’s has come and gone. Her picture is still in every post office, and the “Most Wanted” television series recently did a special segment on her illegal exploits. One of our neighbors recognized her under her alias, Ma Barker, and threatened to report her to the authorities.
Our neighbor had good cause for umbrage. He had his house on the market for sale, and Valentine chose his yard as a temporary hideout. While lying low under his bushes, Valentine noticed that the house was not equipped with a bomb shelter and set about excavating holes to provide this luxury. Unable to erect a sign advertising her services - as roofers, painters and remodelers often do - Valentine left several of her calling cards around the property.
In her twilight years of fading beauty, Valentine would put on heavy lipstick, rouge and eye makeup, and hang out in the middle of the intersection near our house. Some friends, seeing her lying there motionless, feared (or hoped) she was dead. But no such luck. She was just regulating traffic.
My neighbor pointed-out that Valentine was in violation of Statutes forbidding “roaming upon the land.” Guilty as charged. But this dog didn’t just roam, she traveled, she explored, she set out in the spirit of Vasco de Gama, Marco Polo, Amundsen and Perry. She would have been the first dog to conquer Mt. Everest if she’d had a better travel agent. He also accused Valentine of violating the Statute which prohibits dogs from being a “nuisance.” Now this I resent. Even though she was old and arthritic, Valentine was never a mere “nuisance.” She remained an outright menace to civilized society right up until the end.
Well, Greenwich is a town that carefully cultivates its lawns and property values. It’s no place for a free spirit like Valentine. We’ve put her out to pasture. Happy trails to you, Valentine, until we meet again.
The long criminal career of Valentine LeMoult, my outlaw dog, is over. This will come as welcome news to the decent, upstanding citizens of Greenwich, but many a grizzled veteran of the underworld is blinking back a tear as he elbows up to a bar down by the railroad tracks.
Valentine was a legend in her own grime. In her early days, she traveled with Butch Beagle and the Sundance Hound. She was their gun moll and was known to have personally participated in knocking over banks of garbage pails. She once single-handedly held up traffic in downtown Old Greenwich for ten minutes while the gang made a getaway behind the GranCentral Market.
In her old age, Valentine limited her criminal activity to violation of a host of state and local ordinances. Gone were the glory days with the old gang. But like Al Capone, who was ignominiously defeated by the Internal Revenue Code, it was municipal ordinances which got Valentine in the end.
Valentine started out life as the afterthought of a dashing Labrador Retriever passing through to Dodge City and a pliant Springer Spaniel named Kitty, who couldn’t resist the smooth line of her vagabond lover. That was the last she ever saw of the Lab except for one postcard from Juarez, which said he was on the lam - or was it the lamb chop?
We first saw Valentine at the Stamford Pound where she was being held on charges of practicing dogginess without a license. She was named after the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre. We had lived in New York City for 13 years and didn’t know that Greenwich had a rule requiring that all dogs be purebred with lineage going back to the time of William the Conqueror.
We asked the warden the make and model of Valentine. “This is a ‘Basics’ dog” he said. “You know, like the ‘Basics’ products you can buy in some supermarkets.” Well, we asked, is there a name for the breed? “Yes,” he said. “This is a pure Cur, of the hangdog variety.” Ah, we sighed. Of course. We could see that hangdog look, the drooping eyes, the drooling mouth, and fleas. We asked to see her “papers.” He produced a rap sheet showing 17 arrests and six convictions. “And at such a young age,” we said. “We’d like to bail her out.” “Okay,” said the warden, “but this dog is trouble. It’s your problem now.”
I can’t tell you the river of tears shed by my wife over the years because of the wild antics of our wandering acquisition. While we plugged away at the ranch, looking at the horizon for some sign of the fleas and ticks which usually preceded her arrival, Valentine was off with Butch and Sundance casing some veal joint or eluding the long arm of the law. We had both grown up in a frontier gold-mining town called Larchmont, New York, where dogs roamed free and every man packed a gun. We couldn’t bear the thought of locking up this emancipated scion of the wild sagebrush. But we both knew that Valentine would come to no good end.
One day, while pitching hay in the barn, I got a call from a lady in downtown Old Greenwich. “Do you own a small black dog with floppy ears and spots on its paws?” she asked. “Maybe,” I answered, “who wants to know?” “Well I’m a dog lover, first class,” she responded, “and everybody down here says this is your dog.” “Probably is,” I said, “what is the problem?” “The poor dog is lost and wandering around,” she said, deep concern reflected in her voice. “Well ma’am, I’m right grateful to you for calling; I’ll just mosey on down and get her.”
As I hung up the phone, I tried to stifle a laugh. Lost! That dog has never been lost. She could set up an information booth in Old Greenwich and offer tours of the town. She knows every street, house, back alley and garbage can in the area. She was on a first-name basis with the druggist, the barber, and the firemen.
But every dog has its day, and Valentine’s has come and gone. Her picture is still in every post office, and the “Most Wanted” television series recently did a special segment on her illegal exploits. One of our neighbors recognized her under her alias, Ma Barker, and threatened to report her to the authorities.
Our neighbor had good cause for umbrage. He had his house on the market for sale, and Valentine chose his yard as a temporary hideout. While lying low under his bushes, Valentine noticed that the house was not equipped with a bomb shelter and set about excavating holes to provide this luxury. Unable to erect a sign advertising her services - as roofers, painters and remodelers often do - Valentine left several of her calling cards around the property.
In her twilight years of fading beauty, Valentine would put on heavy lipstick, rouge and eye makeup, and hang out in the middle of the intersection near our house. Some friends, seeing her lying there motionless, feared (or hoped) she was dead. But no such luck. She was just regulating traffic.
My neighbor pointed-out that Valentine was in violation of Statutes forbidding “roaming upon the land.” Guilty as charged. But this dog didn’t just roam, she traveled, she explored, she set out in the spirit of Vasco de Gama, Marco Polo, Amundsen and Perry. She would have been the first dog to conquer Mt. Everest if she’d had a better travel agent. He also accused Valentine of violating the Statute which prohibits dogs from being a “nuisance.” Now this I resent. Even though she was old and arthritic, Valentine was never a mere “nuisance.” She remained an outright menace to civilized society right up until the end.
Well, Greenwich is a town that carefully cultivates its lawns and property values. It’s no place for a free spirit like Valentine. We’ve put her out to pasture. Happy trails to you, Valentine, until we meet again.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Things I Do In Stores
All of these Stories are True
Once when we were in the drug store, Julie was buying some makeup. When she came to the counter, I said to her in front of the man who was waiting on us: “You look good in makeup ever since the sex-change operation.” The man looked at Julie and said: “It must be fun.” Julie said: “It never ends.”
Once Brendan and I were in a men's clothing store and I asked the clerk if they had any shirts that were "extra medium." The clerk looked perplexed, and said "No, just medium." Brendan pretended he was not with me.
On another occasion, I was in a deli and I asked the girl at the counter if she could guarantee that the red-skin potato salad was made by authentic redskins. She was indignant and said "No, it’s made here."
On one occasion, we were in a shoe store and they said that if you bought a pair of shoes, you could buy a second pair of shoes for 1/2 off. I asked the clerk if I could buy only the second pair of shoes. She said "No, you have to buy the first pair first."
Nobody laughed.
Once when we were in the drug store, Julie was buying some makeup. When she came to the counter, I said to her in front of the man who was waiting on us: “You look good in makeup ever since the sex-change operation.” The man looked at Julie and said: “It must be fun.” Julie said: “It never ends.”
Once Brendan and I were in a men's clothing store and I asked the clerk if they had any shirts that were "extra medium." The clerk looked perplexed, and said "No, just medium." Brendan pretended he was not with me.
On another occasion, I was in a deli and I asked the girl at the counter if she could guarantee that the red-skin potato salad was made by authentic redskins. She was indignant and said "No, it’s made here."
On one occasion, we were in a shoe store and they said that if you bought a pair of shoes, you could buy a second pair of shoes for 1/2 off. I asked the clerk if I could buy only the second pair of shoes. She said "No, you have to buy the first pair first."
Nobody laughed.
Friday, July 15, 2011
What Critics Have To Say About Jack's Humor Blog
“It Stinks.”
Casey Anthony
"It’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Sarah Palin
“It made me sick to my stomach.”
Zachary Taylor
“Touching and heartwarming.”
Charles Manson
“He’s full of shit”.
Pope Benedict XVI
“We are not amused.”
Queen Victoria
“It gave me Nausea.”
Jean Paul Sartre
“Ecrasez l’infame.”
Voltaire
“It sucks.”
Bill Clinton
“Mean Spirited.”
Leona Helmsley
“Unpalatable.”
Julia Child
“His teaching makes for rebellion, division, war, murder, robbery, arson, and the collapse of Christendom. He lives the life of a beast. He has burned the decretals. He despises alike the ban and the sword. He does more harm to the civil than to the ecclesiastical power.”
Edict of Worms
“Heartwarming and touching.”
Saddam Hussein
“I hate it.”
Mother Theresa
“It put me to sleep.”
Rush Limbaugh
“It made me cry.”
Glenn Beck
”I hope this gets better.”
Benny Hinn
“If I can get through this, I can get through anything.”
Gen. George Custer
“I love it, God help me, I love it.”
Gen. George Patton
“Its nothing but junk.”
Michael Milken
“He deserves to be shot.”
Jean Harris
“It is not fitting.”
O.J. Simpson
"It's too short."
Anthony Weiner
Casey Anthony
"It’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Sarah Palin
“It made me sick to my stomach.”
Zachary Taylor
“Touching and heartwarming.”
Charles Manson
“He’s full of shit”.
Pope Benedict XVI
“We are not amused.”
Queen Victoria
“It gave me Nausea.”
Jean Paul Sartre
“Ecrasez l’infame.”
Voltaire
“It sucks.”
Bill Clinton
“Mean Spirited.”
Leona Helmsley
“Unpalatable.”
Julia Child
“His teaching makes for rebellion, division, war, murder, robbery, arson, and the collapse of Christendom. He lives the life of a beast. He has burned the decretals. He despises alike the ban and the sword. He does more harm to the civil than to the ecclesiastical power.”
Edict of Worms
“Heartwarming and touching.”
Saddam Hussein
“I hate it.”
Mother Theresa
“It put me to sleep.”
Rush Limbaugh
“It made me cry.”
Glenn Beck
”I hope this gets better.”
Benny Hinn
“If I can get through this, I can get through anything.”
Gen. George Custer
“I love it, God help me, I love it.”
Gen. George Patton
“Its nothing but junk.”
Michael Milken
“He deserves to be shot.”
Jean Harris
“It is not fitting.”
O.J. Simpson
"It's too short."
Anthony Weiner
Thursday, July 14, 2011
The Office - A Lawyer’s Life
In New York, small law firms represent people, medium sized law firms represent small businesses, and large law firms represent corporations. My first job was with a firm so small it didn’t have any clients. The firm specialized in the rules of solitaire and cemetery matters.
I finally landed a job with the biggest firm in New York. This firm represented conglomerates, nations, continents, and planets. I worked on a dispute between Europe and America as to who owned the Atlantic Ocean. I shall never forget the day I triumphantly announced to the Senior Partner that I had worked out a favorable settlement of the case. America was to get all the water in the ocean and Europe would get all the fish. To this day, I am mystified as to how I survived the 20 story fall from his office window.
I then moved to suburban, rustic, bucolic, beautiful, Connecticut. The contrasts between the practice of law in New York and Connecticut are worthy of note. The complexities of the rules of procedure in New York enabled the court clerks to reject every paper I ever attempted to file. As I entered the Clerk’s office there would be audible snickering followed by the question of whether I was there on a social visit or wasting my time trying to file a pleading. I would invariably trip over the imperceptible fishing line strung across the doorway, jamming my hand in the staple machine and strewing my papers about the floor. There would be hissing and catcalls as I gathered my files and beat a retreat from the court.
On my first visit to the clerk’s office in Connecticut, he invited me in for coffee and Danish pastry. As we reviewed my pleadings, he politely indicated where I had failed to comply with Connecticut procedure. He then retyped all my papers in conformity with the rules, filed them, and plied me with more pastry.
In New York, the lawyers would eye each other suspiciously as they entered the dark and dismal courtroom in their three-piece suits - the third piece being a bulletproof vest. If they ate lunch together, they would always be accompanied by food tasters. The Bar Association decided not to use Robert’s Rules of Order for its meetings feeling that it would be better to adopt the regulations for Demolition Derby.
In Connecticut, the lawyers entered the courtroom arm-in-arm, embracing, laughing, smiling, happy to be together. Many came up to me and offered their hands, their help, pencils, pads, and erasers. Several offered to let me represent their clients, and one asked me to witness a change in his will in which he named me as his executor.
The Judges in New York always assumed the bench amid an air of profound gloom. Their faces reflected inflamed hemorrhoids. Their rulings, though scholarly, had the odor of undigested chili.
In Connecticut, the Judges demonstrated collective adherence to the school of Leo Busgalia. Before donning their robes they would enter the court, shake hands all around, and offer advice, words of encouragement and inspiration, and small cash advances.
When my case was called for argument the Judge advised me that my opponent was his son-in-law. He asked if I wished to disqualify him. I bravely agreed to allow his honor to hear the case and began my plea. As my argument progressed, I could see the futility and hopelessness of my case. I used every rhetorical device at my command, neither of which worked, and I finally sat down in a state of abject misery. My opponent then arose and conceded that he had no rejoinder to the brilliant and compelling points I had made. The Judge heartily agreed, and ruled in my favor, offering to have his ruling suitably engraved and framed free of charge.
Well, tonight the Connecticut Bar Association is throwing a large dinner in my honor. I have advised my food taster that his services will no longer be required
I finally landed a job with the biggest firm in New York. This firm represented conglomerates, nations, continents, and planets. I worked on a dispute between Europe and America as to who owned the Atlantic Ocean. I shall never forget the day I triumphantly announced to the Senior Partner that I had worked out a favorable settlement of the case. America was to get all the water in the ocean and Europe would get all the fish. To this day, I am mystified as to how I survived the 20 story fall from his office window.
I then moved to suburban, rustic, bucolic, beautiful, Connecticut. The contrasts between the practice of law in New York and Connecticut are worthy of note. The complexities of the rules of procedure in New York enabled the court clerks to reject every paper I ever attempted to file. As I entered the Clerk’s office there would be audible snickering followed by the question of whether I was there on a social visit or wasting my time trying to file a pleading. I would invariably trip over the imperceptible fishing line strung across the doorway, jamming my hand in the staple machine and strewing my papers about the floor. There would be hissing and catcalls as I gathered my files and beat a retreat from the court.
On my first visit to the clerk’s office in Connecticut, he invited me in for coffee and Danish pastry. As we reviewed my pleadings, he politely indicated where I had failed to comply with Connecticut procedure. He then retyped all my papers in conformity with the rules, filed them, and plied me with more pastry.
In New York, the lawyers would eye each other suspiciously as they entered the dark and dismal courtroom in their three-piece suits - the third piece being a bulletproof vest. If they ate lunch together, they would always be accompanied by food tasters. The Bar Association decided not to use Robert’s Rules of Order for its meetings feeling that it would be better to adopt the regulations for Demolition Derby.
In Connecticut, the lawyers entered the courtroom arm-in-arm, embracing, laughing, smiling, happy to be together. Many came up to me and offered their hands, their help, pencils, pads, and erasers. Several offered to let me represent their clients, and one asked me to witness a change in his will in which he named me as his executor.
The Judges in New York always assumed the bench amid an air of profound gloom. Their faces reflected inflamed hemorrhoids. Their rulings, though scholarly, had the odor of undigested chili.
In Connecticut, the Judges demonstrated collective adherence to the school of Leo Busgalia. Before donning their robes they would enter the court, shake hands all around, and offer advice, words of encouragement and inspiration, and small cash advances.
When my case was called for argument the Judge advised me that my opponent was his son-in-law. He asked if I wished to disqualify him. I bravely agreed to allow his honor to hear the case and began my plea. As my argument progressed, I could see the futility and hopelessness of my case. I used every rhetorical device at my command, neither of which worked, and I finally sat down in a state of abject misery. My opponent then arose and conceded that he had no rejoinder to the brilliant and compelling points I had made. The Judge heartily agreed, and ruled in my favor, offering to have his ruling suitably engraved and framed free of charge.
Well, tonight the Connecticut Bar Association is throwing a large dinner in my honor. I have advised my food taster that his services will no longer be required
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Ethnic Street Fair
Shortly after we moved to Greenwich, Connecticut, the Town celebrated its annual ethnic street fair in honor of Saint Muffy. Saint Muffy, you will recall, is the fourth century martyr who immolated herself rather than wear a toga designed by the heretic, J.C. Penny. She is honored today as the patron saint of basic black.
The main street in Greenwich, Greenwich Avenue, was lined with colorful booths boasting delectable local WASP ethnic dishes such as roast beef sandwiches on white bread with mayonnaise, watercress soup, cucumber sandwiches, and asparagus spears in hollandaise sauce.
The Junior League booth was especially notable, manned by Greenwich post debs attired in colorful ethnic costumes designed by Talbot’s. The booth was decorated with a large picture of Calvin Coolidge.
The Garden Club booth featured mostly shrinking violets, while the Bridge Club displayed sections of the New England Turnpike, which collapsed in 1983.
The DAR booth was manned by its chapter president, Betsy (Babs) Jefferson Adams Wentworth, and featured Dolly Madison ice cream, Boston cream pie, and Philadelphia cream cheese.
There was a rumor floating about, on a gaily-decorated float, that the street fair was controlled by a ruthless mob of Wasp gangsters called “the Muffia.” There was no white-collar crime to which these hoodlums wouldn’t stoop, including making a Tender Offer you couldn’t refuse.
A statue of St. Muffy was erected in the center of the Avenue. She looked chic in an exclusive floral silk jacquard dress from Julliard with organza shawl collar, flower at waist, side hook, shoulder pads and full sweeping skirt. Passers-by reverently stopped at the table in front of the statue and donated recipes for asparagus soup and beef wellington.
The main street in Greenwich, Greenwich Avenue, was lined with colorful booths boasting delectable local WASP ethnic dishes such as roast beef sandwiches on white bread with mayonnaise, watercress soup, cucumber sandwiches, and asparagus spears in hollandaise sauce.
The Junior League booth was especially notable, manned by Greenwich post debs attired in colorful ethnic costumes designed by Talbot’s. The booth was decorated with a large picture of Calvin Coolidge.
The Garden Club booth featured mostly shrinking violets, while the Bridge Club displayed sections of the New England Turnpike, which collapsed in 1983.
The DAR booth was manned by its chapter president, Betsy (Babs) Jefferson Adams Wentworth, and featured Dolly Madison ice cream, Boston cream pie, and Philadelphia cream cheese.
There was a rumor floating about, on a gaily-decorated float, that the street fair was controlled by a ruthless mob of Wasp gangsters called “the Muffia.” There was no white-collar crime to which these hoodlums wouldn’t stoop, including making a Tender Offer you couldn’t refuse.
A statue of St. Muffy was erected in the center of the Avenue. She looked chic in an exclusive floral silk jacquard dress from Julliard with organza shawl collar, flower at waist, side hook, shoulder pads and full sweeping skirt. Passers-by reverently stopped at the table in front of the statue and donated recipes for asparagus soup and beef wellington.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Adopting a Lawn
When I lived in Manhattan, I did not have a lawn of my own. True, there was a strip of grass between my apartment building and the pavement, but I soon learned that that was not my lawn. I remember the first time I went down on an August evening to open my folding chairs and set up a barbecue grill on the strip. The superintendent came running out shouting and tripped over my rubber tub causing water and plastic ducks to splash on the sidewalk.
After Grunhilda and I moved to the suburbs and bought a house, we decided it was time to have a lawn of our own. The house was on a barren plot of land overgrown with trees. There was no grass. We had no lawn. Everybody else had a lawn, a beautiful lawn. We felt lonely. We planted seeds, taking care to be sure our timing was right. Nothing happened. Months went by and there was no change. We tried loosening up as we planted the seeds. We planted seeds in the morning, in the afternoon, on the spur of the moment, but no luck.
We went to the Lawn Doctor and had tests made, but he assured us that there was no basic problem. We were capable of having a lawn. He suggested we relax and not worry about it. It would come. We relaxed but nothing came. In desperation, we tried an artificial sod transplant. It didn’t take. Finally, we decided to adopt a lawn.
You think it’s easy to adopt a lawn? Think twice Buster. We went to every nursery in the area, but they all told us the same thing -- you have to wait three to five years. We told them that it didn’t have to be Kentucky Bluegrass, we’d take a mixture, even a little crabgrass; no luck.
We sought out the sleazy mouthpiece, R. Noll Palmer - black-market dealer in lawns. Palmer said, “You want to adopt a lawn? For a price I can get you one in three weeks.” “Will it be young and healthy?” we asked. “Brand new” he assured us. What else could we do? We paid.
Three weeks later Palmer called. “I’ve got your lawn,” he said. “Meet me at the Stamford Motel at 3:00 AM.” We drove over, our hearts pounding. There was Palmer. He got into his sleazy sports car and told us to follow him. We drove for hours into back country. We stopped by a low, rundown ranch house. There was the lawn, small and beautiful. “Whose lawn is it?” we asked. “Don’t ask,” he said, “The couple was young, they never married.”
We got out of the car, took off our shoes, hugged the grass with our toes. Suddenly I realized I had stepped in something. Palmer looked at me. “It won’t all be honey and hot waffles,” he said. “It’s not easy to raise a lawn. It has to be cleaned. You have to feed it and give it water.”
The awesome responsibility of raising a lawn hit me. The lawn wouldn’t be small and cute for long. It would grow. Then what would we do? We decided to go ahead. If it got too big for its britches, we could always cut it down to size.
After Grunhilda and I moved to the suburbs and bought a house, we decided it was time to have a lawn of our own. The house was on a barren plot of land overgrown with trees. There was no grass. We had no lawn. Everybody else had a lawn, a beautiful lawn. We felt lonely. We planted seeds, taking care to be sure our timing was right. Nothing happened. Months went by and there was no change. We tried loosening up as we planted the seeds. We planted seeds in the morning, in the afternoon, on the spur of the moment, but no luck.
We went to the Lawn Doctor and had tests made, but he assured us that there was no basic problem. We were capable of having a lawn. He suggested we relax and not worry about it. It would come. We relaxed but nothing came. In desperation, we tried an artificial sod transplant. It didn’t take. Finally, we decided to adopt a lawn.
You think it’s easy to adopt a lawn? Think twice Buster. We went to every nursery in the area, but they all told us the same thing -- you have to wait three to five years. We told them that it didn’t have to be Kentucky Bluegrass, we’d take a mixture, even a little crabgrass; no luck.
We sought out the sleazy mouthpiece, R. Noll Palmer - black-market dealer in lawns. Palmer said, “You want to adopt a lawn? For a price I can get you one in three weeks.” “Will it be young and healthy?” we asked. “Brand new” he assured us. What else could we do? We paid.
Three weeks later Palmer called. “I’ve got your lawn,” he said. “Meet me at the Stamford Motel at 3:00 AM.” We drove over, our hearts pounding. There was Palmer. He got into his sleazy sports car and told us to follow him. We drove for hours into back country. We stopped by a low, rundown ranch house. There was the lawn, small and beautiful. “Whose lawn is it?” we asked. “Don’t ask,” he said, “The couple was young, they never married.”
We got out of the car, took off our shoes, hugged the grass with our toes. Suddenly I realized I had stepped in something. Palmer looked at me. “It won’t all be honey and hot waffles,” he said. “It’s not easy to raise a lawn. It has to be cleaned. You have to feed it and give it water.”
The awesome responsibility of raising a lawn hit me. The lawn wouldn’t be small and cute for long. It would grow. Then what would we do? We decided to go ahead. If it got too big for its britches, we could always cut it down to size.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Julie and Sports
These are true stories, I swear.
The Umpire
I like to watch baseball. Julie doesn’t. But Julie lets me watch it almost every night on the wide-screen TV because she doesn’t want me to have to watch it on a regular TV. Some nights, however, she comes in and watches the baseball game with me. I always say, “You can turn on anything you want. I don’t have to watch this game.” She insists, however, that I watch my game. She has been watching baseball games with me for years, but last night she surprised me. This is true. She asked, “Who is the man in the black shirt?” I said, “Do you mean the man standing behind the catcher?” She said, “Yes, him, what does he do?” I said in astonishment, “He’s the umpire! He calls the balls and strikes!” She said, “Oh, I thought that the catcher did that.” I said, “How could the catcher do that? He would want every pitch to be a strike.” I asked, “What did you think the umpire was there for?” She said, “I thought he was there to give balls to the catcher.”
Stealing Bases
One time when we were watching baseball, the runner on first stole second base. Julie said, “I don’t like that. It’s not fair.” I said, “Stealing bases is a basic part of baseball. How can you not like it?” She said, “I think it’s sneaky.”
Blocking Shots
Once while we were watching basketball, which she likes, a player blocked another player’s shot. Julie asked, “Can he do that?” I said, “Yes, that is what he is supposed to do. That is an important part of the game.” She said, “Well, I think it’s unfair.”
Sacking the Quarterback
Julie’s most famous remark came while we were watching football. The quarterback went back to throw the ball and the defense swarmed all over him. There was a pile-up. Julie asked, with concern in her voice, “What are they doing?” I said, “They are sacking the quarterback.” Julie said, “Well, can’t they do it nicely?” (When I told D.L. Stewart about this he remarked, "Only the Cleveland Browns do it nicely.")
On another occasion the quarterback went back to pass and the opposing team sacked him. Julie asked: “Are they allowed to do that? He didn’t even get a chance to throw the pass?” I said: “Of course they can do that. They are supposed to do it.” Julie said: “Well, that’s not fair. They should at least give him a chance to pass the ball.”
The End Zone
The Michigan State football team was down near the end zone and was trying to score a touchdown. The quarterback threw a pass into the end zone and the Michigan State receiver and the Ohio State defender both went up for it. The Ohio State defender came down with the ball, and Julie and I both cheered. The referee then took the ball out to the 20th yeard line for Ohio State to take over. Julie asked: "what are they doing?" I said, "Ohio State intercepted the ball, so they get to take over at the 20th yard line." She said, "But didn't Ohio State just score a touchdown?" I said, "No, they intercepted the ball, so now they have to go down to the opposite end zone to score a touchdown." Julie looked bewildered. She said: "I thought you scored a touchdown if you caught it in the end zone no matter which end zone you caught it in."
Hats
One time we were watching a night baseball game. Julie asked: “Why do baseball players wear hats at night?” I explained that it was necessary to block gamma rays from the moon.
The Extra Point
The team had just scored a touchdown and was lined-up for the extra point. Julie asked: “Why are they (the team kicking the extra point) lined-up like that?” I explained that it was necessary for the kicking team to prevent the other team from coming in and blocking the kick. “You mean that they don’t just let him kick? That’s not fair! They should let him kick.” she said. I said “But the other team wants to block the kick, and they often do.” “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard” she said.
The Kickoff
One of the football teams had just kicked-off and the receiver had elected not to catch the ball. When it came to rest, the kicking team gathered around it. Julie asked: “Why are they standing around the ball like that?” I said: “So that it will not fly off.”
Ohio State
Julie is a fan of the Ohio State football team. Every time they play she expresses the reason that she likes them so much. “Look at their helmets. Aren’t they pretty? They sparkle!” I acknowledged that other teams’ helmets do not sparkle and therefore they are not entitled to be rated among the top teams.
The Umpire
I like to watch baseball. Julie doesn’t. But Julie lets me watch it almost every night on the wide-screen TV because she doesn’t want me to have to watch it on a regular TV. Some nights, however, she comes in and watches the baseball game with me. I always say, “You can turn on anything you want. I don’t have to watch this game.” She insists, however, that I watch my game. She has been watching baseball games with me for years, but last night she surprised me. This is true. She asked, “Who is the man in the black shirt?” I said, “Do you mean the man standing behind the catcher?” She said, “Yes, him, what does he do?” I said in astonishment, “He’s the umpire! He calls the balls and strikes!” She said, “Oh, I thought that the catcher did that.” I said, “How could the catcher do that? He would want every pitch to be a strike.” I asked, “What did you think the umpire was there for?” She said, “I thought he was there to give balls to the catcher.”
Stealing Bases
One time when we were watching baseball, the runner on first stole second base. Julie said, “I don’t like that. It’s not fair.” I said, “Stealing bases is a basic part of baseball. How can you not like it?” She said, “I think it’s sneaky.”
Blocking Shots
Once while we were watching basketball, which she likes, a player blocked another player’s shot. Julie asked, “Can he do that?” I said, “Yes, that is what he is supposed to do. That is an important part of the game.” She said, “Well, I think it’s unfair.”
Sacking the Quarterback
Julie’s most famous remark came while we were watching football. The quarterback went back to throw the ball and the defense swarmed all over him. There was a pile-up. Julie asked, with concern in her voice, “What are they doing?” I said, “They are sacking the quarterback.” Julie said, “Well, can’t they do it nicely?” (When I told D.L. Stewart about this he remarked, "Only the Cleveland Browns do it nicely.")
On another occasion the quarterback went back to pass and the opposing team sacked him. Julie asked: “Are they allowed to do that? He didn’t even get a chance to throw the pass?” I said: “Of course they can do that. They are supposed to do it.” Julie said: “Well, that’s not fair. They should at least give him a chance to pass the ball.”
The End Zone
The Michigan State football team was down near the end zone and was trying to score a touchdown. The quarterback threw a pass into the end zone and the Michigan State receiver and the Ohio State defender both went up for it. The Ohio State defender came down with the ball, and Julie and I both cheered. The referee then took the ball out to the 20th yeard line for Ohio State to take over. Julie asked: "what are they doing?" I said, "Ohio State intercepted the ball, so they get to take over at the 20th yard line." She said, "But didn't Ohio State just score a touchdown?" I said, "No, they intercepted the ball, so now they have to go down to the opposite end zone to score a touchdown." Julie looked bewildered. She said: "I thought you scored a touchdown if you caught it in the end zone no matter which end zone you caught it in."
Hats
One time we were watching a night baseball game. Julie asked: “Why do baseball players wear hats at night?” I explained that it was necessary to block gamma rays from the moon.
The Extra Point
The team had just scored a touchdown and was lined-up for the extra point. Julie asked: “Why are they (the team kicking the extra point) lined-up like that?” I explained that it was necessary for the kicking team to prevent the other team from coming in and blocking the kick. “You mean that they don’t just let him kick? That’s not fair! They should let him kick.” she said. I said “But the other team wants to block the kick, and they often do.” “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard” she said.
The Kickoff
One of the football teams had just kicked-off and the receiver had elected not to catch the ball. When it came to rest, the kicking team gathered around it. Julie asked: “Why are they standing around the ball like that?” I said: “So that it will not fly off.”
Ohio State
Julie is a fan of the Ohio State football team. Every time they play she expresses the reason that she likes them so much. “Look at their helmets. Aren’t they pretty? They sparkle!” I acknowledged that other teams’ helmets do not sparkle and therefore they are not entitled to be rated among the top teams.
Julie and the No-Hitter
I was talking to Julie about the no-hitter thrown by Homer Bailey of the Cincinnati Reds and she said: “I don’t understand why they call it a no-hitter. Does that mean that they got no home runs? The other team got a lot of hits.” I said: No, it doesn’t mean that they got no home runs. Do you mean that they hit the ball a lot.” She answered: “Yes, they got lots of hits.” I said: “But those weren’t hits as that term is used in baseball. On every one of them the hitter hit the ball, but he was put out. His hit either caused a put-out at first base or it was caught by a fielder.” “Well, that’s just stupid” she said.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
The New Kitchen
Wealthy suburbs not only have rich Wasps and their servants, they also have Yuppies. The big question has been how to distinguish the Yuppies from the authentic rich Wasps. After all, they dress the same, with polo shirts, green slacks, and Docksider shoes. They drive BMWs, join the Yacht Club, and exhibit even greater levels of imperiousness than their betters on the big estates. So how can you tell? The answer is, the New Kitchen.
You can take the middle class out of the boy, but you can’t take the boy out of the kitchen. The giveaway clue to social status in suburbia is the eternal middle class quest for a new kitchen. No matter how you polish your English, part your hair, or perfect your preppiness, you cannot get away from the new kitchen syndrome.
Every middle class person aches deep in his or her bones for a new kitchen. God knows why, but this profound drive appears to be some kind of genetic endowment which cannot be eschewed with the advantages of money. Just as Tarzan had to take an occasional swing on a rope or vine after he came back to his noble estate in England, middle class people cannot refrain from planning a new kitchen the minute they move into their house in the suburbs.
Aristocrats have no such impulse. They are brought up to avoid the kitchen, except for occasional late night snacks. It does not occupy any place in their consciousness. They are not aware of the appliances or implements located therein, and feel no compulsion to update these items with gleaming new ones every few years. If the stove breaks, it gets fixed, and food is taken temporarily at some fancy French eatery. When they think of having their own island, they think of something with a dock and small beach off of Grand Cayman. To them, a cabinet is a group of people in Washington.
Middle class people, however, exhibit a fierce compulsion to redo even the most functional kitchen. They walk into a house where every appliance works, and no holes show through the linoleum, and grit their teeth in anguish. They will borrow, beg, and even embezzle to get the cash for a new kitchen. Why?
Dr. Argone Knoltz of Pace University has brilliantly analyzed the situation in his seminal paper for the Journal of International Sociology and House Remodeling. Dr. Knoltz states that the construction of new kitchens is a form of war. It arises out of the commonplace instinct found in all people to degrade, defeat, and utterly destroy their dearest friends and relatives. They do not build a new kitchen because there is anything wrong with the old one. They do it for that glorious moment when they can usher their best friends into the new room and watch as they try to smile approval while their guts turn inside.
You can take the middle class out of the boy, but you can’t take the boy out of the kitchen. The giveaway clue to social status in suburbia is the eternal middle class quest for a new kitchen. No matter how you polish your English, part your hair, or perfect your preppiness, you cannot get away from the new kitchen syndrome.
Every middle class person aches deep in his or her bones for a new kitchen. God knows why, but this profound drive appears to be some kind of genetic endowment which cannot be eschewed with the advantages of money. Just as Tarzan had to take an occasional swing on a rope or vine after he came back to his noble estate in England, middle class people cannot refrain from planning a new kitchen the minute they move into their house in the suburbs.
Aristocrats have no such impulse. They are brought up to avoid the kitchen, except for occasional late night snacks. It does not occupy any place in their consciousness. They are not aware of the appliances or implements located therein, and feel no compulsion to update these items with gleaming new ones every few years. If the stove breaks, it gets fixed, and food is taken temporarily at some fancy French eatery. When they think of having their own island, they think of something with a dock and small beach off of Grand Cayman. To them, a cabinet is a group of people in Washington.
Middle class people, however, exhibit a fierce compulsion to redo even the most functional kitchen. They walk into a house where every appliance works, and no holes show through the linoleum, and grit their teeth in anguish. They will borrow, beg, and even embezzle to get the cash for a new kitchen. Why?
Dr. Argone Knoltz of Pace University has brilliantly analyzed the situation in his seminal paper for the Journal of International Sociology and House Remodeling. Dr. Knoltz states that the construction of new kitchens is a form of war. It arises out of the commonplace instinct found in all people to degrade, defeat, and utterly destroy their dearest friends and relatives. They do not build a new kitchen because there is anything wrong with the old one. They do it for that glorious moment when they can usher their best friends into the new room and watch as they try to smile approval while their guts turn inside.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Mechanical Jack
My family believes that I am maladroit in mechanical matters. This is, technically, not true. It is an illusion created by serious effort and long years of cultivation. I am as capable as the next fellow of electrical wiring, plumbing repairs, and carpentry. I discovered early on, however, that evidence of proficiency in these areas could lead to expectations that I would do them! And I, naturally, have many other things to do, like reading philosophy, listening to Bach, and monitoring the fortunes of local sports teams.
There is a problem, however. Expert repairmen are both costly and elusive. At night and on weekends they are away on trips to Milos and the Costa del Sol. During the week, they exist only on answering machines. One is faced with the choice of taking a hand to the leaking pipe, or enduring a week without water. I would opt for the latter were it not for a frenzied wife and weeping children.
So it happened that after repeated calls to the plumber, with offers of bribes by me and sexual favors by my wife, the little lady handed me a ready-to-install toilet repair kit. As she left for her employment with her cemetery plot sales firm, she admonished me: “This kit is so simple even a college professor could do it. Give it your best shot.”
Fearlessly I tackled the job and expertly removed the offending parts, preparing to install the new equipment. Unfortunately, I had neglected to turn off the main pipe and there was suddenly a cascade of tumbling, drenching water covering the walls, the floor, and me. With the feline instincts of a tiger I snatched the wrench and fastened onto the cylinder, only to turn it the wrong way, removing all further obstacles to the avalanche of water now filling the bathroom.
I headed for the basement in a vain quest for the valve that would shut off the water line and stave-off the imminent destruction of my entire house. There I found a superabundance of knobs with no instructions as to which pipes they controlled. I was lost.
As I was rummaging in the basement, my wife returned and noticed a waterfall coming down on a quagmire that had once been our living room. She inserted a large pot under the deluge and charged into the basement. Her face was a boiling cauldron resembling the fiery red spot on the planet Jupiter. Deftly she turned the correct valve and terminated the flood. She then turned on me. Her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits as she struggled to find the appropriate words to condemn my incompetence.
I tried to minimize the situation with the comment: “What’s so important about being able to repair the plumbing? Leave that to the plumber. I am a writer, a poet, a philosopher who understands Schopenhauer. Surely that is more impressive than facility in the art of plumbing.” My long-suffering wife exploded: “That cuts no ice with me Mack, I would be impressed if the plumber understood Schopenhauer. As for you, I’d be satisfied if you could tie your shoelaces without expert help.”
Ah the pleasures of a Sunday afternoon! Here I am sprawled on the couch watching the New York Yankees blow a six run lead while my wife installs a new light fixture in the kitchen. Humiliation does have its bright side!
There is a problem, however. Expert repairmen are both costly and elusive. At night and on weekends they are away on trips to Milos and the Costa del Sol. During the week, they exist only on answering machines. One is faced with the choice of taking a hand to the leaking pipe, or enduring a week without water. I would opt for the latter were it not for a frenzied wife and weeping children.
So it happened that after repeated calls to the plumber, with offers of bribes by me and sexual favors by my wife, the little lady handed me a ready-to-install toilet repair kit. As she left for her employment with her cemetery plot sales firm, she admonished me: “This kit is so simple even a college professor could do it. Give it your best shot.”
Fearlessly I tackled the job and expertly removed the offending parts, preparing to install the new equipment. Unfortunately, I had neglected to turn off the main pipe and there was suddenly a cascade of tumbling, drenching water covering the walls, the floor, and me. With the feline instincts of a tiger I snatched the wrench and fastened onto the cylinder, only to turn it the wrong way, removing all further obstacles to the avalanche of water now filling the bathroom.
I headed for the basement in a vain quest for the valve that would shut off the water line and stave-off the imminent destruction of my entire house. There I found a superabundance of knobs with no instructions as to which pipes they controlled. I was lost.
As I was rummaging in the basement, my wife returned and noticed a waterfall coming down on a quagmire that had once been our living room. She inserted a large pot under the deluge and charged into the basement. Her face was a boiling cauldron resembling the fiery red spot on the planet Jupiter. Deftly she turned the correct valve and terminated the flood. She then turned on me. Her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits as she struggled to find the appropriate words to condemn my incompetence.
I tried to minimize the situation with the comment: “What’s so important about being able to repair the plumbing? Leave that to the plumber. I am a writer, a poet, a philosopher who understands Schopenhauer. Surely that is more impressive than facility in the art of plumbing.” My long-suffering wife exploded: “That cuts no ice with me Mack, I would be impressed if the plumber understood Schopenhauer. As for you, I’d be satisfied if you could tie your shoelaces without expert help.”
Ah the pleasures of a Sunday afternoon! Here I am sprawled on the couch watching the New York Yankees blow a six run lead while my wife installs a new light fixture in the kitchen. Humiliation does have its bright side!
Friday, July 8, 2011
Jack's Aphorisms and Stuff
Artificial intelligence is to intelligence as artificial flowers are to flowers.
The Virgin Birth—A miss conception.
The reason that there are no atheists in foxholes is that they have deferments from military service.
Husbands abhor a vacuum.
There was a seismologist who was polite to a fault.
Why did they call it the Last Supper? Because after that they called it Dinner.
If it wasn’t for women men would still be carrying clubs—--drivers, irons, and putters.
What are all of these sweeping tax changes? I didn’t even know there was a sweeping tax.
I’m in favor of feminism—with reservations—to Tokyo.
Never eat on an empty stomach.
Keep the field hands at arms length.
Never talk to strangers, even if you know them.
Keep your chins up.
What hath God overwrought?
People’s cross words are a puzzle to me.
LeMoult’s Law: Bills expand to fill the amount of money available to pay them. The corollary, bills placed in a drawer cross-fertilize, reproduce, and propagate.
I am against panda-ing to the Chinese communists.
A man he works from sun to sun
A woman’s work is never done
Because she’s always on the phone
The paths of gravy lead but to the gut.
An idealistic person who likes to tell puns is “quipsodic.”
Hard cabbages make bad slaw.
An alcoholic ambassador is a “Dipsomat.”
There are three kinds of clouds, cirrus, serious, and tsoris.
Money cannot buy happiness, but it can rent it.
I’m going through mensapause—I’m having flashes of brilliance.
Thank God I’m an atheist.
The increase in pornography is the “National Gross Product.”
An unhappy married couple who stay together have “static cling.”
Early question of Catholic Church doctrine: Whether Christ is present in the bread or just the crust.
I know that Jesus was born in a stable but I doubt he ever expected that so much horseshit would be associated with his name.
If you cannot be a role model be a bagel model.
Do not ask for whom the bell tolls and do not volunteer for anything.
The biting of one’s fingernails might be considered a virtue in a proctologist.
All those people who believe in God are going to be surprised when they die and find out that there is no afterlife.
We need an institution for the criminally inane.
A dessert that looks like whipped cream and tastes like fried plastic—“cruel whip.”
I get up at 5:00 a.m. Is that why people say I remind them of early man?
Recent discoveries in a cave outside Coo Kin China have included a history of the previously unknown Un Sung Dynasty written by Hoo Soo.
When was the Boxer Shorts Rebellion?
If I were to be allowed one sin I would like to be tried, convicted, and sentenced for repeated goal tending in basketball.
Noah and his lovely wife Joan of Ark.
I believe that there are UFO’s flying about in the atmosphere and that they are manned by aliens from another planet who have an unusual interest in dimwitted people from the American South and West.
I am descended from Col. Rudolph Thicke who distinguished himself in the Crimean War by leading the valiant but unheralded charge of the Heavy Brigade.
Ignorance is wasted on the young.
The one unforgivable thing your friends can do—--very well.
Never look a gift husband in the mouth.
There is a machine set up at the entrance of every shoe store that shrinks your feet as you enter the store and restores them to their original size when you leave with your new shoes.
Name for a prostitute—Sue Pine
All men are cremated equal.
Slogan for fat people: Be all that you can be.
I’m tired of oral sex—--talk, talk, talk.
I’m tired of sex in the movies. The last time we did it I almost got arrested.
On what grounds do you claim that your coffee tastes the best?
The 90 year old woman whose husband took Viagra. It was a hard thing for her to grasp.
Why is America called “America” and not Vespucci?
The seven other dwarfs—Icky, Sticky, Picky, Tricky, Sexy, Stupid, and Steve.
I have always wondered why some police departments employ sidekicks to help them find lost people. Would Gabby Hayes, or Pat Butram, or Robin, or Poncho be better at this than others?
A sign in Heaven—“No Smoking.” A sign in Hell—“Smoking.”
“There is a leak in my swimming pool.”
“Build a fence around it.”
“What good would that do?”
“Then, nobody will leak in your swimming pool.”
Hitler before the Nuremburg War Crimes Tribunal: “Guilty with an explanation.”
I went to a rare bird store and asked them if they had any medium-rare birds.
I was drunk once in my life--from 1976 through 1987.
I was so drunk at a party that they had to scrape me off the hostess.
In all of the dispute about women becoming priests, we forget about all of the men who want to become nuns.
Recommended slogan for the Charmin bathroom tissue company: “Fill the world with happy assholes.”
How a married man can dramatically improve his sex life--get a divorce.
The ultimate form of relaxation is death.
Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart, and you'll never wear cologne.
Dear President Truman:
We got your Atomic Bomb. Thanks, but no thanks. What's the big idea?
Very truly yours,
Emperor Hierohito
Dear Emperor Hierohito,
Suck it up.
Harry Truman
There is a temperature stupidity index.
There is a movie about hens that come back from the dead and haunt a family. It is called "Poultrygeist."
What about Murphy's Slaw?
How about a combined marathon and house tour?
You must remember this
a Bris is just a bris
our guy is still a guy
If you were the only mohel
in the world
and I was the only goy
Country and western song; "She lived in a mobile home
and worked in a stationary store."
There is a famous surgeon named Lance Boyle.
I'm dead against the idea of a nuclear freeze. Where would they get the freezers big enough to store all those bombs. Also, it would take hours, even days, to thaw-out the bombs if you needed them. They would be icy BMs.
How about a beer called "To Excess." Everybody who drank it would drink To Excess.
Fee fi fo fuffen
I smell the smell of an English Muffin.
I cry at the drop of a hat. In fact, I was in the store the other day and a man dropped his hat. I started crying.
I couldn't get into MENSA so joined a group for slow-witted people called DENSA.
The Virgin Birth—A miss conception.
The reason that there are no atheists in foxholes is that they have deferments from military service.
Husbands abhor a vacuum.
There was a seismologist who was polite to a fault.
Why did they call it the Last Supper? Because after that they called it Dinner.
If it wasn’t for women men would still be carrying clubs—--drivers, irons, and putters.
What are all of these sweeping tax changes? I didn’t even know there was a sweeping tax.
I’m in favor of feminism—with reservations—to Tokyo.
Never eat on an empty stomach.
Keep the field hands at arms length.
Never talk to strangers, even if you know them.
Keep your chins up.
What hath God overwrought?
People’s cross words are a puzzle to me.
LeMoult’s Law: Bills expand to fill the amount of money available to pay them. The corollary, bills placed in a drawer cross-fertilize, reproduce, and propagate.
I am against panda-ing to the Chinese communists.
A man he works from sun to sun
A woman’s work is never done
Because she’s always on the phone
The paths of gravy lead but to the gut.
An idealistic person who likes to tell puns is “quipsodic.”
Hard cabbages make bad slaw.
An alcoholic ambassador is a “Dipsomat.”
There are three kinds of clouds, cirrus, serious, and tsoris.
Money cannot buy happiness, but it can rent it.
I’m going through mensapause—I’m having flashes of brilliance.
Thank God I’m an atheist.
The increase in pornography is the “National Gross Product.”
An unhappy married couple who stay together have “static cling.”
Early question of Catholic Church doctrine: Whether Christ is present in the bread or just the crust.
I know that Jesus was born in a stable but I doubt he ever expected that so much horseshit would be associated with his name.
If you cannot be a role model be a bagel model.
Do not ask for whom the bell tolls and do not volunteer for anything.
The biting of one’s fingernails might be considered a virtue in a proctologist.
All those people who believe in God are going to be surprised when they die and find out that there is no afterlife.
We need an institution for the criminally inane.
A dessert that looks like whipped cream and tastes like fried plastic—“cruel whip.”
I get up at 5:00 a.m. Is that why people say I remind them of early man?
Recent discoveries in a cave outside Coo Kin China have included a history of the previously unknown Un Sung Dynasty written by Hoo Soo.
When was the Boxer Shorts Rebellion?
If I were to be allowed one sin I would like to be tried, convicted, and sentenced for repeated goal tending in basketball.
Noah and his lovely wife Joan of Ark.
I believe that there are UFO’s flying about in the atmosphere and that they are manned by aliens from another planet who have an unusual interest in dimwitted people from the American South and West.
I am descended from Col. Rudolph Thicke who distinguished himself in the Crimean War by leading the valiant but unheralded charge of the Heavy Brigade.
Ignorance is wasted on the young.
The one unforgivable thing your friends can do—--very well.
Never look a gift husband in the mouth.
There is a machine set up at the entrance of every shoe store that shrinks your feet as you enter the store and restores them to their original size when you leave with your new shoes.
Name for a prostitute—Sue Pine
All men are cremated equal.
Slogan for fat people: Be all that you can be.
I’m tired of oral sex—--talk, talk, talk.
I’m tired of sex in the movies. The last time we did it I almost got arrested.
On what grounds do you claim that your coffee tastes the best?
The 90 year old woman whose husband took Viagra. It was a hard thing for her to grasp.
Why is America called “America” and not Vespucci?
The seven other dwarfs—Icky, Sticky, Picky, Tricky, Sexy, Stupid, and Steve.
I have always wondered why some police departments employ sidekicks to help them find lost people. Would Gabby Hayes, or Pat Butram, or Robin, or Poncho be better at this than others?
A sign in Heaven—“No Smoking.” A sign in Hell—“Smoking.”
“There is a leak in my swimming pool.”
“Build a fence around it.”
“What good would that do?”
“Then, nobody will leak in your swimming pool.”
Hitler before the Nuremburg War Crimes Tribunal: “Guilty with an explanation.”
I went to a rare bird store and asked them if they had any medium-rare birds.
I was drunk once in my life--from 1976 through 1987.
I was so drunk at a party that they had to scrape me off the hostess.
In all of the dispute about women becoming priests, we forget about all of the men who want to become nuns.
Recommended slogan for the Charmin bathroom tissue company: “Fill the world with happy assholes.”
How a married man can dramatically improve his sex life--get a divorce.
The ultimate form of relaxation is death.
Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart, and you'll never wear cologne.
Dear President Truman:
We got your Atomic Bomb. Thanks, but no thanks. What's the big idea?
Very truly yours,
Emperor Hierohito
Dear Emperor Hierohito,
Suck it up.
Harry Truman
There is a temperature stupidity index.
There is a movie about hens that come back from the dead and haunt a family. It is called "Poultrygeist."
What about Murphy's Slaw?
How about a combined marathon and house tour?
You must remember this
a Bris is just a bris
our guy is still a guy
If you were the only mohel
in the world
and I was the only goy
Country and western song; "She lived in a mobile home
and worked in a stationary store."
There is a famous surgeon named Lance Boyle.
I'm dead against the idea of a nuclear freeze. Where would they get the freezers big enough to store all those bombs. Also, it would take hours, even days, to thaw-out the bombs if you needed them. They would be icy BMs.
How about a beer called "To Excess." Everybody who drank it would drink To Excess.
Fee fi fo fuffen
I smell the smell of an English Muffin.
I cry at the drop of a hat. In fact, I was in the store the other day and a man dropped his hat. I started crying.
I couldn't get into MENSA so joined a group for slow-witted people called DENSA.
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