Signs Of The Times

Sign, sign, everywhere a sign
Blocking out the scenery, breaking my mind
Do this, don't do that, Can't you read the sign.
...And the sign said anybody caught trespassing would be shot on sight...Five Man Vocal Band

Funny signs appear on many sites from time to time. Why should mine be an exception? When I am feeling a little less than creative, like today, they are good to fall back on. When a sign evokes an oldie hit song, that is good - it provides an opening!


Sometimes signs are confusing. Other times, they are just too funny for words. Anyone else curious just what prompt attention you might get?

Man on cell phone: "Hello, I seem to be lost. I am at the corner of Lazy and Easy!"


Then there are those signs (icons) you see on your computer screens. Here's an annoying one to me, especially when the servors are slow and moving at a snail's pace. How many times is it going to go around? Publish already, will ya!?

What if certain signs were meant to be taken literally when you think otherwise. Take the symbol on a restroom door for example.

Fellow chocolate lovers, let's all meet at the corner of Cocoa and Chocolate after work! I'll have a double!!

I'm going to pass on this place, I think. In any event, I would certainly avoid the restrooms.









I'm wouldn't swear to it, but I have a feeling that business is booming at this place. Got to hand it to them for a clever way to pull in some business!

Funny, but somehow I missed this movie! It must be another one of those sequels that went straight to DVD. (No wonder Skip has been acting so funny.) He keeps muttering, "She don't call ... She dont write..."








Aha! That's where that place is! All you ladies out there, follow the sign !! If I'm not mistaken, 62 runs into 69 somewhere down the road.




Finally, what blog about funny signs would be complete without a tribute to our friends, those upstanding citizens,the Lawyers!



And the sign said everybody welcome, come in, kneel down and pray.
But when they passed around the plate at the end of it all,
I didn't have a penny to pay, so I got me a pen and a paper and I made up my own little sign,
I said, "Thank you Lord for thinking about me, I'm alive and doing fine.

Sign, sign, everywhere a sign
Blocking the scenery, breaking my mind
Do this, don't do that, can't you read the sign....

No.461

Drinks On The Souse

Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to learn it from Oliver Stone movies. - Mallard Fillmore 12/9/05

I have always admired Denzel Washington as an actor. He has been in some excellent movies. However, there is one film that as far as I am concerned, tarnished an otherwise stellar resume.
....It had to be the money, otherwise what was he thinking to accept the role of Malcom X in another historically flawed Spike Lee film? I assume he read the script before he inked the contract.
....It bothered me that Washington might have bought into the history Stone was butchering. Leave us face it, Malcom X was no role model for anyone but angry militant blacks. He was the antithesis of the Rev. Martin Luther King.
....Mayhem never solved injustice. Hate never calmed hate. Malcom X never accomplished a fraction of the results King could claim.

Hear about the guy who got lost driving to the electronics store to buy a GPS system?

Recently a Boston landmark closed its doors for the final time. The Littlest Bar, crowded even when it wasn't busy, was essentially a hole in the wall located in downtown Boston. It epitomized the phrase "where everyone knows your name" decades before the TV show Cheers was aired.
....It had regular crowds who kept the seats warm in several shifts throughout the day. It was not the type place my gang liked to frequent. There was no music. They served only top shelf booze and carried no lite beers. If you wanted lite beer you had to order Coors or Miller. Why those two breweries make light beer is one of life's mysteries, as their regular beer was already lighter than most brands.
....A tip of the hat to The Littlest Bar - adieu. I've been thrown out of better bars!






The Candy Story

I guess this is a good time to ressurect a real old joke. I heard this when I was Junior High school in the early sixties. I am sure it is much, much older.

....This version is the first time I have seen it with images of the candy bars, but the effect is the same. It is slightly different than the one I remember.

....So here it is, The Candy Story for your sweet tooth and your sweet perverted minds.


No.460

The Twelve Hours of Decorating

On the first hour of decorating, I put up an artificial Christmas tree.
....On the second hour of decorating, I put up two wreaths for the doors, and an artificial Christmas tree.
....On the third hour of decorating, I untangled three strings of lights, put up two wreaths on the doors, and an artificial Christmas tree.
....On the fourth hour of decorating, I brought out four boxes of ornaments, three strings of lights, put up two wreaths on the doors, and an artificial Christmas tree.
....On the fifth hour of decorating, my team scored five field goals, brought down four boxes of ornaments, three strings of lights, put up two wreaths on the doors, and an artificial Christmas tree.
....On the sixth hour of decorating, I hung six strands of galrland, my team scored five field goals, brought down four boxes of ornaments, three strings of lights, put up two wreaths on the doors, and an artificial Christmas tree.
....On the seventh hour of decorating, I hung seven packets of tinsel, six strands of garland, my team scored five field goals, brought down four boxes of ornaments, three strings of lights, put up two wreaths on the doors, and an artificial Christmas tree.
....On the eighth hour of decorating, I had an eight-ounce steak for dinner, hung seven packets of tinsel, six strands of garland, my team scored five field goals, brought down four boxes of ornaments, three strings of lights, put up two wreaths on the doors, and an artificial Christmas tree.
....On the ninth hour of decorating, I drank my ninth can of beer, had an eight-ounce steak for dinner, hung seven packets of tinsel, six strands of garland, my team scored five field goals, brought down four boxes of ornaments, three strings of lights, put up two wreaths on the doors, and an artificial Christmas tree.
....On the tenth hour of decorating, my team pushed a ten-point spread, had my ninth can of beer, an eight-ounce steak for dinner, hung seven packets of tinsel, six strands of garland, my team scored five field goals, brought down four boxes of ornaments, three strings of lights, put up two wreaths on the doors, and an artificial Christmas tree.
....On the eleventh hour of decorating, my true love handed me eleven sets of lights for outside, my team pushed a ten-point spread, had my ninth can of beer, an eight-ounce steak for dinner, hung seven packets of tinsel, six strands of garland, my team scored five field goals, brought down four boxes of ornaments, three strings of lights, put up two wreaths on the doors, and an artificial Christmas tree.
....And on the twelth hour of decorating, I fell asleep for twelve hours, was handed eleven sets of lights for outside, my team pushed a ten-point spread, had my ninth can of beer, an eight-ounce steak for dinner, hung seven packets of tinsel, six strands of garland, my team scored five field goals, brought down four boxes of ornaments, three strings of lights, put up two wreaths on the doors, and an artificial Christmas tree.

When I awoke refreshed, I was grateful that there wasn't a thirteenth verse! I'll bet you are too!




No.459

White Whammy

Friday we were hit with a fast-moving snow storm. Although we only got about six inches in those communities closest to the ocean, it was a fierce storm. We awoke to one inch of loose dry powder on the ground. The forecast called for anything from four to twelve inches of cover by late afternoon. I was able to get out to work on time. With a little luck, by the time of the evening traffic, I would have an easy drive home.

It was looking good when I left my first client. The snow had turned to rain, the Meteorologist had predicted that would happen. By the time I left the house of the second client the rain had stopped. The sky looked ominous, but there was no precipitation. Before continuing my schedule, I was able to take care of a little personal business. After stopping at the ATM machine, picking up a few things at the supermarket, and grabbing a steak and cheese sub, I was on my way to the next client.

As luck would have it, the standing water on the snow began to freeze. I was fortunate that the several cars that spun out of control were in my rear view mirror and not ahead of me. I find that the biggest hazard to driving on icy streets isn't the other vehicles, but the pedestrians who insist on walking in the street with approaching traffic at their backs. If it were me, I'd want to walking on the other side of the street. I'd prefer to have an out of control car in my sight. I guess some people have a death wish or are just plain stupid. They might as well be like that penguin about to incur the wrath of a sleeping polar bear.

Arriving on the parking lot of the home of my third client, I was startled by a sudden flash of light. At the same moment I looked skyward there was a loud thunderclap. By the time I reached the door to the main lobby of the building, light snow was beginning to fall. This job was two back to back hour and a half cleaning jobs for a very nice elderly couple. They live on the seventh floor of one of four buildings each containg thirty-six condos. As I was doing my thing, I was able to keep an eye on the weather conditions through a sliding door to an outside landing.

Mrs. P. brought to my attention a rather large black blot on my shirt. My pen had been leaking in my shirt pocket. There on the corner of the pocket was a golf ball-sized stain. I wasn't too concerned about the shirt, after all it was a work shirt, but I was curious to see if it bled through to my undershirt. It did. The ink didn't rest on its laurels there either, for it bled through the shirt and onto the flesh beneath. Although I protested at first, Mr. and Mrs. P. insisted that I remove the shirts. While Mrs. P. scrubbed the ink spots and soaked the shirt in a tub of water, her husband produced a shirt from his wardrobe for me to put on.

I am not and have never been known as a fashion plate, but that shirt would never be featured in Gentleman's Quarterly. It was white, plastered with an array of brown and green banjos and accordians surrounded by black music note symbols. I swear, before and henceforth, yesterday was the first and only time I will be seen in a Polka shirt. Roll Out The Barrels began banging around inside my skull. I continued my duties occupied with the nightmarish vision of being on a "Lawrence Welk Show." It was surely a Geritol moment.

The sight before my eyes as I glanced at the sliding door across the room, quickly dissipated the champagne music. The snow was blowing sideways, and though I was indoors, a sudden chill came over me. In only moments, the wind driven snow was gone, replaced with a veil of white. The adjacent buildings, less than twenty-five yards apart disappeared. It was a classic white out. I picked up my pace, the sooner I finished cleaning their apartment, the sooner I could get myself to the cover of my own home. I am always glad to get home on Friday, but this Friday was urgent.

By the time I had left the building, the white out conditions had abated, but the result of the blowing snow had created drifts three to four feet high against the buildings and the vehicles parked in the lots. I was not amused by the curious artistry or the cruel condition Mother Nature in collaboration with Old Man Winter had treated my truck. Exactly half of it was buried in a huge drift. The driver's side was uncovered from the bumper to the tail gate, while the other half was encased a white coat. My practice of carrying a snow shovel in my truck on days snow was predicted had not been exercised yesterday. Suddenly, "TGIF" meant This Guy Is F**ked!

The only thing in my favor was that the snow was an airy light powder. With my snow brush and bare hands I was able to clear much of the snow from my vehicle in about a half hour. All the while gusts of wind and snow borne upon it showed no mercy. I was tired. I was cold. I was agitated. I was freezing! If that weren't enough, I still had the task of driving home. Something told me that those three miles from that parking lot to my driveway wasn't going to be an easy commute.

Needless to say, I was correct in my assessment of the drive home. It took an hour and a half. The streets were in awful condition, what with the ice hidden by the freshest of the snow and the slow procession of vehicles, their drivers wanting only the same as me, but to get home safely. I had to avoid the side streets, several of which were obvious shortcuts to my destination. What plowing had been done, had been concentrated on the main thoroughfares. Lesser trafficked streets had to beat down by the few adventurous souls who dared to take them.

I did get stuck finally, unable to free my truck from a virgin drift of snow. It was in my own driveway that I had to abandon my ride. What better place to get stuck in snow, but in one's driveway a mere ten feet from one's front door! As I trudged through the drift, I looked upon the desolation of a glacial field that had been as early as that morning, a driveway. There was a lot of shoveling in store for me, but this was Friday and it was five PM. Tomorrow was another day. Inside, there was a cup of hot coffee with my name on it.

(P.S. By the way, I was able to change back into my work shirt, washed and dried. At least I didn't have to explain a Polka shirt when I got home.)

No.458

Blind Spirit of Christmas

.

Blind Spirit of Christmas

.
Wandering about, I was looking
For this thing they called the Christmas Spirit.
Would I even be able to recognize it
Should I pass by it, or should I come near it?
I lost it quite a few years ago
In some box of lights, tinsel and ornaments,
Somewhere in an attic crawlway
With the decorations and bright merriments.
Maybe I dropped it ere a window
Displaying the sales items and the bargains;
Perhaps he needs a pair of gloves,
He'd look great in one of those cardigans.
Growing up, I'd heard the stories
That told us of peace on earth and good will.
I knew the spirit was out there.
I swore I'd find it and I wouldn't stop until.
Where is that Spirit of Christmas?
Not among the sales slips that I see littered
Or in the bags shoppers carry.
It's something else that has me embittered.
I turned the corner to the square
And came upon a man sitting on cardboard;
His sightless eyes not seeing any
Of the precious few coins that he had scored.
A pair of broken sunglasses lay
Next to him, stepped on by some passerby.
He held aloft a twenty dollar bill.
He said "I can't see her but I can hear her cry."
She lost her favorite Teddy bear.
I heard her crying, passing with her mother.
Can someone give this to her,
So that she can go in the shop to buy another?"
Her mother was touched by this,
And kindly declining she dropped a twenty
Into his can from the purse she held.
"It is you who is in need and we have plenty."
Was it a tear forming in my eye?
I then removed the sunglasses from my shirt
And touched him on his shoulder.
"The glare on the snow is bright and must hurt.
You surely need these more than I.
I could see upon his arms sores needing salve.
I doubted that he would seek care,
But I pulled out the only bill I happened to have.
"You are so kind," he said to me.
"No," I answered, "It is you that I must admire.
For you have in your heart
That which I have been seeking and so desire."
I walked away from the man
With far more than I'd had from the start.
I'd found the Spirit of Christmas
In a blind homeless man's eyes and heart.

No.457

View From A Fishbowl

Hello. My name is Goldfinger. I am The Pointmeister's goldfish. I like to think that actually, he is my human. I just thought I'd throw that line out there to see if any of you took the bait. Pardon the aqua-humor. You see, most of the time he tends to look at the world through a fish bowl. If you think some of his views are rather distorted, you will know how I feel when he neglects to change my water.

Sometimes when he is busy fishing for ideas, I swear that sucker is on the wrong end of the pole! You should be on my side of the bowl when he decides to look at the world through my world. Imagine a large proboscis looming in front of you framed by a pair of bloodshot beady eyes. Imagine those same eyes penetrating, nay violating your very thoughts! Then there he is, inside my head, pilfering ideas born of my own mind.

Before you can say filet of sole, right there on the screen my philosophies, observations, and deepest thoughts are displayed for all the world to see. Obviously my limited physiology, pectoral and lateral fins, prevent me from transferring my thoughts to the screen. Ergo, I must take solace in the fact that through him my musings leave this myopic finite world of mine. Only through this quid pro quo relationship are you air-breathers allowed to see the world from this unique perspective.

I have a problem with the cuisine that is provided me. Does he think I am stupid? I know that stuff he sprinkles in here is the dehydrated scales of my brethren. I am forced into cannibalism. The only other option I am given is to starve. As for refreshments, I can only drink myself out of house and home.
....That brings me to the reason that I have taken the helm for this publication. I had an epiphany just yesterday - Liquid Cereal! The Pointmeister might get the credit for this Blog, but he won't get his greedy digits on this product. I have already applied for the patent and the copywright. I am salivating already just thinking of Froot Loops and milk broken down into a healthy fortified meal, made especially for captive fishes. Yummy!

I know I am no brain sturgeon, but I needed the capital and borrowed some fins from a loan shark. Of course, if I don't pay him back on time, my bass is grass somewhere up the pike! My porpoise is to make Liquid Cereal a whale of a success. Wait and see, I will become the starfish of this blog.

No.456

Last But Not the Least

I wish to thank all of you who voted for my blog as Best Comedic Site. Alas, I came in third. Third out of three isn't so bad though. As such I'd like to thank those who didn't vote for me. Don't get me wrong, I'm not being sarcastic or bitter. Truth be told, it was an honor. I enjoyed the whole thing.

The last time I was ever nominated for best of anything, I came in fifth - out of five! As I see it, I moved up a couple of notches. In my high school year book this was beneath my picture: Most Likely to _______ (Fill in the blank)

I am grateful for the chance to compete against other blogs. If for no other reason, at least there was some added exposure. In less than a year I have managed to attract over 10,000 visitors. (Not bad for someone who probably couldn't get laid at a women's prison with a fistful of pardons.)

Sometimes to be funny, I tend to poke fun at myself. If I were to say that I didn't come here to be insulted, sure enough some visitor would leave the comment: "Where do you usually go?" Before you can laugh at and with others, you have to be able to laugh at yourself. (An act that I practice every morning when I am shaving.)

Congratulations to the winner and runner-up by the way. Also, I tip my hit hat to Miss Cellania for the nomination. Have you visited her site? It is well worth a visit if you haven't, and worth a return visit if you haven't stopped by her place lately. She offers up links, jokes, pictures, etc. on a theme of various sites. Her current post concentrates on "Divorce." There are some hillarious photos and links provided. Do check them out.

I remember our Senior Class play, way back in 1966. We performed Harvey and I tried out for the role of Elwood P. Dowd. I was offered the role of Harvey! Oh boy, I thought that afternoon, they're giving me the lead! Reading the script I liked the challenge. Imagine, I was going to be invisible and have no lines! It was the role of a lifetime!

If the winter theme to the graphics hasn't tipped you off yet, I can assure you that it is winter here in New England, even if the calendar insists it is still 13 days away. It is winter if I have to: 1) shovel snow; 2) scrape ice off my windshield; 3) wear a stocking cap, scarf, heavy coat and gloves; and 4) freeze my ass off.

I am what you'd call a "winter wimp." I been here in the Boston area since 1968, and I still cannot get used to cold weather. (It ain"t Mayberry, but it's home.) I have, as a result of the frigid temperatures, become quite a fan of that wonderful blend of coffee and hot chocolate - mocha. The piece de resistance is my version. An easy mathematical equation explains it rather well: hot coffee + hot chocolate + Baileys Irish Creme = manna! Top this almalgamation of tongue ticklers with a cinnamon stick, nutmeg and a dollop of whipped cream and it'll warm your cockles! (Having my second one as I am composing this blog.) Of course you can forgo the toppings, as evidenced by the fact that we have none of them in the house right now.

Have a good night and may all of you sleep well ... As I am going to do ... ZZZZzzzzz ...

No.455

...And Yule Like It!

I once swore that I would never wear Capri pants. I am close to admitting that maybe, just maybe they could prove practical. The PC crap has been getting so deep lately that it has become rather laborious to keep rolling up my pants legs.

I won't get into the knuckleheads who managed to take prayer and The Pledge of Allegience out of our schools. (Isn't it curious that these same shit-for-brains will think nothing of saying "God Damn!") I won't persecute the pond scum who kept it up until even the Nativity Scene was banned from public property.
....They won those battles, albeit by shooting us in the back, so I'll pass on belittling them. (I will still laugh when I turn on the lights and watch them scurrying around for shelter.)

I didn't need Capri pants back then. Just thinking about procuring a pair or two, has raised a couple of questions about fashion though. Should a man shave his legs when he wears Capris? Is it okay to wear them with sandals and black socks? I guess I can risk a fashion faux pas for now.

I'll take a deuteragonist role here, as Hoss is the lead on the latest attack by the PC police. (Sorry about the $5 word, it's the first chance I've had to use it in a long time. The Lone Ranger was the lead role on the old TV and radio shows, while Tonto was the second most important character, or the deuteragonist. I decided to spare you from digging out the Funk & Wagnels.)
....Now the Sanctity Snipers are attacking the very name of the upcoming holiday - Christmas - because it contains the name of Christ. Sayeth them, "Well, God Damned! Jesus Christ! You know you can't call it Christmas anymore!" They pauseth and then add, "You will now refer to it as the Yule season, or Yule time, and Yuletide is okay too."
....You will notice that the wiseacres carefully avoided using the contraction you'll. That is because it sounds like Yule. It is a set up, you see. After the holidays, they will nail us for using you'll out of season. Eventually you will be obligated to say 'you will' henceforth because the contraction will be stricken from our language or relegated to the same status as ain't.

Like Hoss, I like to be one step ahead of these characters, even if I have to scrape the bottoms of my shoes later. Before I begin my diatribe, if any of them were to come into my house and refer to my twinkling fiber optic tree as a holiday or Yule tree, I will post haste find out if they'll take exception to being called a popsicle because of the tree projecting from their holy rectums. I'm Dickens, he's Sphincter!
....For the time being, I am appointing myself Sheriff of the Sanctity Snipers with some targets of my own. I can shovel it too. Let them go scurrying about in the light trying to buy some speedos, because the shit is going to get real deep now!

From this day forward, the state of Alabama must change its name. That stuff that they make Easter eggs out of, can no longer be called alabaster. You know those items on a menu with a separate price, they will no longer be referred to as a la carte. That cream sauce you have with chicken - gone is the term a la king. Davy Crockett didn't die at the Alamo, but at an old mission. We all like ice cream on our apple pie; get over it, a la mode is to be deleted.
....I know you are scratching your heads in wonder, and probably other parts of your collective anatomies for other reasons I won't get into. Why in the world would I attack these words and that proud state? Say them aloud. What sound do they contain? That's right, they all begin with same sound as "Allah." This is America. We do not believe in Allah. They sure like the American money, don't they. I'll now point out the fact that it doesn't say "In Allah We Trust." Indeed, it says "In GOD We Trust."
....It has also come to my attention that the peoples of Belarus might be insulted about one of our terms. I know it is a stretch, but out of respect for them we'll have to find a new name for the belly dancer. We could try abdomen dancer, but sooner or later they'll shorten it to abs dancer, which is too similar to lap dancer. Of course, the Lapplanders already have a problem with that one.

I am also going to spearhead the next onslaught of PC overkill. I am hereby bringing notice that since my name is Mike, I take exception to a microphone being shortened to mike. I am sure that others will find a beef with the improper use of their names. Do you like those wooden things being referred to as a Peg , Schnoodlepooh? I'll bet Jim doesn't like people going to the gym. Do you think they can find a better name for a bathroom, John? I am sure that once this grows into more than just a grass roots movement, we'll be hearing from Ray, Russell, Art, Bob, Jack, Mary, Bill, Gene, Jean, etc., to name just a few.

Oh, by the way, those of you who speak in street slang and rap, please be careful at the dinner table when you ask for mo' ham. (Somebody might think you mean Mohammed.)

Lest I Forget:

No.454

For Blogging Out Loud!

I had trouble opening up my blog tonight. I suppose I wasn't the only one. I couldn't even open any your sites from my blog roll. I was able to get to to the create/publish page, but I was hesitant to try to post anything. It is no fun typing out a blog, especially if it is a long one, and then have it disappear into cyber space somewhere.

The image here pretty much defines my attempts tonight.

So rather than twiddle my thumbs and look at my blog not upload completely. I went over to Yahoo Games and played a few rounds of my favorite word game, Spelldown.

Bored with that after an hour or so, I decided to go harvesting. You might call it "lifting pics" or "stealing pics," but I call it harvesting. The next pic I found by typing Air Bags on the search bar. The irony of it made it a keeper!

Seeing as this is a blog site, I do have to know a little (very little) HTML. I don't think I really need the tags to know where they begin and end. But there may be someone out there who does. So consider my posting of this pic as an act of public service.

When is it too young for a male to start getting curious about the fairer sex? Should he open about it, or should be sneaky until he gets caught? Then again, Tom Hank's brother, played by John Candy in the movie Splash, never did give up this practice.

I Dream of Jeannie - That's funny, this isn't quite how I remember her. Sure the outfit was sexy, but I can remember that for several seasons the network would not allow her navel to be shown. Aha! That's it! She always crossed her arms across her chest when she performed her magic. It was network cencorship, wasn't it?

Was I asleep in Sex Education Class? It seems to me we only had a book with drawings - not even photographs! Darn! Do you suppose this was the day I skipped class to go see Lester Flatt & Earl Scruggs down at the Roxy Theater? I went wrong somewhere - Blue Grass and banjos instead of an education.

Speaking of sex education. Are we ever too young to learn? Take the case of a father teaching his young son how to do number one standing in front of a toilet. "Son, it's easy. I'll teach you the six easy steps. Number one, you unzip your pants. Two, you pull it out. Three, you pee. Four, you shake it dry. Five, put it back. And six, you zip your fly up." The boy nodded. Then father added, "Okay you can practice and I'll check on you later." About fifteen minutes later the father returns and hears his son counting. "Two, five - two,five - two-five..."

Finally, file this one under One Day In The Boys Room:

You know, this seems to explain those ankles and calves!

Lo and behold! While I was busy putting together this piece of crap posting my site meter just cracked the 10,000 Hits Barrier!

To each and every one who has stopped by my site, whether as a lurker, a hit-and-run blog surfer, or as a commenter -

Thank you, Thank you very much! (It must be true - 10,000 flies can't be wrong!

No. 453

The Good, The Bad, And The Naughty

Are you good? Are you bad? Or are you naughty?

I'll bet you think you can fool the Old Boy, don't you? What if you were to learn that he really does make a list? Trust me, he doesn't check it twice.

This is a story of Santa Clarabel Klauzinski, Jr. (Yes, that's his real name.) This is a story few have ever heard. (Judging from the site meter, it's likely that few ever will.)

Thanks to the likes of the cartoonist Nast, the poet Clement C. Moore, and the Coca Cola company, we all have a fair idea of what Santa Claus looks like. Thanks again to the aforementioned, nobody really knows what he looks like.
Contrary to the legends created for childrens' stories and of course for free enterprise, he is not a jolly old soul. He does not live at the North Pole and he does not drive a sleigh pulled by reindeer.

He was born the illegitimate son of a Polish wino who arrived at the small North Carolina village by way of a passing freight train. He had promised to marry the young harlot in exchange for a warm bed and a bottle of Ripple. Before the morning sun broke over the hills, he was gone with the wine and was never seen again. He did leave something behind, however. The seed he'd left behind would be named for something the wino had muttered in his sleep. Not understanding his language, she thought the Polish words meant "I love you. Oh yes, baby." To her Santa Clarabel Klauzinski sounded poetic and romantic. It was the perfect name for her scrawny, sickly newborn son.
....Exposed at an early age to the lifestyle of his mother, young Santa learned to appreciate a taste for alcohol and women. The other ladies who lived and plied their trade with his mother took a shine to the little tyke. His "aunts," as he came to know them, often offered their breasts to him when they couldn't stop him from crying. At the early age of five, he was an established tit man. Indeed, he often feigned crying just to latch on to as many as he could.
....One day after business had been quite slow, his mother had to leave town in hopes of finding a place with more men willing to pay for her services. She had tried giving out S&H Green Stamps, but the local redneck men were more interested in freebies and signing their marks on IOUs. So young Klauzinski was left in the care of a poor family who made a living selling the milk from the single cow they owned. For some reason the old woman and her two daughters never bared their breasts when he cried. Finally out of desperation, he went to the barn where old Bessie was kept. One look at the huge udders hanging beneath her and he knew what to do. The cow just turned her head as the young boy approached and started fondling her udders. So it was that Bessie allowed him to suckle.
....A strange thing happened while he was feeding and growing from Bessie's milk. He learned that he could talk to her and she to him. He learned that she was a very special cow. Although the humans were unaware of it, Bessie was in fact the famous cow that jumped over the moon. She could fly. She had ended up in the boondocks of North Carolina when her former owner, Mrs. O'Leary of Chicago, had sold her after a rather large fire. On many nights, while the town slept, Santa would hop on Bessie's back and they would fly over the country-side. When he was twelve, he had raised enough money from his part-time job as a pick-pocket, and bought Bessie from the family. ....Riding Bessie like a horse, he returned to his neighborhood home, only to find that his mother had never returned. The women welcomed him at the brothel and were delighted to find that he had grown in more ways than one! He remained there for four years, eventually taking over the business and making it highly profitable. Still a confirmed breast-man, he studied them when he was around the women. His crowning achievement was a chart that cateogorized the female breast by sizes and shapes. He later sold a copy of his chart to a clothing designer, who later invented, to Santa's chagrin, the bra.
....The combination of abolitionists and the mothers of several children he had fathered, gave him cause to pull up stakes and to move on. He changed his name to a much shorter Santa Claus to escape the many warrants issued for him. He finally settled in an uncharted and impassible area of the Okefenokee swamps. In the ensuing years, he purchased a bull and developed a special breed of cattle with the power to fly like Old Bessie. He fashioned a sleigh from an old 59 Cadillac hearse.
....Harassed by the law everytime he ventured into civilization to continue his studies of the female breast, he became an angry, bitter man. He was a very wealthy man by the time he reached his mid-thirties, not bad for a man who had never worked an honest hour in his life. When he noticed the popularity of Christmas growing every year, he came up with a brilliant plan. It was a plan from which he could profit even if others also made money. Late one night, he hitched up his team of eight cattle to his Caddie sleigh and flew off to England. He had written a draft for a poem that he was going to conveniently plant on the desk of Clement Clarke Moore. Knowing the British to be an honorable people, he knew Moore would do the right thing - he would claim it as his own!
...."On Elsie and Flossie, on Gertie and Bossie, on all. Up Hortense and Denise, up Thelma and Louise, up over the wall," he shouted and whistled at his coursers. Moore was looking out the window watching the sleigh and ungainly bovines drive out of sight. Finding the draft Santa had left, he sat and began to pen his famous poem. He ignored the almost empty bottle of booze, if he was seeing flying cows and Cadillacs he'd had enough. He changed the cattle to reindeer and gave them different names. He changed Klauzinski to St. Nick only because he needed something to rhyme with "quick." (He wanted to keep it clean.)
....Meanwhile Santa left an unflattering picture of himself from a wanted poster on the desk of the political cartoonist, Thomas Nast. He hired a struggling young artist at The Saturday Evening Post to draw up a more jolly picture of him. He then sold a copy of that drawing to an accountant at a small company that bottled soda pop. Soon the fame of Santa Claus grew even beyond his wildest dreams. With all the attention on the Old Jolly Elf, there was less attention placed upon his activities.
....While the new Santa made a list of who'd been bad or good, he made up a list of only the naughty. It was he who left the lumps of coal. It was his doings when the really bad ones got nothing. He was especially fond of one particular form of punishment for the naughty.
....With his Cadillac sleigh and team hovered above the roof, he would traipse over to the chimney. There, he would drop his pants and sit on the chimney. He would smile with relief as crap into the fireplace below. If he didn't have to go, that proved to be no problem. From his sack he would pull out a fresh cow pie and drop it down the chimney. With a team of eight cattle, he had an almost endless supply.
....He managed, or mammaged as he called it, to keep up with his breast studies. Sometimes the naughty were girls and women. Then he would make a house call and render special punishment and teach them how to be good when they were naughty. It was a hard job, pardon the pun, but someone had to do it.
.
So remember as Christmas nears, both Santas are making up their lists. On Christmas eve, two teams of ruminants will take to the sky, one with a driver lively and quick, and the other with a sack of shit. One will say as he flies away, "Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night." If you have been naughty the other one will say, "Shit Happens!"

No.452

Ch-chingle Bells

Ch-Chingle Bells !
Ch-Chingle Bells !

Ch-Chingle all the way !

Oh what fun it is to
Use your master card all day !

The day after Thanksgiving is known as Black Friday, the so-called first day of Christmas shopping. Like fly-fishermen, the retailers slyly cast their lines into the waters. Like hungry bass the shoppers took the bait - hook, line and sinker. The lure of discount prices soon found the stores' creels overflowing.

'Twas the day after Thanksgiving and all through the mall,
Not a pocket was full, for the shoppers had spent it all!
While I was at work, mama was spending the next check,
"I know we don't need it, but it's on sale, oh what the heck!

It was a full week later when I found what I thought would be a perfect gift. To my chagrin, back at home with my find, I am told that she had already bought the same thing on Black Friday. I sighed in dismay, resigned to the fact that I'd have to take it back. When I said that I thought $29.95 was a good deal, you should have heard the "WTF" that was screamed at me. It seems that the "big sale" after Thanksgiving wasn't so big after all. She had paid $59.95 for the same item at the same store! She had saved $10 off on the item. I had saved $30 more! Guess who had to take her "steal" back, and who kept his "grand larceny?"

From out in the driveway there arose such a clatter,
I mosied from my chair to see what was the matter.
To my wondering eyes it wasn't dear ol' St. Nick
Who was backing out of the driveway so quick!

When is a sale NOT a sale? When it is just a come on to lure shoppers into the stores, that's when! I am not saying that every store pulled off this scam, but it does give me reason to "compare shop." In case you haven't guessed already, the store in question is the one and the only Wal-Mart! I can't help but think that next week this item will be on sale at $19.95.

Dashing through the store, o'er the l'il old ladies we go
Shoved them outta the way, coz they were much too slow.
Bells on registers ring, making our pockets light
Oh what fun it is to use our charge cards tonight.
Ch-Chingle Bells! Ch-chingle Bells!
Ch-Chingle all the way.
Oh what fun it would be to
Ride in a one-horse Soap and Sleigh.

Just what in the heck is a Soap and Sleigh, anyway?

No.451

Underwhelmed

This picture is like several houses I have already seen in the surrounding neighborhoods. It's only 3rd of December, what's your hurry, folks? I feel compelled to go up to the attic and back down twenty times lugging Christmas paraphenalia.

Why do some people insist on being the first to decorate their houses for Christmas? Do they enjoy putting undue pressure on their neighbors? Do they enjoy torturing me, specifically? It seems to me that I remember when nobody put up lights on their houses and in their yards until one week before Christmas.

I have received one not so subtle hint that we should put up the tree. Then the subtlety turns to: "You're going to put up the tree this weekend, aren't you?" That question, actually a disguised order, is soon followed by: "Aren't you going to decorate outside this year?"

"What's wrong with the flamingos and gnomes?" My answer is met with The Stare. You know the stare don't you? It's the one with those little daggers flying at you. Sometimes the stare is accompanied with a terse "Ha-Ha!" I glare out the window across the street at the house lit up like Times Square and Rockerfeller Plaza. What ever happened to a simple string of lights and some green garland wrapped around the wrought iron handrail on your front stairs?

We interrupt this blog to bring you a message from The Committee To Select "It Occurred To Me." You have only three days remaining to get out and vote for The Pointmeister as the best comedic blog for the month of November. Check out our ad on a marquis in a major city. You can cast your vote by leaving a comment at Motherdear.

This message is NOT sponsored by Froot Loops, but it were, that would be a feather in my cap, wouldn't it?

We now return you to our regularly scheduled blog.

I will admit that once the tree is up, I start to get into the Christmas spirit. There's something to to be said about sitting in a darkened room looking at a decorated an lit Christmas tree. (You will kindly note that I refuse to call them holiday trees.)

I must admit that I am in the group of people who no longer use REAL Christmas trees. For the last three years we have been displaying a fiber-optic tree. Honest, once you have used one, you'll find it hard to ever want to use a real one again, tradition or not. From the time I bring it downstairs, unpack it, put it on the stand and plug it in - a whole ten minutes has passed. You don't even have to decorate it - no tinsel, no garland, no ornaments, and the best of all, no strings of lights! Plug it in and flip the switch - voila! I am mesmerized by the slow blinking and color changes that is emitted from each and every branch. Our tree has 750 branches, each its own light show.

No.450

Apple Pie Blog

Rachel Ray is going to bake up some apple pies, while I will be busy trying to cook up some votes.

The voting officially began today, Dec.1. In the event that you have not read my blog in the past week, or have been hiding under a rock, "It Occurred To Me" has been nominated for Best Comedy Site for November.

You can cast your vote (for me) by leaving a comment by visiting the following site http://mdskidsrbrilliant.blogspot.com. Once there, scroll down or the click on the nominations under Previous Posts. Choose "Best Comedic Post and Blogsite."

Then vote for "It Occurred To Me" for best comedy site. In the spirit of fair play, do read a post or two the competing blogs have posted. But once you've read the rest, come back to the Best and then cast your vote (for the Pointmeister) by leaving a comment. The other sites are off to a fast start, so I need the votes.

I have some free coupons for you as a show of my gratitude. Who knows maybe Rachel will let me pull a few strings and dish out some nice hot apple pie to you.

To quote those good old boys from the Bartles & James commercials a few years back, "Thank you for your support."

Oh yes, be sure to tell your friends and those on your blog rolls to visit Motherdear and cast their vote (for me) too.

A vote for The Pointmeister is a vote for the continued humor and original material that you have become accustomed to and of course, have enjoyed and loved.

I understand that they employ a very sophisticated ballot counting system over there at Motherdear. So I am sure the selection process will be on the up and up.

Scrabble Babble

I thought that maybe I shouldn't be so blatant trying to get people to vote for my blog. I guess the newspaper and the letter to Santa were a little over the top. Maybe I should be just a wee bit more subtle.

So I decided to play a relaxing game of Scrabble to take my mind off the camapign. Besides, nobody can vote until today, December the 1st anyway.

Mele Kaliki Maka, by the way. (That's Hawaiian for Merry Christmas.)

With the news that Elton John and his partner are getting hitched, I started thinking. The two of them write music, right? Well who knows, but they might decide to adopt a kid. If not for this Christmas, maybe next year, Elton could rework one of the classic Christmas songs into: I Saw Daddy Kissing Santa Claus !

The recent news regarding Michael Irvin, sports analyst and former wide receiver for the Dallas Cowboys, had me laughing about his lame excuse and explanation. Then I look back at the antics of Terrell Owens and shake my head. It makes me wonder: "Aren't you losing credibility when Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson come to your defense?" Sounds kinda like pleading the fifth or refusing to take the breathalizer. By the way I did not mean to infer in any way that either Sharpton or Jackson themselves have credibility. Before anyone tries to read racism into this, when you are out of line or wrong - you are out of line and wrong! And when your over-zealous nature turns you into a cartoon - you are a cartoon.

The women in my life lately: Miss Take, Miss Place, Miss Trust, Miss Creant, Miss Count, Miss Chief, Miss Cue, Miss Fit, Miss Handle, Miss Hap, Miss Lead, Miss Fire, and Miss Judge just to name a few.

You might still be a kid at heart:
If your most memorable scene from a movie is when Jerry the Mouse dances with Gene kelly.
If you know all the words to "Bippity-Boppity-Boo."
If you learned the music scale from Julie Andrews.
If you still own a hula hoop and can make it go.
If you wear tee-shirts with Minnie Mouse, Winnie the Pooh and the Care Bears.

Help me out here, will you? Take a look at the exposed Scrabble racks up there and tell me if you can make anything out of either rack.

You know, I feel a lot better now that I have let off some steam. It feels good to tone it down and not be so obvious that I am trawling for votes.

No.448