Life with the Gourmands

She: What is this?
Me: It's a deconstructed BLT.
She: But there's no bacon.
Me: That's right.
She: And there's no lettuce.
Me: That's right.
She: Or tomato.
Me: That's right.
She: What kind of bread is this?
Me: Tilapia.

Dispatch from the RNC

Well, the GOP was having a pretty good night, until that shrieking woman, Rudy Giuliani, stormed the stage. What in the Sam Hill was that? Fortunately, Michele Obama's speech brought the evening to a more melodious finish.

Yanky Doodle

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I'm a Speaker at the Republican Convention!

Hey Would-be Refuters! Good news. Yours truly has been asked to speak at the Republican National Convention next week. The organizing committee didn't seem all that thrilled in extending me the invitation, but they seem to have a lot of empty slots to fill. Here's my topic: "Historians Agree: Donald Trump is the Greatest President of the United States EVER!" I believe I'm scheduled for Tuesday morning at 2 a.m. I'm really jazzed. See you in Cleveland.

Yanky Doodle

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A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Tears

The picture (left) tells the whole story. The NRA calls them "jack-booted thugs," but thank the Lord for the Boys in Blue. With the black threat safely neutralized, those people mingling under the trees can now relax and safely enjoy their American rights. The policemen's masks are to protect them from her venomous spit. The guy in the rear is reflexively recoiling from it, even though he is protected by his face plate. Can you blame him? It's human nature. His buddy keeps a safe operating distance, as he was taught in his negro-handling training.

Kill Those Somnabitches!

That's right. Heptachlor.  Ask for it by name. Hate mosquitoes?  Of course you do. Heptachlor them to Hades. Wasps? Get thee hence. Heptachlor will bring you peace of mind. It kills everything. Ants, termites, nematodes, nosy neighbors. Squirrels and hedgehogs are no match for it. Are the deer eating your tomatoes? Heptachlor to the rescue! Say goodbye to the family dog. I'm tired of his barking anyway. Your children are already brain damaged, so don't blame Heptachlor. Velsicol Chemical Corporation is not allowed to sell it anymore, so you'll have get your Heptachlor surreptitiously on eBay, like Virginia gets it for executions. Be sure to get an anonymous account and use bitcoin. It's worth it.  Finally, peace and quiet!

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Three or Four Things on July 4

I’ve been reading the internet and the consensus is clear: the best thing about America is bacon. Everybody knows how to cook bacon. Throw it in a skillet and cook it topside on the stove until it shrivels to a third its original size. Arrange it on a sheet pan and throw it in the oven at whatever degrees you can fat-finger into the Apollo Control Panel. It’s done when the smoke detector alarms the dogs and sends their poor little heads under the seat cushions. Even the attic smells like bacon if you did it right. You can’t overdo it either: it built for American Excess. You can cook bacon until it is completely devoid of H2O and disintegrates into black powder when you touch it. People will still eat it. Even the French will eat it if they think nobody’s looking. It is the only meat that can’t be judged when it is grossly overcooked. There’s something truly American about a carbon footprint that’s longer than it is wide. And on July 4, bacon is but the breakfast-y lead-in to Independence Day BBQ.

BBQ is the closest we Americans get to haute cuisine. We can’t poach fish. In fact, we don’t even know what that means. The French tried to teach us when they came over during the Revolutionary War to help us whoop the British, but it didn’t take. In America, we have plenty of fish, and plenty of poachers, but no poached fish. But BBQ snobs we are. It’s very egalitarian. You can make three dollars a day selling people rancid vegetable oil for brake fluid and still be a BBQ snob.

Pork shoulder is the stuff of fist fights. Don’t believe me? Just eavesdrop on the Lone Star BBQ Society. Want to know the real reason for concealed carry and semi-automatic weapons with large magazines? Brisket. A tough brisket is a hangin’ offense in Texas, and who has time for a trial? Or tying a knot in a rope.

You put your brisket in the smoker at 200-plus “Fahrenheit,” which is German for “degrees.” The question of that “plus” leads to at least six annual gun fatalities in Texas, not mention innumerable Facebook trolls. My plus is 12 degrees. In any case, after about two and a half hours, the imperative question is whether it is time to pull the meat off. Now yesterday, I was on my lonesome on my suburban deck and had no one to argue with. The meat thermometer was reading on the high side of 140 and climbing to 150. It was a crisis. Since I was on my own I did the only thing I could do. I stuffed a cherry bomb in my mouth and threatened to blow my teeth out unless I pulled the brisket off the heat.

Stubbornly, I let it smoke for another 20 minutes and then finally took the brisket off. It wasn’t perfect. It ruined my day and that of 300 million of my fellow Americans, even if they don’t know it yet (but they will if you share people!) It’s embarrassing, but I own it.

Well, today I’m smokin’ the spare ribs, which have been swimming overnight in my secret marinade. Ribs aren’t as sensitive to cooking time. Five or six hours low and slow will be perfect.  In the mid-Atlantic, we’re on the docket for heavy rain come the Fourth, but fortunately BBQ leftovers don’t count as “leftovers.” BBQ is as good as the real deal the next day around, which is not true of poached fish.

Statistically, the only thing more dangerous than BBQ on Independence Day is firecrackers, so be careful out there. Remember, to shut down a bad guy with a bottle rocket you need a good guy with a bottle rocket. Make sure you have plenty of ‘em. Just bear in mind that everything in your arsenal was made in China.

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Yanky Doodle

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Rumsfeld Endorses Donald Trump

Former Donald endorsed The Donald this week, saying he never met a Donald he didn't like. Former Secretary of Defense to Former President George W. Bush, Donald Rumsfeld, endorsed the embattled Republican nominee Donald Trump on Tuesday, saying, "Pooh, pooh, this wasn't even a hard decision."  He likened Trump, who he said he'd never met, to an "unknown unknown," while Hillary Clinton is a "known known," and we all know perfectly well that means, as well as how irrefutably it decides the matter.

  

As Trump's semi-official Poet Laureate, it is my obligation to provide a poem to commemorate this unquantifiable occasion. I have rendered my verse in Mr. Trump's favorite feet and meter. Please hold hands and sway gently from side to side:    

The Twenty-second of June, In the Year of Our Lord, Two Thousand and Sixteen

by M.W. Thomas

Did Rumsfeld endorse Mr. Trump pertinently?

Or was it perhaps inadvertently?

That far could he pass

His head up his ass?

Possibly, probably, certaintly!

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Yanky Doodle

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Yanky Doodle (Sunday Edition)

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Bernie Sanders Announces for 2017

In a live stream broadcast to his supporters, Bernie Sanders today announced his candidacy for the Democratic nomination for President in 2017.  If that bid fails, he will run again in 2018, and if necessary, in 2019, but hinted he may step aside in 2020.

In other news:  Republican Chairman confirmed that Donald Trump remains the presumptive nominee for his party in 2016, and announced that House Speaker Paul Ryan is under twenty-four hour suicide watch by the Capitol Police.  "It's no big deal," he said. "The important thing is that we be united, even if it's in the afterlife."

Former First Lady Laura Bush May Vote For Hillary!

Rumor has it that former First Lady Laura Bush may cast her vote in the 2016 Presidential poll for Democratic candidate Hillary Clinton. In our polarized politics, partisan reactions have been predictably violently opposed. On the Trump side, it is seen as nothing short of treason. On the Hillary side, it is ‘meh’. Either way, we must agree there are only two possible explanations:

1.       The First Lady is not a white supremacist, or

2.       She’s on the rag.

Because there is so little difference between the two, it is very difficult to get to the bottom of it. But I will walk you through it. As Trump would point out, the latter observation is too easily misconstrued as a misogynistic insult. But think about it. Would you want an all-menstruating jury to decide your handicapped parking dispute? You are accused of purloining a handicapped spot and you are on trial for your life. What kind of jury should you want? Certainly neither rag heads nor rag bottoms. Furthermore, we all know that a drooling plaintiff in a wheelchair doesn’t count as “white,” really. So an all-white, non-menstruating jury is really the way to go, if you expect a judgement in your favor. You see what I mean.

Now, the Founding Fathers were five fifths human beings and our African Americans were three fifths human beings. Do the math people. Okay, skip the math; it involves fractions. But trust me, it says White Supremacy. It is what our nation was founded on, Patriots. It’s in the Constitution. To say exactly the same thing in other words, women were created by cloning them from man’s rib as recorded in Genesis. We would know a little bit more about which end of the rib this bleeding thing originates from, except that “scientists” are too busy forcing abortions on women who don’t want them in order to exterminate Donald Trump voters (see the Internet for proof: start here, here, or here, using search term ‘Hillary bitch face.’)

So why might Laura Bush vote for Hillary? Why, because she’s bleeding from her wherever on Election Day and is blind to the sacred trust of being white. People of color are counting on us, as white people, to look after them, like pets. It all comes together like chocolate and peanut butter.  Like the white creamy center in a Little Debbie chocolate cake. That is what Donald Trump is all about. That is his wisdom. Laura: don’t bleed on my parade.

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Hiroshima: A Love Letter to Ann Coulter

The way to a woman's heart is through a Hiroshima-style
bomb blast... if she's worth having.

Our beautiful bomb exploded over Hiroshima on August 6, 1945. Six-year-old Sara was at school, a mile away from the detonation. An absolutely perfect distance for the artistic mutilation we the righteous visited upon her. The pressure wave stripped her school uniform off her body and the intense heat raised her skin temperature to 280 degrees Fahrenheit for several seconds, well down into her dermis. A brief vacuum was created inside the building, causing a second backwash of intense pressure in the opposite direction to rip her eyes from their sockets. They hung loosely at her burning cheeks. It was magnificent.

Debris waved violently back and forth within the room. Sara’s deserving mother suffered a similar fate as her daughter’s, her dress about her in tatters, her skin blistered. A part of the wooden frame of the chalkboard had broken loose and turned into a missile. It pierced her jap belly and tore her open from top to bottom. Just as might be prayed for in the most eloquent Psalm.

All those that were in that school room were justly burnt and gravely injured, under the pleased smile of Jesus. The air was opaque with dust. Sara cried with her charred lungs. She discovered she could see through her disembodied eyeballs, since her optic nerves were still attached, though her vision was very blurry and misdirected. She tripped over dead school mates. She heard cries from teachers that seemed to come from far corners. “Mama!” she gasped.

Mama’s intestines were gathered in her arms, covered in soot and charred debris. A shaft of light illuminated them through the broken wall. Mama urged her daughter to come with her into the light.  Oh, Ann, how must we laugh at this hubris! How more undeserving can these sub-humans be of any relief? What delight we take in the disdainful toss of the head they get from Jesus!

For Jesus remembers Pearl Harbor. That’s when the yellow-belly japs attacked us for absolutely no reason whatsoever. What right do they have to salvation?

Yet Sara and Mama crawl through the debris and make their way down to the river. Sara finds that by holding her eyeballs gently, and by applying a little pressure in certain places, she can slightly improve her eyesight.

They arrive at the bank of the river. Mama wades in and begins washing her innards. She tries to flush the ashes and coal from her floating intestines. Her bowels pull loose and the blood and feces confuse her. Sara thrashes as others approach.

Two men drag Sara’s mother to the shore and cover her with a tarp. She is dead. Another damned jap rid of. Two women bundle Sara in filthy towels and carry her away. Sara survives and becomes an anti-nuke protestor in later life. She’s the worst kind of self-apologizer and anti-American complainer.

Anyway, no apologies owed to that WWII dirt. Hopefully we’ll get a chance to do it again, to those Arab Islamic sand ticks.

I know you’re with me when I say we should round up the ones we’ve got and have us a little 21^st century auto-da-fé American style with a YUGE mushroom cloud. We can re-open the old above-ground test sites in Nevada and shred the skin right off their terrorist bones. And let’s include the idiots who want to defend them too.

We’re peas in pod, you and me. Hatred and cruelty are always mocked by the people who deserve to die. We must set it right. We’re overdue for a death march.

Want to do lunch?

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Yanky Doodle

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What about the Hermaphrodites?

I recently had to look up the term cisgender. Oddly, we need a word for it now. That word refers to somebody whose gender identity squares with their birth penis or birth vagina. It turns out that I am cisgender. I must say, with all due deference to the ill-equipped, that it seems to be a real advantage in life to be able to peek down your underpants to establish your gender identity. Some people are not so lucky. These people may suffer from gender disphoria, which means they’re wearing the wrong underpants, or worse, they are in dire need of a penis tuck.

A year before that I had to look up the ‘Q’ in ‘LBGTQ’. That means “Questioning.” What it is exactly that those folks are questioning isn’t usually made clear, but I guess there are other planets besides Venus and Mars. Shall I board the space plane for Uranus?

Anyway, where does the ‘C’ for’ cisgender’ fit into the alphabet of gender identity? Shall it be CLBGTQ? It seems rude, cutting in front of the line like that. How about LBGCTQ?

Wait! But what about hermaphrodites? What are those? you ask. I quote the sage, Archie Bunker.  They are people who are “too much of both and not enough of neither.” That is, they are biologically bisexual, as distinct from behaviorally bisexual. They are rumored to have the genitalia of both of the reproductive chromosome contributors. One of their great advantages is that they can have sex with themselves without the shame of masturbation. Some species can even spawn this way.

Whether hermaphrodites exist or not, it seems to me we need to cram an “H” into our gender identity code ring. Where shall we put it?

Okay, let’s backtrack. Maybe the fairest way to do it is set it all in alphabetical order. This article has been edited and proofread, so you can’t see me puzzling this out in real time, but after a great exercise of the backspace key I come up with this:

BCGHLTQ

But what about transvestites? This category seems to be more of a “dress-up” thing and not particularly sexual. But suppose we include it (and why not? Transvestites are people too.) The difficulty here is that we now have two “trans” literations to account for in our spell - and if we must keep it alphabetical? My years of government work have provided me with a built in solution:  T(V)=Transvestite, T(S)=Transsexual.  The formula now yields:

BCGHLT(S)T(V)Q

Now I object to myself. The alphabet is arbitrary. There should be some order in the world. Perhaps we should question first – especially if we are a hermaphrodite:

QHBCGLT(S)T(V)

Then ‘B’ seems to be in the right place too.  C, G, and L, are all the same from a biological standpoint. I suggest we group them, to reflect that for clarity.

QHB[CGL]T(S)T(V)

Looks like chemistry to me. I may not be a scientist, but I know how to use a word processor. I’ll let the DSM take it from here.

Anyway, somebody asked me what I thought of transgender girls using the ladies room.  I say a transgender girl should have to use the boy’s room to fix her make-up, where she’ll promptly get beat up by a pack of rednecks as Jesus intended.

Yanky Doodle

GUEST BLOG: Aunt Prude Says

This GUEST BLOG was inevitable.  I let Aunt Prude horn in on my blog back last November and I was under no illusion that that would be the end of it.  Well, she was here on Mother’s Day and demanded her due.  “Nobody likes your stupid poems!” she said.  “My mailbag is bursting at the seams.  The People need me.  You call yourself a writer?  Okay, I’ll dictate, and you write!”  So here it is:  the long-dreaded second installment of “Aunt Prude Says.”

Question:  Ick!  My mother just came out as a lesbian.  It’s bad enough that she’s a philatelist, but now this?  I want to kill myself.  What should I do? – Put Out in Boston.

Aunt Prude Says:  Dearest Put Out, my grandmother was from Lesbos, and believe-you-me there is no shame in it!  Her second cousin even won the Nobel Prize in Poetry!  He was a real poet, not like my stupid nephew.  I know it isn’t popular these days to be from anyplace Greek, but think of the olive oil!  I am concerned about her philately though.  In my day, we didn’t discuss such things in public.  Tell her to put a sock in it.

For the record, Aunt Prude is not a “Lesbian.”  She very well may be a closeted philatelist though.

Question:  My neighbor and I do not get along.  He keeps hammering in a “For Sale” sign in my lawn in front of my house.  My house is not for sale and I have no intention of moving.  When I remove the sign, he just sneaks back at night and puts it back up.  What do I do? – Staying Put in Brooklyn.

Aunt Prude Says:  Go down to the public library and log out on the internet.  They will tell you how to make a flashy bangy thing called an IUD.  Somebody’s probably dog-eared it already.  If you have trouble, just ask the man with the sun glasses and ear piece.  He will help you get everything you need.  Follow the instructions.  The next time your neighbor puts up his sign, he will be in for a LOUD surprise!  I know it works, because the librarian says she gets letters from the government about it all the time.

If you ask me, Aunt Prude knows perfectly well what she’s doing.  Pox on her!  Personally, I think the local mob boss is a better bet here.

Question:  I am a young emo woman who is a vegan and a free spirit, with an unctuous sprinkle of goth.  I don’t shave my legs or my armpits.  My boyfriend says I’m gross and is threatening to troll me on Instagram.  Should I hold my ground or compromise a little here? – Hairy in the O.C.

Aunt Prude Says:  Tsk, tsk, young lady.  I don’t know what emos, vegans, and goths are, but reading between the lines, I assume you’re an ape.  Yes, a little compromise is in order and totally painless.  When I was a young woman, I rubbed my legs and armpits with a two-percent solution of muriatic acid twice a month for a year.  Presto! Hair-be-gone forever!  Of course, there was a nasty red pimply rash.  But that went away after 10 or 15 years.  But I haven’t shaved since!  My nephew tells me I have a very active Instagram account now and I get trolled all the time.  I don’t feel a thing, so it can’t be that bad.

Aunt Prude wanted you to know that her acid bath is not recommended for pubes.  She thought that important, but didn’t want to go there herself, and left it to me to pass on, like all those mea culpas at the end of the pharmaceutical commercials.  Geez, she’s like the back-alley abortion of everything.  I just made up the Instagram thing to mess with her.  She’s not on twitter either.  There is no hashtag to describe her.

Yanky Doodle

Second Morning

A Mother's Day Poem by M.W. Thomas

My second morning is sweet, simple peace.

The man of the house showers and shaves and leaves wet towels crumpled on the floor.

I watch without judgment as the rays of the sun grow longer.

I draw my legs in when the rays reach my toes,

For my second morning shall not end too soon.

Second mornings are before the hours of loneliness to come.

It is the time before the tireless waiting

For morning to become afternoon, and then afternoon to become evening.

Me and my mistress paint the night on a large soft canvass.

I keep her near as we sleep, near in my dreams, nearer still in wakefulness.

I follow her when she rises and we greet the crisp morning dew and foraging birds.

Our breakfast is simple and sparse.

When she has to leave me, I go and find the man.

My second morning extends the day

It is my parachute into a peaceful garden of quiet meditation.

When bad memories are forgotten and I can believe at last in happy portents.

My second morning is the breathing emblem of my new life:  the time after.

I am mother to many, to broods of souls I have not seen for many years.

Sometimes I dream about their sighs and whistles, but it is easy to forget.

How they have fared I do not know;

But I have my divine mistress now.

Second mornings extend the dream

Before the long wait in the afternoon shadows,

While the man increases the pile of laundry and I lose myself in the scent of home.

A single morning would satisfy most waking creatures, but not me.

I have two souls to feed and two lives to put to rest.

The warm feel of cloth and safe harbor in filtered light

Chase away those awful sticks and old hunger pangs,

Oh! Those things I barely remember now and yet can never forget.

My second morning is my refuge

Today will vanquish yesterday

It just takes a little extra time.

My second morning brings my truest rest and allows me time to think

I’ve seen my mistress cry; I’ve seen my master cry; but I understand only fear.

Fight or run is all that I know:  Still their tears have moved me.

In the soft glow of home, my trembling is steadied.

Home! Home at last!

Second mornings calm the bad thoughts.

There is no reason to run and nowhere to run to.

Still I must be patient and wait, though I hate to be alone.

I do not mark time, I do not know how,

Except in broad fuzzy strokes that divide misery from joy.

But hear this!  The power of tongues has been given to me for this one day only:

“Happy Mother’s Day dear mistress!

Happy Father’s Day dear man!”

Yanky Doodle

Happy Cinco de Mayo!

Charge of the Cavalry at the Battle of Puebla

Unless I am about to be roundly refuted, Cinco de Mayo is not Mexican Independence Day, which rolls around again this September. Instead, this day celebrates the Battle of Puebla, at which the forces of General Ignacio Zaragoza routed the French army on May 5, 1862.

Heads up Spanish-phones (those people de habla Espanol), Cinco de Mayo falls on May 7 this year, unless you want to show up at work on Friday morning with a toilet seat wrapped around your neck.

Back to General Zaragoza.  In the mid-nineteenth century, Mexico was dead broke from two civil wars and Mexican President Benito Juarez stubbornly refused to pay his foreign debts. Britain, France, and Spain and didn't like this attitude and sent their naval collection agencies to Veracruz in 1861 to make him pay up. But six months later, Britain and Spain bailed and left the French on their own. Meanwhile, Abe Lincoln in the US of A was preoccupied with a civil war of his own, and not inclined to intervene in any mischief south-er than south. Napoleon III thought he'd just take a little advantage of that and landed a large force at Veracruz, and began a march toward Mexico City to make Mexico his own colonial conquest.

On their way they encountered trouble. His name was General Zaragoza. He hailed the French at Puebla, which is about 85 miles east of the capital. Although he was outnumbered two-to-one (some big fat liars say three-to-one), Zaragoza toppled the advancing French like Chuck Norris taking out Kermit the Muppet with a roundhouse kick. How did he do it? He told is rag-tag soldiers to visualize the French phalanx as piñatas filled with frogs. Then they just whacked the holy molé out of them. Or maybe that's not exactly the way it happened. Don't ask me. I'm not a military historian.

So, General Zaragoza was one badass dude.  The Battle of Puebla was a brilliant shot in the arm for the Mexicans. It didn't seem to do them a lot of good though, as the French eventually captured Mexico City, installed a new ruler and established the "Second Mexican Empire," which lasted the eons until 1867.

I just wanted you to know that this is what your margaritas and tacos are all about this weekend. Drink to the Mexican Patton. I'll bet you don't really give a rolling tortilla about all this history stuff, but there you go anyway. Happy Cinco  Siete de Mayo!

Yanky Doodle

My Breakfast is Splattered On My Tie

A Poem by M.W. Thomas

My breakfast is splattered on my tie,

My unwashed driveway smears my shoe.

I’m afraid I’ll miss the train again,

How fast my woes accrue!

There’s pebbles in my sock again,

There’s pollen in my hair;

Why is my office door ajar?

Who’s sitting in my chair?

“Your old computer does not comply

“With the ISP of the CIO.

“It must be brought IAW

“The IA E-I-E-I-O.”

I put his words in a bowl of broth

And microwaved on high;

Now my lunch is on my shirt

And I’ll have no other ‘till July.

My zipper’s stuck, my Hanes show through;

My boss just read my blog.

The questions lurk unanswered yet,

Like pirates hiding in the fog.

At Days’ End I’m well-adorned

With food, debris, and scorn;

But of this tritely true affair

A New Day shall be born.

My breakfast is splattered on my tie.

At least I made my train.

But I should have checked my calendar:

I was supposed to be on a plane!

Yanky Doodle

The Truth Is a Tortoise, The Lie Is a Hare

This weekend, Congress missed another deadline to pass a budget resolution. That is good thing we are told. Budgets are bad.

In a race between the Lie and the Truth, the Lie always gets a big head start. At the starting line, before the pistol was even fired, the Truth was never in question to begin with. For example, it seemed like it was only yesterday when it was a given that, as a democracy, it was if not a necessity, at least desirable, to govern ourselves. Then the Red, White, and Whiter People, who are self-described as far more patriotic and knowledgeable about our founding principles than us normal people, stood up and said, with the aid of a big “micro” phone, “No we don’t! Whatever made you think such nonsense?” 

The Lie is the Hare in the race. The Hare bragged how much faster he could shut the Gubberment down than us Tortoises could ever catch up to. “We have plenty of time to beat those Tortoise citizens,” he said as he sat down to take a crap on federal workers (and the suppliers and vendors, the restaurant owners that make their lunch, the transit workers that get them back and forth to work, the landlords that collect their rent money on their homes and apartments, the insurance companies that collect their premiums, ad nauseum.) You see, you don’t have to know how the economy works to know better than everyone else who does. You just have to be faster than the Tortoise Truth.

Now, with the Tortoise far behind, the Hare still had plenty of time to lie down and insult some Park Rangers, preferably black and, therefore, presumably lazy ones. Hares are story tellers and lies go together, like chapters in the White Nationalist’s book. And what’s with Black people saying the Confederate Flag symbolizes slavery and a racist past?  The meaning of the Confederate Flag is for White People to say!  So sit down and shut up mind your place Black folks.  If you don’t get it, that just proves that African Americans are the real racists here.

The Gubberment Tortoise plodded on, however slowly, what with the furloughs and all.  The Hare had a tea party, and then took a nap.

He had the sweetest, but perhaps most non sequitur, dream about Green Eggs and Ham.

The afternoon came, and the Hare woke up to a sun low in the west. “Well, better get on with it!” he said. He dashed to the finish line, where he was met by the Tortoise and the Bankers, who were patiently waiting his arrival.

“I am afraid we’re going to have to downgrade your credit,” said the bankers.  “It looks like you can’t meet your obligations.”

The Hare met his friends afterward at the Bunny Club. “What’s wrong with these people?” he cried in his drink. “Why does the whole world read the wrong economists, except us?”

Yanky Doodle

Parts of Speech in Five Minutes!

You are free at last of those nasty grammarians. Adverbs, prepositional phrases, dangling participles, ye are cast aside!  I have for you a very simple introduction to English grammar that is all you will ever need.  You can master it five minutes.  Okay, six minutes, because there is one complication that was specifically introduced by medieval logicians to complicate our lives for all eternity.  That thorn in the side is the conjunctive 'and' together with the exclusive or inclusive 'or'.  Unfortunately, the 'or' is usually enunciated without specification as to whether it is inclusive, or, in the case of bad spellers, or bad spell checkers, if it is meant to row your boat.  And 'nor'?  I won't even go there.  Here is the only grammar lesson you will ever need.

The Parts of Speech:

Verbs:  words that make things go

            Example:  Get thee hence, Satan.

Nouns:  words that make things stay

            Example:  There is a house in New Orleans.

Pronouns:  Anonymous nouns

            Example:  We shall overcome.

Adverbs:  words that make verbs go faster

            Example:  Swim speedily across the creek before the alligators eat you!

Adjectives: words that make nouns more colorful

            Example:  Bang, Bang, Maxwell’s silver hammer came down upon his head!

Articles:  superfluous words that start sentences or separate verbs from adjectives or nouns

            Example:  If music be the food of life, play on.

Conjunctions:  words that tell you whether you must consider both, one or the other exclusively, or simply either one.  The most dangerous words in any language.

            Example:  If an object is observed to move, and it is determined that it shall or shall not move; then if it shall move, let it be; or if it shall not move, applieth thou horse glue; or if an object is observed not to move, and it is determined that it shall or shall not move, then if it shall move, applieth thou whale blubber; or if it shall not move, smite it thou with a wooden mallet.

Prepositions:  words that get you from here to there

            Example:  Bang, Bang, Maxwell’s silver hammer came down upon his head!

Interjection:  words that cover all things WTF

            Example:  WTF?!