30 Million Slobs

Here’s a passionate post nobody will like. I’m touching the nerve. Pinching the central nerve of We the People of these United States. No, not the constitution, but booze.

Every year around the holidays (the eggnog/champagne sales season) newspapers print articles with titles like “More research supports moderate drinking” (San Francisco Chronicle, Dec. 25, 2010). It seems to be a pro-alcohol article, drinking is good for your health. We’ve read that before. But the evidence “suggests” that very moderate drinking “a beer after work a few times a week” “may” help people live longer… Yet farther down the page: the research is inconclusive, non-drinkers should not start, the risks associated with drinking alcohol are serious, binge-drinking is always bad (i.e. holiday drinking), tens of thousands of deaths, better ways to reduce stroke or heart attack risk, and pretty soon the article is talking about alcoholism, drunk driving, etc. And the last line: “some people can have one and feel great and that’s it, and for others, there’s no stopping.”

Alcohol is as addicting as heroin, yet not to the same percentage of people. That is, heroin is always addicting, alcohol, among social drinkers in the US, is addictive to about 10%. It seems to be a chemical problem rather than a character flaw. Two social drinkers, even twins let’s say, can drink the same amount for the same amount of time, and one becomes dependent and the other doesn’t. There’s no telling beforehand.

It’s interesting that the percentage changes in different cultures/races. Among Native Americans the percentage of social drinkers who become alcoholics is around 90%, they have no resistance, a couple beers a week is not possible. Among Italians the percentage is one of the lowest anywhere, about 1%, they begin drinking small amounts as children. I know no heavy drinkers here in Sicily, only foreigners. Most Italians that I know, in fact, have never been drunk in their lives. As soon as they get the first buzz, they stop.

In the United States, the number of persons addicted to alcohol, that is who cannot stop drinking at will, is estimated at 25-30 MILLION! An enormous public health crisis, if not the biggest. Do we hear about government intervention? Silence. Is anyone actively fighting this trend? Doesn’t seem like it. Why then is this the best kept secret in our country? Easy. Can you imagine the revenue from 30,000,000 slaves who have no choice but to buy hooch every day for the rest of their lives? It keeps the rich getting richer to pretend that only weak personalities abuse alcohol. Their fault, not ours.

So no one is perturbed by a constant bombardment of mind-controlling messages. On the sports-related ads, the slogan “Grab some Bud,” has become “Grab some Buds.” A subtle difference, but, hey man, I’ve got two hands. The first inning of baseball games is now called the Thirst Inning, implying that real fans down a brewski nine times during a game. Coors Field, Busch Stadium, Miller Park, Milwaukee Brewers—say no more. Then there’s football, the drunken rowdy sport. Parking lots of puke. They will not show mercy until you yell “Uncle Jack Daniels!”

The drug pushers will not be satisfied until they have all 300,000,000 Merry Cans under their control. World population's now at 7 billion, and the distillers are toasting their new captives. Bring 'em on, first beer's free. Do bartenders like out-of-control drinkers? Duh. And most of them, before closing up, everyone’s gone, all that free liquor….

Imagine booze prices doubling. A few social drinkers might slacken off a bit, maybe, but the addicts will pay any price for their fix. Double again. Why is this turning-straw-into-gold dream/nightmare even legal? Government makes the laws, government collects the taxes. Why are they considering legalizing pot in California? Encouraging self-destruction to fund instruction.

Sober up folks! Don’t let the scammers trick you into dependency. Don’t buy a life you don’t want. The fun wears off, the pain never washes away. You empty the bottle, it empties you. Ain't as harmless as they say. Be strong. Say that’s enough. Don't choose the booze ruse.

Not to mention alcohol and: rape, pregnancy, auto accidents, organ damage, crime, divorce, suicide, obesity, mental illness, domestic violence, etc., etc. Shhh, not to mention.

Oh, and, one more thing, please drink responsibly. All 30 million of you. Us.

Happy trials, Martin

Mutt: Mr. Humbug trying to ruin everybody’s fun again.

Jeff: We can get back at him though. Ready?

Mutt: Have at it, brother.

Jeff: A man walks into a bar and says, "Give me a beer before the problems start!" Again, the man orders a beer saying, "Give me a beer before the problems start!" The bartender looks confused. This goes on for a while, and after the fifth beer the bartender is totally confused and asks the man "When are you going to pay for these beers?" The man answers, "Now the problems start!"

Mutt: A baby seal walks into a bar. "What can I get you?" asks the bartender. "Anything but a Canadian Club," replies the seal.

Jeff: A doctor made it his regular habit to stop off at a bar for a hazelnut daiquiri on his way home. The bartender knew of his habit, and would always have the drink waiting at precisely 5:03 p.m. One afternoon, as the end of the work day approached, the bartender was dismayed to find that he was out of hazelnut extract. Thinking quickly, he threw together a daiquiri made with hickory nuts and set it on the bar. The doctor came in at his regular time, took one sip of the drink and exclaimed, "This isn't a hazelnut daiquiri!"

"No, I'm sorry," replied the bartender, "it's a hickory daiquiri, Doc."

Mutt: Well, that’s nothing. They arrested my bartender for taking liquor home. I believe the official charge was "emboozlement."

Jeff: Pedersen is reeling, swooning, down for the count, a few more grog jokes and he’s out cold, a-1, a-2 ...

Neal at the Eye-Doctor

Neal went to the eye-doctor, the oculist or optometrist, for an exam so he could get some new reading glasses. No big deal. Except that we’re talking about Neal.

When the receptionist-nurse lets you in, you sit in a square waiting room with too-low, too-soft sofa benches in black vinyl and wait your turn to have the various stages of your exam. She has a nice smile, but the magazines are trashy and the pictures on the wall are flat out ugly. There’s a door on the right into the restroom. The restroom is really a converted broom closet, and the door is flimsy with a sort of screen thing near the bottom.

Neal waited a long time. The nurse invited him in to get his eye pressure checked on a machine. She was cute and Neal had unclean thoughts. In addition, he could not keep his chin on the chinrest and keep his eye open while the machine blew air into it, so the exam had to be repeated twice. He returned to the waiting room with a grin while the nurse shook her head.

Then she put eye drops into his eyes to dilate the pupils. She wasted a drop or two when Neal unintentionally shut his eye. He wasn’t really used to this sort of thing. Then the really long wait started.

Neal couldn’t read and the light sort of hurt, so he tried to find something to think about, like a mental game or a story to keep him occupied. But he found nothing and just fidgeted for half an hour. Often he blew out air like he was exasperated. Like ‘I can’t stand this much longer.’ Nobody in the waiting room would talk to him.

Then Neal needed to take a leak bad. He had a little trouble with the door knob, but got inside okay. Ah, alone at last! At the bottom of the door there is a grate because there is no window in the restroom, just a ventilator fan which was broken. This situation was not entirely clear to Neal. What was clear was that he had to take a leak really bad and he was in a restroom.

The grate in the door and the lack of a noisy ventilator meant that the ten or so people in the waiting room five feet away could hear everything just as plainly as if they had been in the restroom with Neal. He unzipped; they snickered. He groaned as he readied for action; they looked at one another with smirks. He let loose; they chuckled like little kids in church. It wasn’t that funny, but the laughter was contagious and unstoppable.

The men, women, teens and children in the waiting room were all out of control. Neal heard the noise but had no idea that he was putting on a show from behind the door. Then the audience tried to contain itself so that he might be less embarrassed when he came out but the laughter came in ripples. It’s always hard to stop when the crowd’s tittering.

Neal finished his leak by blowing some nice long high-pitched wind, and the waiting room exploded. By this time the nurse and even the eye doctor had come out to see what was so funny. People were drying their eyes and containing themselves while Neal washed his hands, and then he emerged. As soon as they saw him they broke up again. Even the eye doctor laughed in squeaky hysterics.

But the worst was yet to come. Neal smiled at everyone and yearned to join in the fun. “What’s so funny?” he said. Everyone laughed even harder. And then a teenage girl saw that Neal had trailed a foot-long piece of toilet paper stuck to his boot. She pointed and the people started falling off their chairs holding their sides. Neal saw that they were laughing now at his toilet paper train, so he pulled it off and held it up. He laughed too. Nobody could stop. They had to wait an extra hour for everyone’s eyes to normalize in order to continue the examinations. Some had to go home and come back another day. One older woman said she laughed so hard she almost wet herself, but she would not use that sound-amplifying toilet if it was the last one on earth.

Neal, once again, had provided a valuable public service.

Happy trials, Martin

Mutt: Very early one morning, two birds were sitting at the side of a large puddle of oil. They saw a worm on the other side.

Jeff: I’m not feeling too good myself.

Mutt: So one flies over and the other one swims through. The question is: which one gets to the worm first?

Jeff: Oh, that would be … the one who swam, of course, because "da oily boid gets da woim."

Mutt: Okay, but did you hear about the woman driving her car slowly and knitting at the same time?

Jeff: Ugh.

Mutt: A man came up from behind and he wanted to pass her. He opened the window and yelled, "Pull over! Pull over!"

Jeff: Ugh.

Mutt: The lady yelled back, "No, it's a sweater!"

Jeff: My turn. One day a man went to see Mozart's tomb. When he got there, the tomb was open and Mozart was sitting there tearing up pieces of paper. The man asked: "What are you doing with all of your great works of music?"

Mutt: And …?

Jeff: You can’t guess?

Mutt: Um, no.

Jeff: Mozart replied, "I'm decomposing!"

Mutt: Ha ha ha ha … I don’t get it.

Two San Francisco Heroes

One from Oakland, one from Stockton.

In 1975, I was twenty, coming back from Africa, on the last link, LA-SF, of a long trip, 25 flights in all, and I sat next to a small Asian woman who was friendly but tense. She told me that she was a professor of English at UC Berkeley. I responded that my parents had both gone there, that I had wanted to but was not accepted. Too white, too male, we both agreed. She grew up in Stockton where I was living, where my dad was from.

We drank our juice and rode out the short flight. When landing was announced, this nice woman leaned close and asked if she could please hold my hand during landing because she was terrified of flying. Of course. She gripped my hand and arm hard and pressed back in her seat until we were safely on the ground.

About a year later, I saw her picture in the newspaper. Her first book had just come out, The Woman Warrior. Her name is Maxine Hong Kingston, one of the most famous and best California writers. From Stockton like Dad.

This morning her picture was on the front page of the newspaper again. Her new book is called, I Love a Broad Margin to My Life.

When I was a kid we didn’t have a television until I was about five or six. (Thank you parents) When we did get a tiny box, my mother would watch and mimic Jack LaLanne, the exercise guy from right there in San Francisco. Later my dad would also change his schedule so he could lie on the floor and stretch with Jack. Later I also did the push-ups and sit-ups that President Kennedy suggested along with Jack. Everybody loved to exercise with Jack LaLanne.

His jumpsuit was a little weird, but his muscles and his exploits like swimming to Alcatraz and back in chains, convinced us that by following his method you could live better and longer. A bit of skepticism remained, however. I said, “what if he spent his whole life exercising and eating well and then dies anyway.” Jack LaLanne died yesterday at age 96.

He exercised till the end, two hours a day in the gym and one hour in the pool. He followed his natural diet all the way to its natural conclusion. Now, wouldn’t you like to live healthy and happy, with your brain fresh and body fully functional (his wife was always smiling) until almost 100 years of age? Never too late to start, Jack would say.

I’d like to go on and on about my hero, but I can’t be late for my Pilates lesson.

Happy trials, Martin

Mutt: Why is it that if someone tells you that there are a billion stars in the universe, you will believe them; but if they tell you a wall has wet paint, you will have to touch it to be sure?

Jeff: Snow White took photos of the Dwarfs and their surroundings. She took the film to be developed. After a week or so she went to get the finished photos. The clerk said the photos were not back from the processor. Needless to say, she was disappointed and started to cry. The clerk, trying to console her, said, "Don't worry. Someday your prints will come."

Mutt: If a pig loses its voice, is it disgruntled?

Jeff: Sometimes when I'm bored, I make spaghetti just to pasta time away.

Mutt: How do crazy people go through the forest?

Jeff: They take the psycho path.

Mutt: What do you get from a pampered cow?

Jeff: Don’t tell me.

Mutt: Spoiled milk.

Jeff: What do you call a boomerang that doesn't work?

Mutt: I dunno.

Jeff: A stick.

Come Back, Shame, Come Back!

Some things you must always be unable to bear. Some things you must never stop refusing to bear. Injustice and outrage and dishonor and shame. No matter how young you are or how old you have got. Not for kudos and not for cash. Your picture in the paper nor money in the bank, neither. Just refuse to bear them.  William Faulkner

Used to be, you’d get caught with your hand in the cookie jar and lie, cry, sigh, ask why, deny, something. Out of shame. We shaved our fingers in gest-ure. Now the crooked politicos and businesspersons, cheating students and lovers go through a revolving door from success to disgrace and back to success. Shouldn’t [place name here] Martha Stewart be hiding her face in shame, never again leaving her estate? Guess not. Celebrities busted (and we chuckle), plug-in families with interchangeable pieces, sex with for-sale strangers—hey, that’s show biz!

I know a couple people who have been arrested, convicted, jailed, released, and I can’t get over how they go right back to their daily lives as if nothing had happened. The whole business slides off like fried eggs on Teflon. What’s changed? Maybe I didn’t see clearly because I was young, but it wasn’t like this in the past. People cried, repented, begged forgiveness, paid penance. At least they mounted an improbable defense like sweaty “I am not a crook” Nixon. Like Academy Award evangelist, Jimmy Swaggart. Clinton, Letterman, the Pope (sort of).

Nowadays we seem to be imitating the psychopaths who rule our newswaves and tvwaves. “I shot all those people. Yeah, so?” “I stole all that money. Yeah, so?” “I betrayed your trust. Yeah, so?” We’ve developed tortoise shells of indifference to our own guilt. Or become very good at hiding it.

Remember the nightmare where you’re onstage and realize you’re naked? That’s not a nightmare anymore, it’s a dream come true. It’s the aspiration of the younger generation, the big bang, the reality joke. And I’m not talking about shame for nakedness, like Father Serra on his first visit to California:

“I found myself in front of twelve of them, and I saw something I could not believe. It was this: they were entirely naked as Adam in the garden, before sin. We spoke a long time with them, and not for one moment, while they saw us clothed, could you notice the least sign of shame in them.”

And I’m not talking about shaming others, which shouldn’t work, or the worst of all, when society makes people feel shame towards themselves. I heard an Indian say that the white schools made him ashamed of being an Indian. That’s some education! Gays ashamed. The overweight. Teenagers with poor complexions. The illiterate. Sick people. Unwed mothers. No one should feel ashamed for who they are, but only for what they do. Isn’t that right? Isn’t that what we were taught?

I don’t want anyone to feel misplaced or exaggerated shame (the guilt trip goes nowhere), but some wouldn’t hurt. Shame, when it’s working, makes you wish you could dig a hole and jump in; extreme humiliation, remorse, embarrassment. And for good reason. Guilt is realizing you have done wrong. Condemnation is being sentenced for doing wrong. But shame is self-sentencing, the real punishment, the feeling that you’re unworthy, depraved, rotten. Shame should be a feeling so bad and so strong that we avoid it like an electric fence. Change your plans, go around the obstacle, anything, but don’t touch that wire!

You don’t need a church to tell you what’s wrong, what to avoid. Or schools, parents, the social order. You know. It’s not so flexible. You know. Before the ten commandments, they already knew. All the rest is excuses and justifications. Our punishment-reward system is built-in. We know the right thing, though we don't always do it. But when cheaters prosper, when crime pays, when exhibitionism is rewarded and when nobody seems scandalized or ashamed of anything anymore, the non-cheaters feel, well, stupid. Is honesty stupid today? Modesty passé?

This fat ugly old guy who works at my university, in the registrar’s office was trading, um, blow jobs for straight A’s. Despicable, right? So he gets caught, goes to jail, goes to trial, gets convicted, does a few weeks time, gets out, gets his six-month notice for early retirement ... and comes back to work, and spends his days sitting in the corridor, that we all pass through, yucking it up with students and profs alike, teasing passersby.  I mean, has the world gone insane or what?

Not to mention Berlusconi, and I prefer not to mention Berlusconi. This post is not about him. I’m sick of his raunchy sex life. Please leave us alone, go crawl in your bunker in the Bahamas. You should be ashamed. And everyone who voted you, and everyone who defends you, and everyone who is not embarrassed by and for you. Enough already.

Happy trials, Martin

Mutt: The Tate Watch Co., established in the 1880s in Massachusetts …

Jeff: Oh goody, I love history.

Mutt: The Tate Watch Co., established in the 1880s in Massachusetts, wanted to expand their line of products. They decided on compasses, reasoning that the pioneers traveling west would all need one. Their watches were of excellent quality, not so their compasses. Pioneers often ended up in Canada or Mexico. Hence the expression, "He who has a Tate is lost."

Jeff: I used to love history.

Mutt: Your turn.

Jeff: A group of chess enthusiasts checked into a hotel and were standing around in the lobby discussing their recent tournament victories. About an hour later, the manager comes out of his office and asks them to disperse. "But why?" they asked as they moved along. "Because," said the manager, "I can't stand chess nuts boasting in an open foyer."

Mutt: Every one a winner. How about the guy who goes to the psychiatrist and says, “Doc, I can't stop singing 'The green, green grass of home.'”

Jeff: And the doctor says, “That sounds like the Tom Jones syndrome.”

Mutt: And the guy says, “Is it common?”

Jeff: And the doc says … (All together now)

Mutt and Jeff: “It's not unusual!”

Addedendumum

The management of Sunset Intersection, and the special quiz committee, wish to thank all those who took part in the first and best of the many-more-where-that-came-from S.I. quizzes. There were some good and witty guesses, but all wrong. I will be keeping the first prize Ferrari.

In Italian there’s a word that has no English equivalent: coetanee. Other people your own age. A brotherhood/sisterhood begun at the same time many years ago. Your kinfolks, even when you’ve never met and never will. I like that.

The next big quiz will involve a chicken and an egg in a rumpled bed smoking cigarettes, and the question will be: Which came first?

Stay tuned for that and much more.

Happy trials, Martin

Mutt: Two cannibals are eating a clown. One says to the other:

Jeff: I know, I know,  "Does this taste funny to you?"

Mutt: A plateau is a high form of flattery.

Jeff: Alarms:

Mutt: Huh?

Jeff: What an octopus is.

Mutt: Oowah.

Jeff: Did you know that William Tell and his family were avid bowlers?

Mutt: William Tell? No.

Jeff: It's true. But, unfortunately, a fire destroyed all the league records.

Mutt: That’s terrible.

Jeff: Yes. So we'll never know for whom the Tells bowled.

ANSWER

True terror is to wake up one morning and discover that your high school class is running the country.  Kurt Vonnegut

That’s it, the correct answer: All those people on the A-list, the B-list and the Italian list are exactly my own age, give or take a few months. They didn’t go to my high school, but they would have graduated in the same year or the next. We all saw the same I Love Lucy reruns growing up. We were all in the same hospital nursery in side-by-side cribs.

I don’t know if that’s terror or community, but it strikes me. If I ever meet someone on that list, I’ll have a conversation starter. It makes me feel like I should be on a list of people my age doing something. Doing what? Something.

Maybe the real list contains a lot of real people whose lives and work are much more important than the celebrities, athletes and artists on my list of famous names. Okay then, let’s start making a list of the ordinary people my age (or your age) doing ordinary things in their mid-life. Keeping themselves together and keeping together those they care about in times of terror when we all feel like suicide bombers about to explode. What can keep us whole, sane, at peace?

If you go back a couple posts you can find one answer: each other. And I say that as one with very few friends, a small family and some general doubts about the attractiveness of my fellow humans. But, as any alien invasion film will show, we grasp onto one another, to members of our own species, in times of crisis. The problem is that this is a constant time of crisis. Yeah, but People, we made this mad, mad world of fear, we can unmake it. [Group hug here.]

Happy trials, Martin

Mutt: What would you get if you crossed a donkey with an owl?

Jeff: A smart ass who knows it all.

Mutt: Like you. So what did the coach say to his losing team of snakes?

Jeff: You can't venom all.

Mutt: What would you get if you crossed a pigeon and a general?

Jeff: I’m on strike.

Mutt: A military coo.

Jeff: Alright, what did the Buddhist say to the hot dog vendor?

Mutt: Um, make me one with everything.

Jeff: That’s right. Now I’ve got a query for you.

Mutt: You always have been queery.

Jeff: If I hated my house and fell in love with my office building, would that be an edifice complex?

Mutt: Nix, Jeff, Nix.

Il primo grande Sunset Intersection Whiz-a Bang-a quiz! Un indizio per i lettori di lingua italiana.

La domanda è: cosa hanno in comune queste persone?

Diego Abatantuono

Alessandro Altobelli

Massimo Bubola

Novella Calligaris

Sergio Caputo

Milly Carlucci

Pier Ferdinando Casini

Bruno Conti

Pino Daniele

Teresa De Sio

Zucchero Fornaciari

Angela Finocchiaro

Anna Galiena

Gene Gnocchi

Ezio Greggio

Riccardo Illy

Gad Lerner

Fiorella Mannoia

Roberto Maroni

Daniele Masala

Ornella Muti

Francesco Nuti

Donatella Rettore

Francesco Rutelli

Marco Tardelli

Ricky Tognazzi

Livia Turco

Walter Veltroni

Donatella Versace




Buon quiz, Martin

The First Big Bang-Whiz Sunset Intersection Quiz HINT!

Isabelle Adjani

Francisco X. Alarcon

Dodi Al Fayed

Dave Alvin

Melody Anderson

Adam Ant

Scott Bakula

Ellen Barkin

James Belushi

Chris Berman

Tim Berners-Lee

Sandra Bernhard

Mary Black

Bruce Bochy

Joseph Bottoms

Sam Bottoms

Lorraine Bracco

Bob Brenly

Christie Brinkley

Simon J. Bronner

Bob Brozman

Chris Cain

Jane Campion

Caleb Carr

Robert Carradine

Gary Carter

Dana Carvey

Rosanne Cash

Tommy Castro

Mark David Chapman

Sandra Cisneros

Jack Clark

Willem Dafoe

Jeff Daniels

Judy Davis

Andre Dawson

Al Di Meola

Griffin Dunne

Steve Earle

Dennis Eckersley

Tommy Emmanuel

Louise Erdrich

Chris Evert

Miguel Ferrer

Mark Fidrych

Steve Forbert

William Forsythe

Vitas Gerulaitus

Kelsey Grammer

Paul Greengrass

David Allen Grier

David Grossman

Nina Hagen

Julie Hagerty

Dennis Haysbert

Patty Hearst

Margaux Hemingway

David Hidalgo

Tish Hinojosa

Bruce Hornsby

Mike Huckabee

Billy Idol

Iman

Kazuo Ishiguro

Jermaine Jackson

Joe Jackson

Penn Jillette

Howard Jones

Rickie Lee Jones

David Keith

Robert F. Kennedy, Jr.

Barbara Kingsolver

Earl Klugh

Jeff Koons

Olga Korbut

Jon Krakauer

Stieg Larsson

Ang Lee

Johnnie LeMaster

Jeffery Leonard

Mara Liasson

Ray Liotta

Reba McEntire

Peter MacNicol

Moses Malone

Howie Mandel

Pat Metheny

Anthony Minghella

Bruce Molsky

John Mooney

Michael Moore

Edwin Moses

Kate Mulgrew

Bill Mumy

Terry Nichols

Greg Norman

Chris Noth

Bill Nye

Tim O’Brien

Ken Olin

Lena Olin

Jay Osmond

Ray Parker Jr.

Tim Parks

Will Patton

Bill Paxton

Walter Payton

Steven Pinker

Michel Platini

Freddie Prinze

Luis Pujols

Linda Purl

Dennis Quaid

Willie Randolph

Stan Ridgway

John Roberts

Tanya Roberts

Al Roker

David Lee Roth

Rene Russo

Ken Salazar

Ricky Scaggs

Richard Schiff

Peter Scolari

Connie Sellecca

Al Sharpton

Maria Shriver

Ozzie Smith

Jimmy Smits

Sonia Sotomayor

Howard Stern

Rick Steves

Kathleen Turner

Luis Alberto Urrea

Eddie Van Halen

Greta Van Susteren

Stevie Ray Vaughan

Bob Weinstein

Juan Williams

Terry Tempest Williams

Cassandra Wilson

Nancy Wilson

Debra Winger

Steven Wright

Yanni

Robin Yount

Chow Yun-fat

Djamel Zidane

Adrian Zmed

Axel Zwingenberger


Again Happy Guessing, Martin

The First Big Whiz-Bang Sunset Intersection Quiz!

Here's the question: What do the following people have in common? (Please only one guess per customer)

Rowan Atkinson

James Cameron

Jackie Chan

Hugo Chavez

Joel Coen

Elvis Costello

Kevin Costner

Bill Gates

Whoopi Goldberg

John Grisham

Matt Groening

Ron Howard

Steve Jobs

Annie Lennox

Yo-Yo Ma

Angela Merkel

Condoleezza Rice

Nicolas Sarkozy

Jerry Seinfeld

Gary Sinise

Billy Bob Thornton

John Travolta

Denzel Washington

Bruce Willis

Oprah Winfrey

Happy guessing, Martin




Mutt: We got demoted after the world's longest pun, didn't we?
Jeff: It's a good thing tar and feathers are out of fashion.
Mutt: We have ways, however, of getting our revenge. Watch this: Old sculptors never die, they just lose their marbles.
Jeff: So you're into torture now: Old investors never die, they just roll over.
Mutt: Old owls never die, they just don't give a hoot.
Jeff: Old tanners never die, they just go into hiding.
Mutt: Old chauffeurs never die, they just lose their drive.
Jeff: Old archers never die, they just bow and quiver.
Mutt: Old quarterbacks never die, they just pass away.
Jeff: Old schools never die, they just lose their principals.
Mutt: Old soldiers never die. Young ones do.

Jeff: Oowah! You referring to Afghanistan? Nine years on and no end in sight. Oowah!

World's Longest Pun

Mutt: Hey Jeff, you ever hear the one about the Fu Bird?

Jeff: Would I want to?

Mutt: Oh, it's a great story, if a little long. You might say a tad long-ish, just a tad. But worth it. Definitely. Really.

Jeff: I've got a dentist appointment this afternoon, but I'm sure this will be more painful.

Mutt: A number of years ago there lived on Long Island, a wealthy business man who had made and lost a couple of fortunes on Wall Street in his short 29 years. At the time of this story, the business man was enjoying his third fortune and had taken a year off from work. His mother had recently died, and one day while he was exploring some old chests in the attic of the huge farmhouse in the Adirondac Mountains near Lake Placid, he came across a map that was obviously very, very old. Something striking about the map immediately caught his attention. After studying the map for several days, the business man became convinced that this was indeed an authentic map to the fabled Seven Cities of Cybolla. Persistent stories handed down from generation to generation told of a fabulously wealthy circle of seven cities whose exact location had been lost somewhere in the deep, dark jungles of Africa and had never been found. These stories also told of fabulous stores of jewels, gold and priceless artifacts that still existed for anyone who could locate the seven cities.

The business man was determined to be the first to find the Seven Cities of Cybolla and to claim its treasures, so he confided in two of his closest friends and persuaded them to join him. Together, they sailed to Africa, rode overland for four days and found themselves in the small town of Aba on the border of the deepest jungles in what was once the Belgian Congo. There they organized a safari of 25 native porters carrying food, clothing, supplies and large, empty boxes with which to carry the treasures out of the jungle.

Early the next morning, a line of native porters led by the three Americans headed out into the jungles. Travel was slow in the intense heat and humidity of the tropical forest, particularly as they had to literally cut every inch of their path by swinging huge machetes to clear away the vines and undergrowth. For four days of grueling travel, following the markings on the old map, the safari made its way across swollen rivers, through mosquito infested swamps and past many alligator nests. At high noon on the fifth day, while the safari was resting from its exhausting work, the group suddenly heard a terrifying sound off in the distance in the direction in which the safari was headed. "Fu.... Fu.... Fu..." was the sound.

The members of the safari looked at each other, unsure what was making such a shrieking, ungodly sound. All of a sudden, there appeared in the air directly over the group, a huge, black bird, screaming at a deafening level, "FU!!! FU!!! FU!!!" In one swoop, the Fu bird took aim at the first of the three Americans at the head of the safari, dove headlong through the air at near supersonic speed in a dive bombing run so well executed that any military pilot would have been impressed, and completely covered the man with crap. It was a terrible, vile smelling mess! The poor man quickly ran to the edge of the nearby stream, dove in and immediately began to scrub away at the disgusting crap. After an hour of hard work, the majority of the stuff had been washed away and the man felt he was ready to move on again. That night, while everyone else was sleeping, the man died.

The rest of the expedition were truly saddened by the death of the man, but the two remaining American organizers decided that they should continue on in spite of this tragedy. They were sure their friend would have wanted it that way and besides, now the loot only had to be split two ways. Before long they were on their way, hacking their path through the jungle after they had properly buried the body of their friend. Unfortunately they had not gone too far when once again they heard the sounds of the approaching Fu bird: "Fu.... Fu.... Fu...." The safari members began to run for cover but it was too late and the huge Fu bird suddenly appeared at the head of the line of running people, took aim at the American in the lead, and dumped a tremendous load which covered the man from head to foot. As the poor man raced to the stream to wash the terrible mess off, he stopped, remembering that the first man had died after he had cleaned away the very same kind of crap. Perhaps, he reasoned, there was a connection between washing and his unfortunate death. With that, the second man returned to the group, determined not to take a bath as long as he could stand it. That determination lasted for nearly a week when finally it became so unbearable in appearance, smell and discomfort that the man finally gave in. He went to the stream and cleaned the mess from his body. Later that night, while everyone else was sleeping, he died.

The business man who had initiated the safari was very sad because he had lost two of his closest friends, but decided to continue because he knew his friends would have wanted him to. Besides, the loot would be his alone with no need to share the treasures with anyone else! The next morning he climbed to the top of a hill and to his amazement, there at his feet, lay a lush, tropical valley and the Seven Cities of Cybolla glittering in all their glory. The business man rushed down the hill, along the banks of the river and made his way to the entrance of the cities. As he ran deliriously through the streets of the cities he yelled "They are mine!! It's all mine!!!" He yelled so loudly and was so overwhelmed at his unbelievable discovery that he didn't hear the approaching Fu bird. The gigantic bird took aim at the business man and as accurately as in his first two attacks, smartly deposited the largest load of crap yet on the man running through the empty streets. The stunned man stopped and was about to rush to the stream to wash the mess off when he realized that it would be certain and immediate death in the night to do so. He sadly realized that he had discovered the world's richest treasures, but had also been given the cross of isolation at the same time.

To make a very long story somewhat shorter, the business man did claim all the wealth of the Seven Cities of Cybolla, returned to America and lived a very long life in all the luxury his unmeasured wealth could afford. However, he enjoyed his wealth as a lonely, isolated man. His wife, his children, his family and his friends disowned him because of the absolutely disgusting appearance and stench of the man because of the crap. They did not understand why he refused to wash the mess and clean himself.

After many, lonely years, he neared death. Realizing he had only a few more days to live, the business man decided he wanted more than anything else to see his wife and children again. Carefully, he went into the shower with steel wool cleaning pads and a chisel. It took him most of the day, but he was clean and ready to greet his family at the door when they arrived for dinner. He spent a wonderful evening sharing with the family, catching up on all the news and local gossip, and finally they left.

Later that night, the business man died...

Now I would not have imposed upon your time and attention without having a purpose. I am very sensitive to the value of time and am determined to make the time you have given to this story worthwhile. My goal in telling this story is to draw from the experience of this heroic and fabulously wealthy man and learn so that we might become better and more mature individuals. I believe the true message of this story is, in fact, a moral with deep meaning for us all:

"If the Fu shits, wear it."

Jeff: Disgusting.
Mutt: Yeah. Good though. You're groaning today, but you'll be telling it tomorrow.


[Pedersen's note: if you know a longer pun, please send it in and win a prize.]


Happy trials, Martin

Neal Gets Hot

After a particularly brutal exam session, in which a large percentage of students failed, Neal thought he could justify/explain his correcting/judging work at the first lesson of the new semester.

He studied the problem in his mind for many days. The lightbulb finally went on: Eureka. Heat. We examiners are like weather-persons telling the viewers what the situation is according to our information. Passing along data. We don’t intervene or influence the weather, we just report it. Storms ain't our fault.

Your level of English knowledge and skill, above or below the sufficiency for the level of exam you took? If you took a lower level exam it might be above, but now it is below the more advanced level. It works. The temperature metaphor.

All this is a reaction to the classic, “you failed me/I passed” syndrome. The students blame us for their own deficiencies. Natural enough, but if a learner must take responsibility for her/his own learning, the blame game must be overcome.

So Neal was preaching this little sermon at the opening of the new lessons, and turned his back to draw an illustration on the board. “Your marks on exams, written and oral, are like the temperature on a thermometer...”

“Look. Here’s a thermometer. I’m no artist, as you can tell. Here’s a thermometer with the mercury in the bulb at the bottom, and here are the temperature markings. Here’s freezing: 32 degrees Fahrenheit or 0 degrees Celsius.”

Neal thought it was going pretty well. There was twittering in the background. Probably the students were impressed by his knowledge of science.

“Now if the temperature (or your exam mark) is here, it’s freezing. Insufficient. If it’s here, it’s cold but acceptable. What you need to try to do is continually improve. If you’re here today, you could be here tomorrow (or next year rather). It’s only a question of hard work. Give it your all and the temperature will rise.”

Neal heard smirking noises of presumed agreement as he drew the mercury rising in the tall thermometer up the blackboard. He chalked in the ascent up to the top—boiling point. Hot hot hot! A+++

Then the room broke out in hilarity and roared with free laughter. Neal thought that what he was saying was not that funny, that the disappointed F-students should be a little more serious. Something told him that they were laughing at him, but he couldn’t fathom why.

Neal turned to the crowd, now that he had become their favorite comedian. He turned back to the board. What was it? His fly was not open (he checked). Was his thermometer metaphor really so clever?

“Oh my God, I’ve drawn a giant boner!” Neal exclaimed. And brought down the house.

Happy trials, Martin

Mutt: A white lie is aversion of the truth.

Jeff: What inspired that thought?

Mutt: What thought?

Jeff: What happened when the cow tried to jump over a barbed wire fence?

Mutt: Uhhhh ...

Jeff: Udder destruction.

Mutt: When I was in the supermarket I saw a man and a woman wrapped in a barcode. I asked, "Are you two an item?"

Jeff: What do you call a fish with no eyes?

Mutt: Uhhhh ...

Jeff: A fsh.

Mutt: I fired my masseuse today. She just rubbed me the wrong way.
Jeff: I tried working in a bakery, but was told I wasn't "bread" for it.
Mutt: What did the toy store sign say?

Jeff: Uhhhh ...

Mutt: Don't feed the animals. They are already stuffed.
Jeff: A horse walks into a bar. The bartender says, "So, why the long face?"
Mutt: What do you call a baby monkey? A chimp off the old block.
Jeff: Was there a year-end sale on second-hand jokes?

Mutt: Uhhhh ...