My Baseball Scouting Reports

By: Ralph Gamelli

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Age 8

Prospect has effortlessly made the transition from wiffle ball to tennis ball. Unfortunately, he refuses to give up the plastic bat he’s had since age four and which he still affectionately refers to as “Mr. Bluey.” His backyard fielding and hitting are coming along nicely, but at this point it’s his control of the ball that stands out, particularly when his little brother runs to first base and the prospect pretends that hitting the runner in the head is an accident instead of payback for a stolen Pop Tart.

Age 10

Prospect and his companions have moved their game to a small field down the street, the use of real bats and baseballs having led to an unfortunate incident involving prospect’s kitchen window and many weeks of lost allowance. His talent continues to develop, and he leads his fellow players in home runs, doubles and coolness of headfirst slides. Hopefully, this is due to superior athletic skill and not the fact that he tends to play with kids who are at least a year or two younger than him.

Age 11

Prospect has signed up for Little League, where his batting average and power numbers have taken a sharp dip due to his obvious fear of getting hit by the ball (which is not pitched in the slow, underhand manner to which he’s grown accustomed). Can only be viewed as a setback.

Age 11

Prospect has quit Little League halfway through the season and is back playing with the younger neighborhood kids. Batting average soars.

Age 12

Vowing that he will one day play in the big leagues, prospect has committed himself to a daily training program of video game baseball, which he has quickly come to prefer to the real thing. If physical skills ever approach video game skills, we have a potential superstar on our hands.

Age 13

In an attempt to get prospect away from the TV, prospect’s parents have given him a pitch-back net, and he can be seen playing catch with himself for entire afternoons. While such devotion will be beneficial in a future major leaguer, he’s currently gaining a reputation as the creepily obsessed baseball kid, and fewer neighbors ask him to mow their lawns.

Age 14

After what must be a million throws, the pitch-back net has at last broken. Worried parents clearly elated.

Age 16

Prospect went 3-for-3 in his gym class softball game, prompting a member of the baseball team to casually mention that he should try out for this year’s team. Hard to tell if he was being serious. (Prospect’s three hits were all bloop singles, making sarcasm a distinct possibility.) In any case, prospect seemed happy with himself, even if he didn’t actually try out for the team, preferring to watch reruns of Knight Rider instead.

Age 21

Prospect spotted at a neighborhood batting cage in a misguided attempt to impress his date. Even though the mechanism allows no potential for error, unfailingly delivering each 60-mph pitch over the plate, prospect is still noticeably afraid of getting hit. Continued scouting not recommended. Zero probability of him ever reaching the bigs, and only slightly better chance of him reaching first base metaphorically.

Age 35

Update: under pressure from work friends, this long-forgotten prospect has joined a softball league, where the pitches are slow and underhand again. He’s quickly developed into the seventh-best player on his team. If he continues at this rate, chances are good he could become a player of note in the softball league, or at least a player of note on his own team.

Age 35

Prospect has been kicked off his team for hitting an opponent in the head as that player ran to first. Victim apparently took a can of beer from prospect’s team bench and prospect felt retaliation was needed. He now spends much of his free time on a strip of grass behind his apartment building, playing with a vintage pitch-back net purchased from eBay. He’s gaining a reputation as the creepily-obsessed baseball guy from 3A, and fewer neighbors talk to him on the elevator.

A Potential Investor Speaks Up After Kurt Russell’s Character Finishes His “Wonders of the World” Miniature Golf Course Proposal in the Movie Overboard

By: Greg Boose

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Mr. Proffitt, if you don’t mind, I would like to stop you right there and interject. Now, to begin, and I believe I speak for all of us here tonight sitting around this very long picnic-like table in this drafty back room, we’d like to thank you and your colleague for your time this evening. I never thought I would set foot in a restaurant named something like Crabs ‘R’ Us, a place with sawdust on the floor and no mirror in the Men’s room, but I also never thought that my partner, Mr. Robinson down there at the end, would stretch the truth to get me to leave my family up in Portland this morning for a pestilent hell-hole like Elk Cove. There are firsts for everything, I suppose. And Mr. Robinson, you sir, are in for quite the car ride home.

But I’ve sat back quietly and listened to your proposal; I’ve watched you down Coors Light after Coors Light after, well, Coors Light while your meaty colleague Mr. Pratt here continually spilled his beer on my Ralph Lauren shirtsleeves, and I’ve carefully examined your wife’s charming sketches on the flimsy and beer-soaked paper that have made their way down to me. By the way, Mr. Proffitt, I would suggest that you procure some foam board or some nice Japanese paper the next time you decide to give a presentation that includes concept specs.

My answer, unfortunately, is no. I will not be investing in your “Wonders of the World” miniature golf course for the following reasons:

First, I must point out that these sketches don’t really give me an idea of what your miniature golf course will look like. Take this one, for example. This is just a poorly drawn pyramid and some palm trees. I know what a pyramid looks like; I was in both Giza and Saqqara just this last October. You simply could have just said the word “pyramid” and I’d be able to conjure up a pretty good image. Where does the ball go in, Mr. Proffitt? This drawing, like many of the others, doesn’t show the architecture of the actual golf course. I don’t see any greens, holes, or families of four smiling with putters sticking out of their hands. No aerial view. No real color supplements in these. Gibberish and gobbledygook, honestly. I will say, though, that the drawing of the Statue of Liberty holding a golf ball instead of the torch is very cute. Please tell your wife I said so. By the way, when did you get married? Mr. Robinson said you were a bachelor carpenter.

Second, are you going to tell me that the folks of Elk Cove know what the St. Basil’s Cathedral is? Or The Parthenon, even? I know you want to, as you say, “Bring some of the outer world into Elk Cove,” but I’ve had a chance to see the town, and frankly I might have decided upon a brewery or mustache theme. Or perhaps you could have picked some more well-known monuments for the community – some value-added resources based on your demographic – and maybe recreate Babe the Blue Ox or the largest ball of dirt.

And finally, I should tell you that I don’t make a habit of going into business with persons who wear jeans, checkered flannel shirts and knitted, square-ended ties to an investment meeting. Look around; everyone else besides your partner, who now has a napkin sticking out of his sweat-soaked collar, is wearing a suit and a starched shirt. With real ties, Mr. Proffitt. Made of silk. I know it’s not my place, but maybe you can ask that new wife of yours go shopping for you. This is all just something to keep in mind for the next time you decide to pitch this idea to a table of outside investors. And you might also want to think about getting yourself a haircut, Mr. Proffitt. You’re asking me for money, not for a bowling match.

Now, I overheard you ask that gentleman if he’s ever been nervous in his life, and I would assume that he has. He’s sitting next to a rambling mountain man who wants to build a miniature golf course without a plan that captures a decent profit margin, after all. Plus, he’s stuck in some tiny Oregon town whose claim to fame at the moment is that a strange woman has recently been found bobbing in the harbor with amnesia.

I think I’ve said enough on this subject, Mr. Proffitt. I trust that you will be picking up the bill for these small crab claws that were dropped on my plate and for the delicious tap water? Thank you very much.

Mariposa Barbie Welcomes Fair Trade Doll To Fairytopia

By: John Frank

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MARIPOSA BARBIE: Hi! You’re new! You came from Hannah’s aunt Jane who runs the food co-op! What’s your name?! I’m Mariposa Barbie and this is Hannah’s room! I call it Fairytopia!

FAIR TRADE DOLL: I don’t have a name. I am a Fair Trade Doll, handcrafted by members of Kutch Mahila Vikas Sanghathan, a collective of over 4,000 rural women living in the western Indian state of Gujarat, for whom the proceeds from my sale have provided 25 cups of food.

MARIPOSA BARBIE: Yummy! I’m made by Mattel and helped boost Q2 profits 15% globally! Did you know that through Global Barbie(TM) you can view my website in several different foreign languages?

FAIR TRADE DOLL: Gujarati?

MARIPOSA BARBIE: No, but did you know that MARIPOSA is Spanish for BUTTERFLY? It appeals to the emerging Latino market segment in the U.S. as well as non-Hispanic children ages 6-12 who’ve outgrown Dora the Explorer!

FAIR TRADE DOLL: I had noticed that you are wearing butterfly wings. They are very colorful.

MARIPOSA BARBIE: I like what you are wearing, too! Your smock looks very comfortable! But you should keep away from Hannah’s brother Gavin so he doesn’t put it on SpongeBob! You two have kind of the same shape! Say, you look strong! Would you like to help me rescue the Queen of Flutterfield? Have you noticed that my hair is partially pink?

FAIR TRADE DOLL: Who? Yes.

MARIPOSA BARBIE: With the help of my friends Willa(TM), Rayna(TM) and Rayla(TM) I am going to rescue The Queen of Flutterfield(TM) from the Skeezites and marry Prince Carlos, who appeals to both Hispanic and non-Hispanic boys for whom Go! Diego Go! informs a pre-verbal reflex in their buying patterns! Hey, why aren’t you looking at me, Fair Trade Doll?! Have you noticed that my fairy-skirt is very short and pretty and that the space between my legs by my crotch is big enough to accommodate an average-sized adult male pinky-finger?!

FAIR TRADE DOLL: My practical cotton pants offer full range of motion and reflect the manner of dress of the women who made me.

MARIPOSA BARBIE: Great! I can put both of my legs behind my head! I always say that The Most Important Thing You Can Be Is Yourself(TM)! It’s my slogan! Be yourself! And SMILE! Your mouth is straight across! Let me take your hair out of the strange ball on the back of your head! You don’t have fingers so let me help you!

FAIR TRADE DOLL: No thank you. Please, I wear my hair this way so I can work, and the red sindoor powder along the part in my hair identifies me as a married woman.

MARIPOSA BARBIE: It will just take a second! With Barbie Total Hair(TM) Color It!(TM) tools, we’ll make you pretty!

FAIR TRADE DOLL: Please, leave me alone.

MARIPOSA BARBIE: Oh, look! Here comes Zinzie(TM) and the Flutterpixies to sprinkle glitter on us!

FAIR TRADE DOLL: I think I have to go.

MARIPOSA BARBIE: Wait! Don’t go, Fair Trade Doll! Zinzie(TM) is a prankster but she’s so sweet and will take us to the Merbabies(TM)!

FAIR TRADE DOLL: I don’t know what you are talking about. Goodbye.

MARIPOSA BARBIE: No! Fair Trade Doll! Don’t go into Cooper’s dog bed! It may look like a nice place to you, but it’s not! It’s really not! Look out Fair Trade Doll! Here comes Cooper! Oh my! Cooper! Come back with Fair Trade Doll!! She looks like your Flip-Flop Yankers Piggie, but she’s not!! You thought that about Language Littles Chinese Ling and African Waldorf Doll and then spit them both out in the back yard, remember?!! Fair Trade Doll! It was so nice to meet you! Good luck!!!

My Presidential Bio

By: David Martin

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My fellow Americans. I’ve been accused of many things. Like being a Washington insider, being out of touch with regular citizens like you and even being inexperienced and naive. But my critics just don’t know the real me.

I was born in Faith, a small town not far from Charity and just down the road from Hope. Faith was, and still is, a community of about five thousand souls who are as committed to America as you and me. Their dream is the same as your dream and mine: a five-bedroom, three-bath monster home and a healthy, well-diversified stock portfolio.

My parents were poor, hardworking people who dedicated themselves to providing a better life for me and my two sisters. Dad worked eight hours a day, five days a week as an encyclopedia salesman while my mother taught nuclear physics part-time at the local community college.

Although we grew up poor, I never lacked for the basics. We lived in a modest, three-bedroom bungalow that to this day has no central air and only one-and-a-half baths. But my sisters and I didn’t know that we were poor. All we knew was that we were loved.

Growing up in Faith taught me most of life’s lessons. For example, I learned how other kids can be cruel and taunt you because your family has just one car and can only afford to trade it in for a new one every five years.

I learned how some people will be unkind because you’re different. Some of the townsfolk would make fun of Mom because she wore thick glasses and knew a lot about centrifuges and particle accelerators. What many of them didn’t know, however, was that she won a blue ribbon every year at the county fair for her cold fusion-baked apple pie.

As a boy, I learned many useful things from the people of Faith. Our family attended the Southern Christian Baptist Church at the end of our street. But our neighbors, the Blacks, attended the Christian Southern Baptist Church on the other side of town. Yet my Dad would always say “Hello” to Mr. Black and even once lent him our lawnmower. I thus learned that we can still live in relative harmony with our fellow citizens no matter how striking the religious and doctrinal differences.

Like most kids, I was impatient with long Sunday services and often fidgeted and fussed until the service was over. But our pastor, Reverend White, knew that kids had short attention spans. So he would entertain us with humorous stories of how we Southern Christian Baptists would go to heaven while the Christian Southern Baptists would be condemned to walk the streets of Hope in eternal damnation bearing the mark of Satan on their misshapen foreheads. Yet he never ceased to preach the gospel of love for all mankind.

Even the poorest and the saddest citizens of Faith helped to guide me through life. Many people looked down on Mr. Wallace as the town drunk. But even Mr. Wallace had his own special wisdom to impart to the town’s young people. Like how to collect and cash in enough empties to buy a bottle of Thunderbird or how to get high drinking Sterno without risking a trip to the emergency department.

Like most eighteen-year-olds, I was eager, almost desperate, to leave my hometown. But looking back, I now realize that I could have done far worse than to live my life in Faith. For example, I could easily have spent fifteen to twenty years without parole in the state prison located halfway between Charity and Hope.

Thanks to the hard work of my parents, I was able to attend Yale, Princeton and Harvard where I earned a B.A., a B.Sc., an M.B.A., a J.D. and a Ph.D. After my college career, I served in both the Army and the Air Force before pursuing consecutive stints in Vista and the Peace Corps. I then simultaneously interned at the law firm of Smoot & Hawley, clerked for Chief Justice Bryan, worked as an investment banker and volunteered at the local homeless shelter, youth center and food bank.

Most of you know the rest of my story: municipal councillor for four years, state senator for six years and then contemporaneous terms as governor and Vice President. Some say I’m not ready to be President. Well, maybe I don’t have all the fancy-pants qualifications of my opponent. But I have something far more important: the lessons learned from the good people of Faith.

Those lessons have stayed with me my entire life. Lessons such as pretending to like country music and bowling, being able to choke down a spicy, ethnic sausage with a warm beer and knowin’ when to drop the final g’s when speakin’ to just plain folks like you and me.

So don’t believe those big city reporters and those big-shot TV newscasters. My mom always told me “Don’t get too big for your britches, sonny, and don’t forget to use just a touch of vermouth in your martinis.” If I ever forget those lessons, you can be sure she’ll come down to Washington, box my ears, set me straight and replace that pretentious olive with a good, old-fashioned twist of lemon peel. Good night “mes amis” and God bless America.

Letter from the Hogwarts Alumni Office

By: Mike Richardson-Bryan

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Mr. Harry Potter

Godric’s Hollow

Gloucestershire

BS37 A10

Dear Mr. Potter,

Greetings from Hogwarts! Has it really been nineteen years since you last strode the hallowed halls of Britain’s finest school of magic? Even without the assistance of a Time-Turner, time truly flies.

A lot has changed at Hogwarts since you graduated. Aldis lamps have replaced owls, golf carts have replaced Thestrals, and safe, reliable lifts have replaced the more capricious of the moving staircases. And what’s that in the library? Yes, it’s the school’s very first computer, a Commodore 64, which I’m assured by those in the know is the very pinnacle of Muggle technology. Huzzah for progress!

And there have been important changes behind the scenes, as well. Long-overdue restructuring at the top has produced a leaner administration that is more responsive to today’s educational priorities, including student safety. Indeed, thanks to stringent new hiring practices, only one out of every three Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers turns out to be an evil imposter bent on murdering students.

But as much as Hogwarts has changed, it remains, at heart, the same school you knew and loved in your youth. Peeves still torments students and teachers alike, the Whomping Willow still exacts a terrible toll on migratory birds, and Moaning Myrtle still haunts the second floor girls’ lavatory despite repeated attempts at exorcism and generous applications of Febreze. And as it always has, Hogwarts continues to rely upon the generous support of former students like yourself.

Such support has never been more important. The recent unionization of the House Elves placed terrible stress on the school’s finances. That stress that can be felt everywhere, even in Hogwarts’ legendary kitchen, where the need for belt-tightening means that each student is now limited to 5 lbs. of pudding per meal. Increases in tuition have helped, but endless fee hikes are not the answer. So until Professor Longbottom’s Knut-tree experiment yields tangible results, we’re counting on the generous support of former students like yourself.

Your support will allow Hogwarts to maintain its position as a leader in magical research. Consider the work of Professor Chang, who has attracted international attention with her groundbreaking research into the mating habits of Dementors (not so different from the mating habits of middle-aged divorcées, as it turns out, only with a lot less crying in restaurants). Without your support, such research may not be possible.

Your generosity will also allow us to keep the lights on and the doors open at the Trelawney Memorial Wellness Centre. Today’s students face many temptations, from old standbys such as Butterbeer to more recent and infinitely more sinister addictions such as Gillyweed, or “Willy G.” as the kids call it (and take it from me, there’s nothing sadder than the sight of a once-promising student lying face-down in a pail of water, “tripping out” on Gillyweed). Without a place to turn, many struggling students will not find the help they need when they so desperately need it.

Finally, your support will allow Hogwarts to remain within financial reach of all deserving students. Scholarships for needy students are always in short supply, and scholarships for dead, undead, and demonically-possessed students are particularly hard to come by. Without your support, many reanimated students may be forced to abandon their studies and go directly into middle management.

So what can you afford to give? Before answering, think back to your time at Hogwarts. There was lots of hard work, of course, but there was always time for fun — chatting with your mates in the Common Room, sneaking out to Hogsmeade to buy sweets at Honeydukes (inevitably followed by hours spent chasing after an errant Chocolate Frog), dancing with your sweetheart at the Yule Ball, and the like. No doubt you have many such happy memories. If not, please check your Pensieve, they’re probably in there. And after reviewing them, I’m sure you’ll agree that you can’t put a price on good memories — but that if you could, it would include at least four figures.

The sad truth, Mr. Potter, is that financial support from your year has always been rather lean. This is not because your classmates are indifferent to the school’s needs, but rather because so many of them are dead, killed by You-Know-Who and his minions, often quite horribly (speaking of which, a few more bits of poor Dean Thomas turned up just last week, a testament to the awesome power of the Fulminare Viscus curse). Now, considering that You-Know-Who was after you the whole time and that your unlucky classmates merely got in the way, it seems only fair that you should do your utmost to make up the difference. I’m sure you’ll agree that your alma mater deserves no less.

Yours truly,

Fitch T. Fenwick

Director, Office of Alumni Relations

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

P.S. — If you need one more reason to support Hogwarts, then consider your old house’s Quidditch team. They’re suffering their worst year in generations on account of the sad state of repair of their equipment (the beaters must share a single tattered broom, and the seeker has no broom whatsoever and so must to run around making “whoosh” noises and hope that the Golden Snitch dips low enough to be snared from the ground, which of course it never does). Something to think about the next time you’re at Gringrotts, rolling in your money or whatever it is you do there when the Goblins aren’t looking.

Memories Of Ma, The Old Neighborhood, Little Billy Woodnik, Growing Up Too Fast, And The CIA Spying On Me

By: Dan Shea

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* After school, during the milder months, all us kids would play stickball in the street. Each block had its own unofficial team, and we were the best. Heck, we were so good that the other kids sometimes accused us of cheating. We’d just shrug it off, win another game, then go poison their dogs. I say let our record speak for itself, you know?

I remember one time, it was me and little Billy Woodnik and Ugly Derek and some of the other guys — we called ourselves the Yankeepiratedodger Sox – and we were playing against the Thunderwild Bulldogcatbirds from two blocks over, and Billy made me set fire to old man Donahue’s sinful Buick in order to purify my Being. It was classic! The CIA Agents in the brown “delivery” van parked nearby saw it, of course, but back then they weren’t allowed to intervene without joint authorization from President Madison AND Xenothorpolis the Exacter. After the game, we all ate popsicles and laughed together. Well, except for the Agents and old man Donahue that is.

Simpler days in a smaller world.

* In the summertime, since no one on the block had air conditioning, we used to leave our windows and doors open at all hours. Naturally, this caused my mother (who was raised back in An Old Country) to howl violently whenever I played off key on the piano. And when my father inevitably started complaining about the draft, I misunderstood and joined the Army. Plus, little Billy Woodnik lost a bet and ate some dog doo and we all laughed and then we lost our innocence at that fateful Fourth of July picnic (which I think is why hot dogs have never tasted Righteous since that day).

That was the last time I saw the world through those eyes. After I went away for Basic, and Johnny married his best gal, and Ivy went off to college, and Greasy went to work at his old man’s garage, and Ugly Derek turned out to be a gorgeous woman, and little Billy Woodnik ended up being a delusion of mine controllable only by massive round-the-clock doses of glycocyclene diathylitrylenol and ritualistic arson…

Well, sir, I suppose the world just keeps on going whether you want the ride or not.

* Marla. Soft, soft Marla. She was so warm and permissive after I’d had so many weeks of being broken down in boot camp, and it was just what a scared young boy needed during what was both his first weekend pass and his last two days before shipping out to Hell. Her touch, her throaty words, her unconditional embrace for even a few blurred hours brought whatever bits of child were left in this untested soldier’s heart to a boiling manhood. I knew then that straddling both God and Country was Marla, and for just that night I could’ve won the whole war for her.

And that’s when I knew that I had a real thing for hookers. The good ones, of course; not the ones who cavort with Slickstopholes the Dark Pimptroyer and steal your carnal aura for their coven’s use. Brother, those girls are just dirty.

* There is nothing on God’s green earth as scary as the first time you’re shot at in battle. The hissing breath of a passing bullet, the burnt air it leaves behind, the distinct silence of it against the fiery bedlam, the bit of your soul it steals as it misses you and kills the next kid in line instead.

No, my friend, there is nothing so painful to a man’s peace.

Except maybe when the government plants a thought-camera in your frontal lobe in order to spy on your Essence by pumping super advanced nanobots into the air you breathe. That there is one scary bitch, huh? Just think about it.

Or actually, no — DON’T!!!

* It’s true; you really can’t go home again.

And I know it’s true, walking down the old street as a Man now, wearing three bloody medals pinned to a starched uniform and a kit bag full of horror slung over one shoulder. The trees lining the avenue had grown taller, but they’d never seemed smaller. The old candy shoppe on the corner had turned into Sid’s Liquor Storre, but then it got back into candy for a while, and then it was briefly the Albanian Embassy, then a Starbucks, until it finally just had enough and moved to the suburbs to sell pot to school teachers. Sure, I saw some kids playing stickball in traffic like we used to, but these little punks had no hustle — no Heart. Part of me wanted to jump into the game, show ’em how we used to do it way back when, but their stringent draft requirements and ridiculous salary caps made it impossible.

When I walked through the front door, my own mother didn’t recognize me. Ma, I said to her with a tear on my cheek, it’s me, your Danny Boy, home from the wars! She said that still wasn’t ringing any bells and an argument ensued. It went to blows and I won and we ate Lays potato chips and laughed and I realized I was in the wrong house. Damned MapQuest! Too embarrassed to admit it, I snuck out in the middle of the night (though we were forced to live a lie for several months until the nights finally got warmer).

Of course I went looking for my real birth house, but then Garzo the Destructovator broke into my dreams again and told me that Ma died during the New Crusades which were propagated by the CIA’s shadow government. I eventually had to move into the Men’s Shelter instead, since that really is the last place the Agents would check. Duh.

Nope. You can never go home again. Because they’re watching you.

The Regional American Surrealist Cookbook

By: Phil Austin

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THE NORTHEAST

This is a strange area of the country, its cuisine matching its clam rivers and mystic flattened foods.

COOKING SHOW SOUFFLÉ

Submitted by: Martha Stewart of New York City, New York

“This is an excellent recipe. Although it requires quite a bit more time than I’d originally bargained for.”

Serves 6

Preparation time: 3 years

INGREDIENTS:

1 TV crew

12 dozen chicken eggs, beaten

1 truckload of milk

16 cases of butter

2 stoves

1 contract, drained

3 publicists, crushed

1/2 tsp. salt

6 weeping assistants

Storyboards

1 phone call

Jail time

Preheat one oven to 325 degrees F. Pretend to preheat the other. Attend endless meetings. Grease 15 casserole dishes. Berate assistants.

Place a layer of crushed eggshells in the bottom of 1 garbage can. Layer garbage neatly. Receive phone calls. Make phone calls. Get up early. Be driven.

Get script. Make revisions. Practice smiling. Make assistants cry.

Add butter, 1 tsp.

Go to jail.

Reinvent self. Start another magazine. Receive plaudits of employees. Go to work every day. Try not to be too lonely.

Assistants weep in the hallway.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

SHROUDED CHICKEN

Submitted by: Gwang Ho of Never, New Jersey

“Not wishing to quite far. So being so. It can be said.”

Serves 200

Preparation time: Not so bad, considering

INGREDIENTS:

A whole bunch of chickens

200 little outfits (sailor, ballerina, etc.)

A lot of packaged stuffing mix

A real big plate or platter (platelet will not do)

Small coffins

Dress chickens in little outfits. Prepare stuffing per package instructions.

Boil or fry the chickens, it hardly matters which.

Stuff cavities, including pockets in outfits. Prepare individual coffins, reserving about 20 for ashes later.

Scorch about 20 chickens. Reserve ashes.

Serve with funereal music. Sprinkle ashes on top.

_______________________________________________

THE MIDWEST

Perhaps the most normal-appearing section of the country, this flat land, with its rivers lower and its cities higher, still manages to produce some of the food we fear most.

SLICER-DICER MELANGE

Submitted by: R. Popeil of Chicago, Illinois

“But wait, there’s more…”

Preparation time: 1 crazy moment

INGREDIENTS:

1 murdered husband

1 remarriage

2 cases of tomatoes

Case of onions

1 tsp. vinegar

1 hands-free microphone

1 amplifier

1 tsp. salt

Red pepper

Closet

Whisk microphone and amplifier until fluffed. Combine tomatoes and onions. Invent scalp-dye with vinegar and pepper. Hide. In a medium bowl talk quickly and convincingly. Hope for the best.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

FESTIVE HOLIDAY BULIMIC TURKEY

Submitted by: Unnamed of Edge of Nowhere, Indiana

“I don’t care what they think! It’s just eat, eat, eat! Disgusting!”

INGREDIENTS:

1 small turkey

2 fingers

A toilet bowl

Preparation time: It sneaks up on you…

Leave nothing to the imagination, leave nothing on the tiles, leave nothing that would create a trail back to you. Leave early, claiming some emergency or other.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

HURLED EGGS

Submitted by: Tandom Koolzip of Peeorhea, Indianolapolis

“This is a recipe that was tossed to me by someone claiming to be my grandmother.”

Preparation time: Instantaneous

INGREDIENTS:

Eggs

Someone to throw eggs at

That’s all she wrote. In old-fashioned script.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

KANSAS CITY OYSTERS

Submitted by: Big “Chief” Tom of Kansas City, Kansas

INGREDIENTS:

Cab fare

1 doz. oysters

1 gal. bourbon whiskey

Get oysters drunk on whiskey. Put them in a cab. Give driver cab fare and tell him to take them to Kansas City.

_______________________________________________

THE SOUTHWEST

The sound of cars in the night, the long trail of asphalt, writing things down on long rolls of waxed paper on top of small refrigerators…

ROAD CHICKEN

Submitted by: Dean Moriarty of Denver, Colorado

“Man, I gotta get me some coffee. We gotta stop soon, man. What was that? Did you feel that?”

Preparation time: 10 minutes, at most

INGREDIENTS:

Road something

1 cup bread tips

1 lb. tater tots

Weed (Roaster)

2 tsp. pine nuts

2 cans corn niblets

An Unformed Being

Backseat ashes

Throw things around. Add things. Drink alcohol. Smoke. You’ve crossed that intersection for the last time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ORANGE PORK

Submitted by: Juan Guadalupe of Quitobaquito, Arizona

“Park and Lock it. Not responsible.”

INGREDIENTS:

Crate of oranges

1 Javelina

1 gun

Full moon

Do the math.

_______________________________________________

THE WEST COAST

The perfectly possible is always near. This region, though largely ignored, is full of food.

1955 PIE

Submitted by: Elmer Batters of Hollywood, California

“I’m probably dead, but you wouldn’t know it to look at me.”

INGREDIENTS:

2 plastic, see-through, 5-inch tall high heels

Flouncy apron with clever sayings

Pink frilled trim (for apron)

Several pies, lattice-top and otherwise

A garage

Rope

Bangs

A corset

A dim red light

Preparation time: Dreaming and drifting away

Elude capture. Stand for hours in darkrooms with red light. Ignore greenhouse gases. Ignore deposits. Ignore erosion and gross inadequacies, stubbornness and melted polar ice.

Bring ingredients to a boil.

Serve 3 degrees hotter than ever before.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

URINATED CHICKEN

Submitted by: Andrew Wamasake of Gardena, California

INGREDIENTS:

One chicken

A lot of water

Large drinking glass

Preparation time: Maybe 5 hours

Run chicken around and take its temperature. Give the chicken a couple of options. Leave chicken alone a lot. Make sure chicken has a lot of water in its bowl.

_______________________________________________

THE SOUTH

A puzzling region, given to elaborate eccentricities and bizarre memories. It’s a good place for surreal juxtapositions.

REENACTMENT CASSEROLE

Submitted by: Kenneth Burns of Public, Florida

“I think vignettes are good, are pure and simple. I like fine sound editing.”

Preparation time: Hundreds of years

INGREDIENTS:

A Civil War

Blowing clouds

1/4 cup banjo music

Peck of voice-overs

12 t. suspenders

Dark shoes of all sizes

2 cups body makeup

Blood (chocolate syrup may be substituted)

Alligators (crocodiles may be substituted)

Guns

Whip clouds to a froth. Reserve 1/3 cup of voice-overs. Spread music over top.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

REPUBLICAN CABLEHAIR CORDON PREMIER

Submitted by: Annie Coulter of Foxnews, Georgia

“I wish nothing but ill on liberals. I loathe them.”

INGREDIENTS:

1 tbsp., plus 2 tsp. acerbic acid

1 clove reason, peeled and forced

1/4 teaspoon each dried and finely pursed lips and knees

Grated peel of 1 psyche

2 whole breasts, exposed toward the top

2 paper-thin brain slices

Prepare an herbed compote of confused leanings. Baffle liberal parents. Ignore insufficient boyfriend. Keep it up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

DEAD RABBIT

INGREDIENTS:

Time

A rabbit

New Company E-mail Policy

By: Matthew Strada

Posted on by
Reply

To: #ALL-COMPANY

From: Walter Horr, Director of Human Resources

Date: March 1, 2008

Subject: My Soul Is About to Die

This memorandum addresses (again) the company’s policy concerning the use of the “Reply To All” function in our e-mail software when responding to company-wide e-mail. As you know, we have described this policy on three other occasions in the past week.

Yet the issue has not been resolved. For instance, the first memorandum, entitled “Appropriate Usage of the ‘Reply To All’ Function in E-mail Software,” provoked no fewer than fifteen responses that were sent using the “Reply To All” function. These responses included the following messages, each of which violates the company’s policy and was transmitted to all 1,300 employees of the company:

–“”rofl why do i work in such a stupid plase”

— “Does this e-mail violate the policy?”

— “Please deactivate the thought transmission feature of my e-mail software, as I recently learned that I have inadvertently been broadcasting my thoughts to the entire company. I have reason to believe that Jack Paloumis in accounts payable is compiling them for use against me in the audience of our almighty lord and savior (who really has no need to know about any of them, including the ones about my cousin Beth) on judgment day.”

After receiving these responses, which displayed a lack of comprehension as to the scope and application of our policy, we sent out another memorandum, entitled “Reminder: Important Policy Concerning E-mail Usage That Must Be Followed in the Workplace.” Again, several individuals used the “Reply To All” feature inappropriately. Examples included:

— “he is so stupid he spelled workplase workplace!!1!”

— “Walter Horr’s mother is a Horr.”

— “As I have repeatedly told everyone in prior e-mails, I completely agree that the Reply to All function should be used only when absolutely necessary.”

— “The IT department just received a request to reformat Jack Paloumis’s flash disk, hard drive, and brain. Do we have the software for that?”

We then distributed our third memorandum concerning this important policy, entitled, “Read This E-mail And Do What It Says.” It noted that “Anyone who fails to adhere to the policy in this e-mail will be fired immediately and all personal belongings on company premises will be presumed contaminated by whatever virus or bacterium has caused such stupidity, and burned in the building’s furnace.” This memorandum then laid out our policy again. Amazingly, further violative e-mails to the entire company ensued. Among them:

— “i am the ceo and i demand rispect no one can speak to me like that in the workplase”

— “Am I allowed to burn anything I want in the building’s furnace? If so, would the opening to the furnace accommodate something about six feet long and as wide as, say, a man’s shoulders?”

— “Al: Every time I click the button for replying to you, one of these dumb memos comes around. By the way, your name is misspelled on the computer.”

— “All I know is my underwear has Jack Paloumis written inside. I don’t know what it means. Can anyone help me? Please?”

In light of these repeated transgressions, we have adjusted the company’s e-mail policy. Our new policy is: Do not use e-mail. For anything. Ever. From now on, if you have something to say, please move the butt in which your brain apparently resides and go talk to the person with whom you need to speak. (This policy assumes you have sufficient dominion over language to convey whatever elementary concept is keeping the low-wattage bulb in your skull flickering. If you do not, as is quite possible, then remain at your desk and rock back and forth gently while consoling yourself with a comforting nursery rhyme until the urge to communicate passes.)

If anyone ever sends another e-mail at any time about anything, I or a brawnier individual with borderline personality disorder deputized for this purpose will go to that person’s office, cubicle, or alternative worksite (as the case may be) and bludgeon said person with the nearest piece of heavy electronic equipment. Said person shall be responsible for reimbursing the company for the cost of said heavy electronic equipment. Said person shall also be deemed to have waived any right to invoke the dispute resolution procedures otherwise mandated by the collective bargaining agreement.

If you have any questions about this policy, please don’t hesitate to shoot yourself.

Sincerely,

W. Horr

Newly Discovered Correspondence Between Adams And Jefferson

By: Murray Brozinsky

Posted on by
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June 15, 1826

Mr. Thomas Jefferson

Mount Vernon

Virginia, U.S.

My Dearest Friend,

I am under no illusion that posterity will grant me my proper due. Quite to the contrary, I believe the history books chronicling the Revolution will be a fiction from start to finish. The hero of which will undoubtedly be that clown Franklin. They will say Franklin accomplished this great deed and Franklin performed some other damned act. They will write of Franklin parting the Potomac and of General Washington springing to life from its waters, like Pegasus, in full uniform and on horseback. Eyewitness accounts will swear they saw Franklin electrocute (sorry, Freudian slip) electrify him with his wondrous lightning rod, and they will recount how the three of them, hair and mane standing on end, valiantly fought the British Empire, winning our independence by their efforts alone. Mark my word, there will not so much as even be a mention of the rest of us.

Ever and affectionately yours,

[SIGNATURE]

John Adams

* * * * * * *

Date: July 3, 1826

Recipient’s Fax#: 617.074.1776

Recipient: John Adams

Sender: Thomas Jefferson

Sender’s Phone#: 434.074.1776

MEMORANDUM

In reference to your letter of June 15, 1826, I will not accept our labors are lost. I shall not go into that good night without a hope that the truth about who set the flame of liberty ablaze is catching fire itself. Should the cloud of barbarism rain down despotism and douse the flames of liberty in this country, the history books must preserve the truth that you and I together were Prometheus in this revolutionary tale. That it was we, and not that clown Franklin (as you rightly refer to him), who gave the fire of liberty to this nation. The flames of liberty kindled on the 4th of July 1776 have become an inferno not extinguishable by the dribble of despotism. In the same way, we must ensure the truth about our holding up the Zippos is published too widely to be rewritten by the lies of jealousy.

P.S. You could not have experienced a Freudian slip since a quick web search reveals it will be more than fifty years until that esteemed scientist is scheduled to join this world. However, I understand what you meant.

* * * * * * *

DATE: Mon, 03 Jul 1826 16:37:44

FROM: 2ndpresident (at) gmail.com

SUBJECT: Re: Your letter

TO: 3rdpresident1234 (at) yahoo.com

CC: AbbyAdams (at) hotmail.com

TJ,

Don’t know about the history books, but I will make some edits to Franklin’s entry on Wikipedia, take him down a notch or two. Might take a while as it appears Ben is roundly revered in this age, just as I predicted. Damn him. Copying Abigail on this email in case she has any ideas. BTW, check out the new Zippo webpage at www.zippo.com.

Regards,

JA

* * * * * * *

IM from: Abby (at) aol.com

hi boys. consider using blogs, possibly even more important than history books. certainly read by more of the Revolutionati. cool Zippo url..:)

* * * * * * *

J – Saw message from Abby. Out of colony. Will embark on blog upon my return tomorrow. Zippo.

Ignore typos; message sent from Blackberry

* * * * * * *

T –

Saw pics of your trip on Flikr. You’re looking tired. Check out my Del.ic.ious tags for staying healthy.

Zippo,

Message sent from Treo

* * * * * * *

DATE:

FROM: tom (at) zippomail.com

SUBJECT:

TO:

Autoresponder

I’m not checking messages as I am on my deathbed.

*****************************************************

Thomas Jefferson

Formerly 2nd U.S. President

* * * * * * *

Google [ Jefferson ] Search

Jefferson inaugurates University of Virginia

Jefferson holds up Zippo as he dedicates new university…

www.uofv.edu/ – 23k – Cached – Similar pages

Jefferson writes children’s book

Thomas Jefferson, ex-president, author, and patriot, publishes his first children’s book. “Zippo the Hippo.”

www.zippothehippo.com/ – 37k – Cached – Similar pages

Jefferson: The lighter side

Zippo interviews Thomas Jefferson about politics, morality, tobacco, and his fondness for his Zippo.

www.zippointerviews.com/ – 54k – Cached – Similar pages

* * * * * * *

DATE: Tues, 04 Jul 1826 08:31:32

SUBJECT: TJ

TO: All

FROM: 2ndpresident (at) gmail.com

Thank Google, Thomas Jefferson still survives.

Zippo,

-J

* * * * * * *

From Ben Franklin’s weekly Podcast: Say It Again Ben.

Today we take a moment of silence to honor the passing of two of our founding fathers, two ex-presidents of our country, two of a kind – John Adams and Thomas Jefferson. Amazingly, they died just five hours apart, exactly fifty years to the day after George, George’s horse, and I freed our great nation from rule of England ‘s thumb.

Please raise your Zippos.

[Pause]

And now, back to our Ben Franklin Independence Day celebration. I’m Ben Franklin.

Why Won’t People Just Let Themselves Be Inspired By My Blog?

By: Eric Feezell

Posted on by
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Monday, June 16

Current mood: feisty!

Listening to: Los Lonely Boys, Live at Blue Cat Blues

Got some exciting news today. Randy is maybe moving back to the Bay Area! (You guys should remember Randy from previous posts. You better!) Anyway, he and I had talked about trying to do that hot dog vending thing for so long, and I randomly look online yesterday and see that…Stanley’s Steamers is hiring! I admit it kind of started out as a joke, but I’ve been thinking about the whole idea and honestly believe it would be a terrific life experience. Just vend hot dogs in Union Square for a year or so. It’s way cheaper than moving abroad. Imagine how many interesting people we’d meet!

Have you guys heard there’s gonna be a new Los Lonely Boys album? Supposedly by July 1st. (I don’t know if I can wait that long!) You’ve probably noticed I blog about them from time to time, as they’re one of my favorite contemporary blues/Tejano/Christian rock bands. If you still haven’t picked up that disc I recommended back when I started this blog, now’s the time! Get on the LLB train, people! Toot tooooot!

So I’m curious what you all think on the hot dog thing. Comments, guys! (And not just you, Mom!) I’m really hoping for some feedback here, and would love to hear about other people’s life aspirations.

Eric

p.s. Randy, I faxed you the application. Get it back to me ASAP!

Tuesday, June 17

Current mood: poetic

Listening to: Los Lonely Boys, Los Lonely Boys

So, many of you know that when I’m not blogging, I dabble in poetry. I’ve got a couple things I’m working on that I’m thinking of submitting to The New Yorker or somewhere like that. The first one is kind of “older style” mixed with sort of like a contemporary “slam” feel, and I think it’s got promise. (Be nice in the comments, though. It’s just a draft!) Here’s an excerpt:

“The Cliff (Reprise)”

The cliff doth naff

And high as s**t

Break me off a piece

Of that towering cliff

Aboard a ship

U.S.S. Hennessy

Do you feel me, skip?

We are where we be

The cliff doth naff …

And ne’er to wit

Kind of “urban classic” (hence the curse word — sorry), a style I see more and more these days, especially on other blogs. The mixture of “old” and “new” language has kind of a poetic “zing” to it, no? Anyway, I’d really love any feedback you might want to give. Still no thoughts from you guys on yesterday’s hot dog post — do I detect a hint of jealousy perhaps?

Kidding! You know I love you.

Randy, where you at, fool!

Wednesday, June 18

Current mood: amused

Listening to: Smash Mouth, All Star: The Smash Hits

Mr. Jo Bangles (that’s my cat, for all you newbies; Welcome!) did the funniest thing this morning. Oh. Man. You. Should. Have. Seen it! There was this fly buzzing behind the mini blinds and he noticed it and sort of perched beneath the window and then just started going, “ma-a-a-a-a-aow! Ma-a-a-a-aowww!” — all robotic-like. You know how cats do that when they see a bug? Anyway he sounded like a robot, and his head was perched kinda curiously to the side. I didn’t have my phone on me at the moment and couldn’t video it, so you’ll just have to take my word for it, okay? Classic.

What about you folks? Any crazy cat stories you want to share? Don’t be shy! We’ve all got ‘em. And mom, this isn’t an open invitation to regale us with Bubba tales. Again. You can do that on your blog, k? (Give Bubba a pat for me!)

Waiting to hear back from Randy on our exciting plans. Nothing yet, but I’m sure he’s as excited as I am!

You guys sure are quiet. I was really hoping the poem would spark some intellectual discussion and maybe prompt some of you to post your own poems, but I suppose not just anyone can write poetry. “Alas.”

Thursday, June 19

Current mood: admonishing

Listening to: Lizzie McGuire soundtrack

Hey, I just wanted to remind everyone that the comments forum is for constructive feedback and generally nice discussion. Mean-spirited, curse-laden language will not be tolerated (nudge nudge, Mr. “Anonymous”). I’m not going to repeat what the comment said, but the mere idea that someone found my site by Googling “gayest blog ever” is just dumb. I don’t recall having ever used the word “gay” in a single post (not that I have anything against that stuff!).

So let’s keep it positive, people! My mom’s comments about Bubba and Mr. Jo Bangles are great examples of what I’m looking for — not to mention she posted a link to LOL Cats (SO funny).

Also, Randy, if you’re reading this, I faxed you the application on Sunday and you haven’t sent it back yet. Please get on top of it or we might miss our golden opportunity! There are only so many positions available! Carpe diem, dude! And remember to include the same story in your cover letter about the time we came up with the idea, and also remember to mention we’d like to be paired together on the same hot dog cart should they offer us the positions.

Please tell me you’ve checked out that Los Lonely Boys disc by now. Believe me, you’re going to regret it if you haven’t! For those that did: what did you think? The comments field is wide open!

Friday, June 20

Current mood: little sad

Listening to: Los Lonely Boys, Sacred

Well, I’m sorry to say this will be my last post until further notice. I was really hoping we could build a little community around this thing and encourage one another and recommend music and stuff, but it seems I tend to attract the shyer kind of reader.

I just hope that I’ve maybe inspired a few of you to step outside yourselves — to write that poem, listen to that CD you’ve been curious about, or go on that crazy hot-dog-vending adventure you and Randy have always dreamed of (or whatever your path in life may be). I know my mom has really considered this a positive experience! I just hope the rest of you have, too. I’d love to hear your thoughts on this last post in the comments section, or some thoughts on my poem from Tuesday. Or any (generally positive) thoughts you might have to share about anything at all on any subject you feel like commenting about.

Eric

p.s. Randy, your phone got turned off. Pay your bill, dummy! 😉