We ARE in Kansas!

Whoo! We are having fun!! This cathedral is across the street from Ken and Pam's house. We are in Pfeifer, Kansas.

Speaking of Comedy Sources, I'm Back at MD Anderson

HI! I'm in Stir this morning. I've had blood pulled, a bone density exam, and am now waiting for Dr. Fighter Pilot. I have commandeered a big table for four, two outlets, and three chairs while I wait.

I had breakfast downstairs and listened to some old folks in the cafeteria talk about the state of education and young people and television and the country and the middle class. Interestingly, they say EXACTLY the same things that my grandfather complained about in 1966. Kids don't speak the King's English, nor are they even taught any history these days; television is crude; and us regular people will not survive.

I listened with great joy as they talked about how the country simply cannot survive unless people can learn to speak properly and quit using nouns as verbs. Then one of them brought up Barak Obama and made some garbled statement about he had mistakenly used "I" as a pronoun. [Which I think is, um, ok.]

You will all be pleased that I did not approach them--as I first thought I might--and lead them down a garden path of agreeing that our leaders' ability to use language effectively is key for the survival of the nation. They already seemed to be very close to that anyway. Then, I could have sprung on them: "So who did you vote for in 2000 and 2004?"

Now that I'm settled in here in the Breast Center (what an exciting name!), I must recount a phone conversation I just overheard. I wasn't eavesdropping this time; the woman is standing right beside me and talking toward me. I heard one side of it only, but at this phrase I tuned in:

Did you catch any more mice?

Really? Another one?

Yes, that's five this week. Well, put some more peanut butter on the trap and set it back out.

[I was thinking, Jeebus, Lady, where do you live? I do NOT want to come to your house!]

Later in the conversation . . .

Would you put some food and milk in the barn?

Yes, I think that cat has had another litter of kittens.

No, I don't know what we're going to do with her.

[I know! I know! Ask me! Quit feeding the damn cat!]

I do feel better that she lives in the country and has therefore caught five mice this week, but here's another idea. Perhaps if she put the cat to work on the mouse problem, the little hoor would have less time to get into trouble. Just a thought. [Nod to Mom and Aunt Rosalyn for the "hoor" usage; one of my faves.]

Hand Me That Piano! George Carlin 1937 - 2008

I was just reading the article about George Carlin in the New York Times. He died yesterday of heart failure. He had gotten really cranky over the years and had rather lost his sense of humor, in my opinion, but gosh, was anyone ever funnier?

The article said he battled an addiction to red wine and vicodin. I have friends who would consider that more of an hors d'oeuvre than an addiction.

Rest in peace, George Carlin. Your comedy informed my own.

An Open Letter to the Kid Who Shouted at Me Last Night on W. Gray

You know who you are: the passenger in a small car that whizzed by me as Casey and I took our evening stroll in front of the Post Office. You yelled, "Which dog is walking which dog?" Remember? Ah, yes. I thought you would.

First of all, congratulations on trying to be entertaining. More than anyone, I believe in adding more laughter and merriment to the world. And while your contribution was little more than a slightly bungled prank phone call on wheels, I applaud your attempt. Keep practicing. You may well advance to "Is your refrigerator running?" someday.

Second, accept my sympathies for the car you are forced to ride in. What was that? A '93 Hornet? I can only imagine what it's like to ride around in an un-airconditioned car on a sultry Houston summer night, sweating through your Ross-Dress-for-Less jeans onto the vinyl seats while the car's leaking exhaust system sends just enough carbon monoxide into the passenger compartment to make you slightly nauseated. Must be torture, and I can empathize.

Honestly, though, thank you for recognizing that my form was female! Dressed in my baggiest shorts and a shirt that doubles for pajamas at times, I remain impressed by your powers of observation. Especially because I'm kind of dumpy and even probably older than your grandmother! I say that, of course, because I would guess that both your mother and grandmother gave birth as teenagers. Alone. On the floor of a Motel 6.

And I bet I can also safely assume that Grandmama--even at her age--sports a much slimmer profile than do I, given that she and your mother spend most of their time standing in doorways, smoking crack and meeting new gentlemen friends. But, really, thank you for noticing. I am proud of my gender.

Finally, asshat, you scared my dog. If you do it again, may the hepatitis you contracted in utero flare up and dash any career hopes you may have had as a professional beer taster. Jerk. And go &%*$ yourself.

Another Excellent Joke

Q: Why don't Junior League ladies attend orgies?

A: Too many thank-you notes.


Claire, can I tell where we got this one?

It was a big weekend. Huge. Really.

This was the highlight: putting a t-shirt on the dog. He wasn't amused, but we thought it was hilarous.