Cocaretzi is a Greek dish of stuffed ox intestines
It is also the name of Heracles’ cousin. He was similrarly tasked with twelve labors.
Most of them involved solving petty disputes between neighbors. One was getting a bad wine stain out of a toga.
The final labor of Cocaretzi had to do with catering a picky Greek king’s picnic. He was tired of the usual fare, so he challenged Cocaretzi to come up with something new.
Yes, this is where the ox intestines come in.
Cocaretzi was executed for the vile dish, but at least it forever bears his name.
With the advent of satellite radio, is there room for local news coverage of Les Nessman’s heyday?
I think so. After all, satellites are flimsy things that fly around like pinballs on a greased baking sheet. They fall and explode, too.
Radio towers are tall, sturdy things. In fact, RKO Pictures had a one on the North Pole before those damn environmentalists demanded that it be torn town.
It had something to do with those jaggy lightning bolts streaking out of the thing.
Anyway, in this era of iPods and X-radio, I yearn for the Golden Age of Les Nessman.
I suppose if Martians had invaded Cincinnati, the public would have turned to Les Nessman for coverage.
After all, Les doesn’t just live and breathe news, but he practically oozes it.
By licking Les Nessman, you might experience a news hallucination, much like thrill-seekers lick certain species of toads for the vision-inducing properties.
No wonder why Johnny Fever was totally out of it. In his off-hours, he licked Les Nessman.
Did he imagine he was licking Loni Anderson instead?
Of course not. That would induce something entirely different. Something which I’ll refrain from repeating here openly, if you don’t mind.
Les Nessman never did manage to cover a hurricane, since Cincinnati isn’t exactly in a hurricane-prone area and Mr. Carlson was very cheap when it came to the news division of his radio station. The travel budget was cab fare.
However, if he had covered one, I think he’d have been an impressive sight in his rain slicker, boldly holding out his wind-meter like an intrepid soldier bearing a torch in the darkness.
Of course, WKRP was a radio station, not a television news channel, so the viewers would have had no idea Les was doing any of these things.
Laurence grabbed the monitor and howled.
“My story is not gone, dammit!” he yelled. “Give it back, you motherfucking motherfucker!”
FILE NOT FOUND
“I worked for hours on that goddamned thing! I looked up tons of pages on Wikipedia and IMDB, for crying out loud!”
FILE NOT FOUND
“Auuuuuuuuuuuuuuugh!” screamed Laurence.
A cat ran out from behind the monitor.
“Did you break it, you furry little shit?” yelled Laurence at the cat.
The cat leapt off of the table and out the door.
FILE NOT FOUND
“Shit,” said Laurence. “oh well.”
He pulled out a pen and began to write.
President Lincoln put down his beer, walked in between the brawlers, and shoved them apart.
“Enough, Gentlemen!” he roared. “Who be you, and what is your dispute?”
“I am Johnny Mercyseed,” said an overall-clad farmer. “I go around the country and plant mercy for all to take comfort in.”
“My name’s Johnny Strictjustice,” said the other, who wore leather and bore a nasty-looking whip. “I punish people for their crimes.”
“You’re a pervert,” said Mercyseed. “Animal!”
“Wimp!” shouted Strictjustice. “Pussy!”
Two years later, they both died at Gettysburg. Abe planted an apple tree.
“Good idea,” said Johnny Appleseed.
The Talmud dictates that there should be “awe and trembling” upon a couple getting married. The destruction of a glass has its roots in superstition, but it took one pissed-off rabbi to carry the odd practice over to Jewish weddings.
But instead of smashing a glass as tradition dictates, most Jewish weddings these days have the groom smash a cheap light bulb wrapped in a napkin.
Which means, of course, those weddings aren’t real weddings at all. Those couples are living in sin and shall be damned for it.
What do Jews break for a divorce?
The pre-nup, of course.
I swear I didn’t mean to kill the Tooth Fairy.
I guess he forgot me or something, so twenty years later he’s playing catch-up. When he came barging into my house last night, I woke up and shot him with the gun I keep under my pillow..
Now he’s buried the back yard, tutu and all.
Of course, I kept his bag of coins. All I need to do is pull a tooth out from under a pillow and the appropriate change just appears in there. All I need are tons of teeth.
Open wide. This won’t hurt a bit.
“Is everyone ready?” said the Owl.
“Ready!” said the Hare.
“Ready!” said the Tortoise.
The Rat poked its nose from the undergrowth and winked at the Tortoise. “Ready,” it said.
The Owl shrieked “GO!” and the Hare was gone like a bolt of lightning.
The Tortoise watched and chuckled.
The Hare sped along the racecourse he’d let the Tortoise pick out, through meadows and fields and finally down towards the farmhouse…
The Hare shrieked in agony as four traps grabbed his body and ripped open his skin to the bone.
The Rat calculated their winnings.
The Tortoise munched lettuce.
Like Monaco and Andorra, the pocket state of Vinodulce has sat peacefully in the mountains of Europe for centuries, retaining its own local culture and charm.
Count Vinodulce’s descendants have been excellent, wise rulers in all aspects save one: punctuality.
They are notoriously late for everything. Even their own funerals.
So, to keep up appearances, the Count vainly adjusts clock and calendar.
As a result, the ruling family always arrives on time. Hours, days, weeks, and even whole years are simply cast aside and ignored.
For all its modern amenities, Vinodulce is still quite literally living in the Seventeenth Century.