Sure, Maria sings that bright copper kettles are one of her favorite things, but she’s not the one who has to clean them.
I do. I’m the chef who works for the Von Trapp family.
I hate this job, but I’m a Jew. Captain Von Trapp says that if I don’t want to work for him, then I’m welcome to board the next train for the camps.
So, I stay. And cook. And clean those damn kettles until they’re bright and shiny.
If she and those kids don’t shut the hell up, I’m going to poison the next apple strudel.
Tag: quote
The Lights
Jack told Jill about the strange lights in the sky.
“They were just beyond that hill,” he said, pointing West. “I think they were flying saucers. Want to go with me and find out?”
Jill got a flashlight. “Hell yeah!”
Two days later, Jack and Jill were found along Highway 12 by a retired carpenter. They were both sunburned and babbling nonsense.
Jill held a pail of water. “These are the tears of the Star Master!” she shrieked.
Government agents sealed off the area.
Jack eventually recovered, but nobody’s seen Jill since the incident.
If you see lights, ignore them.
Tink
Tinkerbell flew around the dinner table of the Lost Boys, trailing her pixie dust and laughing.
But none of the boys raised their heads to laugh along. All just moaned and held their aching bellies.
Tinkerbell landed on the table and walked from boy to boy.
Red flushed faces.
Never-food vomiting.
Sunken eyes.
Bleeding sores.
Thinning hair.
Even her beloved Peter was looking haggard, unable to raise himself to crow.
One by one, the Lost Boys died of radiation sickness, not that Tinkerbell ever figured that out.
She flew away, trailing her sparkling deadly Radium trail… I mean pixie dust.
Tickler
Julius Caesar had an assistant who’s job was to whisper “Caesar, thou art mortal” into his ear every so often to remind him to remain humble.
He also had a man whisper “Caesar, thou art ticklish” into his ear to remind him that he was ticklish. Then, that advisor would unleash a fury of tickles that would bring the great dictator to his knees with laughter.
Once, the tickling advisor went too far, and Caesar felt humiliated and violated.
He ordered the man to be executed.
The first advisor probably should have whispered “Tickler, thou art mortal” now and then.
Robbery
When people asked Willie Sutton why he robbed banks, he never said “Because that’s where the money is!” as an answer.
No, the truth is that he robbed banks because that’s where the free toasters were.
“They must be really good toasters, too,” he’d say. “Otherwise, why would they hire armed guards to watch over them?”
If you pointed out that the armed guards were there to protect the money, he’d laugh. “Sure. Right.” And then he’d go to the store to buy more Pop Tarts.
“One day I’ll find that Milton,” he’d say, and then plan the next robbery.
Statistics
You know how statistics show that a gun kept in the home is 43 times more likely to be used on a member of the household than to be used in self-defense?
My cousin Fred lost his job a year ago. Since then, instead of searching for a job, he’s been on my couch, watching TV and stinking up the place.
Doesn’t help with the chores, either.
I can’t argue with statistics, so I shot him. 43 times.
Of course, I said it was in self-defense.
(Because you can’t clean a gun and have it go off 43 times accidentally.)
Puss In Boots
I never understood the story Puss In Boots.
I’ve never seen a cat walking around in boots.
However, I’ve owned a cat that pissed on my boots.
Maybe whoever wrote Puss In Boots had a cat that pissed on their boots, and they rubbed the cat’s nose in the pissed-on boots until the idea came to them for a Puss In Boots.
Probably not.
When my cat pissed on my boots, I came up with the idea for a boot rack in my closet, and closing the closet so the cat couldn’t get in there to piss on them again.
A Time
Ecclesiastes 3 tells us that there is a time for everything.
To die.
To weep.
To mourn.
Every time I look at the shelf I put your box of ashes on, these are the only three I can remember.
So, I put down the empty bottle of vodka, pick up a Bible, and read it to remind myself that there are other times.
To laugh.
To mend.
To heal.
And for a moment, I smile.
Then, a twenty-dollar bill falls out.
I put down the Bible, pick up the twenty, and think:
Oh good. I can get more vodka now.
Bob Dylan
Bob Dylan is an asshole.
Heaven doesn’t have a door to knock on.
It has gates. St. Peter stands at the Gates Of Heaven with a book, and the dead line up to find out if they get in.
You don’t have to bang on the gates, because St. Peter is always out there, waiting for the recently-deceased.
Well, not really waiting, since people are constantly dying and joining the line.
Does he ever get a break? And how does he get updates in that book?
After lying to us for decades, Bob Dylan sure as hell isn’t in it.
Nothing is off the table
My boss, the President, says that nothing is off the table.
Nothing’s fallen off of it, either. It’s a very sturdy table. Unlike most tables, which have a bit of wobble in them due to uneven legs or a warp in the floorboards.
Sometimes, he puts beverages on the table. I make sure there’s plenty of coasters for them.
You know, because coasters count, too. Nothing’s off of the table, remember?
Oh, and dust. Lots of dust on that table. Dust isn’t nothing, either.
I just know it’s not easy to dust when you can’t take anything off the table.