If the rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain, where does the rest of the rain in Spain fall?
My elocution tutor didn’t know. He just wanted me to repeat this phrase and didn’t want me getting off tangent, digging through the library for meteorological tables from the Iberian peninsula.
When I was done with Professor Higgins, I asked Doctor Odd about the rain in Spain.
He laughed. “When I am done with my Doomsday Cannon, it will rain fire and death upon Spain!”
I asked my parents if we could go to Paris instead of Madrid this year.
Tag: silly
Candy Corn
Here at Boone Farms, we’ve been bit by this ass-nasty drought just like everybody else.
But instead of just watching our corn and soybeans and other of our traditional crops burn in the fields, we went all-in with a different crop:
Candy corn.
What? You think that stuff gets made in candy factories?
Boy, do you got your shit wrong there, son!
Candy corn grows on stalks just like the normal stuff, but it don’t need rain and sun.
Just corn syrup and coloring.
Plus, those Easter Peeps love this shit.
(But I must admit, I miss the chicken eggs.)
Bacon Stockings
As a society, we’re obsessed with bacon.
If it isn’t bacon-flavored, it looks like bacon.
I’ve seen a bacon-patterned knit scarf. It’s like wrapping a slice of bacon around your neck.
And I know a fashion designer who is making photograph-sourced bacon stockings.
They have the all striations and marbelization of natural bacon, very lifelike.
And very creepy.
But, if you think about it, it’s a lot more sanitary than using real bacon on your legs.
Sure, the grease will help them stick, but once a stray dog catches the scent, you’re going to get chased all the way home.
The Revolution
People are talking about a revolution with this Occupy Wall Street thing, but I’m not so sure about it.
I’m busy watching television, surfing porn, and eating Big Macs. The most I’ll do is Retweet or Like or Plus One the revolution.
The first man up against the wall when the revolution comes will be Banksy, because he’ll be tagging it with something insightful and cool and clever as the crowd starts lining up the crooked bankers and dirty lawyers and inside traders and economic traitors.
The problem with being famously anonymous is that you can’t prove who you are.
Stick To The Point
Our meetings used to go on far too long and never accomplished anything. People would get off the point too easily, or get mired in conflicting agendas.
So, we hired a barbarian from the steppes of Turkey to manage discussions.
Ugdur doesn’t even need to reach for his flail anymore, let alone whallop anyone with it.
Just by raising his eyebrow, we put down our Blackberries, reach consensus quickly, and get back to work.
Sadly, we had to fire Ugdur.
Caught stealing office supplies, and he attacked the receptionist.
If you’re going to pillage and plunder, stick to the shareholders.
Elephants
Kelly searched the classifieds for a bathtub big enough to drown an elephant in.
“Money’s no object,” she told herself, wringing her hands. “This is justice.”
It took a flatbed and a crane to deliver it.
However, she never thought about how she’d get it into the house, so the tub ended up in the back yard.
“It’s an above-ground pool,” she told the neighbors, and she hired men to build a deck around it.
“And a ramp,” she said. “A very sturdy ramp.”
She’s sitting on her porch, with a bag of peanuts, waiting… waiting…
Do you hear elephants?
Theater
The old theater was in ruins.
The mayor was an architect, and he drew up plans to revive it.
His wife was good with numbers, and she applied for grants, loan guarantees and stimulus money.
Her brother was a contractor. Another brother handled materials and supplies.
Cousins got hired on to handle the labor, the electric, the pipes, and the rest of the building.
They handled the parking lot, sidewalks, landscaping, and trees, too.
The grand opening was scheduled, posters went up, and so did the theater… in flames.
The mayor’s son sold insurance, and they all vanished like smoke.
St. Bactine
Of all the priests and monks in the world, we are the clumsiest by far.
The Church calls us “The Order Of Saint Bactine.”
Not a day goes by where one of us doesn’t trip over a cassock, knock over a chair, stumble on the steps, or get a paper cut in the library.
Some say it’s an expression of the stigmata, but Christ was nailed through the ankles and wrists, not dragged around on his elbows and knees.
A demon, perhaps?
Unlikely.
Instead of an exorcist, we need ergonomics consultants and an interior decorator.
And elbow and knee pads.
The Evil Clown
Walking home from work, I saw a strange sight.
An evil clown was at the corner, waving a sign advertising a costume shop.
Halloween is next week, you know.
Anyway, I watched the evil clown dance and wave his sign at the passing traffic.
Not the most dignified of jobs, I know, but it’s still a job.
Plus, it’s unlikely that it’ll be outsourced to India, since there’s no point in some clown in Bangalore waving a sign around there when the store it’s advertising is in Houston, Texas.
“The economy’s looking up,” I said, and went along my way.
Billy Hill
My name is William Hill.
Call me William.
Do not call me Billy.
In school, the teacher would read the roll call.
So, he’d read my name as Hill Billy.
And everyone would laugh.
They’d ask me if I bathed in a creek, slept in a pig pen, or if my dad made moonshine.
Yes, I bathed in a creek.
Yes, I slept in a pigpen.
And, yes, my dad made moonshine.
It was the best moonshine in the state, and when he got a distillery license, we got filthy stinking rich.
(Okay, so maybe the stink was the pigs.)