People with short arms shouldn't fly. It's simple aerodynamics. A physics problem where x = crumpled. Neil Young once sang, "Flying on the ground is wrong." We wouldn't say it's wrong exactly, but your narrow streets are definitely a bitch. Our arms are kind of short but then again so are we. Being shortish has its disadvantages, but it beats the shit out of gangly. There's nothing worse than a gangly person. Say you're playing pickup basketball and here comes a gangly motherfucker. If you're smart you'll say, "No, gangly motherfucker, you cannot play. You're too gangly." Also bad is the apelike combination of short build and long arms. This type is personified by the famous Littonian Dennis "Monk" Crabbs, who for all we know is the Missing Link. Say you're playing pickup basketball and here comes Monk Crabbs. If you're smart you'll say, "Here's the ball Monk." Then use the time it takes for him to eat it to make your getaway.
Occasionally somebody takes us seriously. We cannot tell you how much this scares us. When we were in the 'Nam, we had this buddy named Vince who believed every word we said. He died horribly. Later, after we finished our second tour as a LURP, we were walking down the street in San Fran and we couldn't believe all the longhairs. It was like the whole world had changed while we were gone. We tried to fit in, grew our hair past our collar and even bought a pair of striped bellbottoms, but we couldn't understand where anybody was coming from. Everyone around us had like a completely naive and simplistic view of the universe that excluded the reality of omnipresent human evil. They didn't see Vince step on a Chicom No. 8 dual-purpose mine and fly up into the trees and never come back down. There was no place in their world view for that kind of intense Valley of the Shadow shit. They were all dinky dau for fucking flowers.
Besides the fact that it's fixed, is the stakes aren't high enough. Six more weeks of winter, five more weeks of winter, who gives a shit? Now say, for example, we change the rules so that if the groundhog comes out of his hole and sees his shadow, each and every human on the planet has to move to the first country to their left. Suddenly people would have something riding on the whole groundhog-shadow business. Because some of them would like to move to the first country on their left, and some people wouldn't. You'd have the kind of yearly event that people would care about. They'd care enough, lots of them, to threaten the groundhog's life.
Monday, February 2, could be the first day of your new life in Bazookistan
People who use the word smidgen. God we hate the word smidgen. Yesterday our doctor who told us we have cancer. But just a smidgen. That's what he said, we have a smidgen of cancer. We asked him if that was less than a pinch of cancer and he said, "A smidgen less." So evidently two smidgens equal a pinch. We're not certain where your dollop fits in, although we're pretty sure it's at least a couple of smidgens. We suspect that a dollop of cancer is about the same thing as a pat of cancer. Only, you know, softer.
This morning we discovered that our blog has a "word-banning" function. This allows us to finally address the use of a word we think everyone will agree is always uncalled for. We're referring, of course, to the word Moist. Henceforth any attempt to use the "M-word" on this blog will be automatically blocked. We hope this will put a halt to the flippant tossing around of a word that, no matter what the context, is hateful, hurtful and decidedly unpleasant.
Tomorrow marks the 50th Anniversary of "The Day the Music Died." Everyone, including aboriginals living in the dense jungle of New Guinea, is familiar with the story: on February 3, 1958 a small Beech Bonanza (serial number N3794N) took off from Iowa's Mason City Municipal Airport bound for Fargo, North Dakota. About five miles outside Mason City the plane crashed in a corn field farmed by one Albert Juhl, taking with it the dreams of an entire generation. On board were three up-and-coming rock'n'roll musicians, the most famous of whom was Buddy Holly. He had big glasses and a gun was found in the false bottom of his overnight bag. You connect the dots. Also on the plane was Richie Valens, whose La Bamba we once performed with our band Lesbian Boy at a club in Raleigh, North Carolina before one non-bar employee, an old crackhead. Talk about the music dying. The third musician wasn't even supposed to be on the plane. In an ironic twist, he won his seat in a coin flip with Crickets guitarist Tommy Alsup, who would later open a bar called the Heads Up Saloon as a way of rubbing it in. The third musician's name, of course, was Otis Redding. Tragically, he would die for a second time in a plane crash on December 10, 1967.
photograph of weird shrub growing in field outside Littlestown, Pennsylvania
Should we ever have a kid intend to name him Donny. If he's a girl we'll still name his Donny, and beat his girlish ass on a daily basis until he toughens up, the little nancy boy. Because you've got to toughen your kid up, and Donny's a tough kid name. Donnys never volunteer to be crosswalk guards. Donnys come home from their very first day of elementary school with self-inflicted cigarette burns they got proving they were tougher than their classmate Danny, which is another tough kid name. Which is why if we have twins, we plan to name them Donny and Danny. Should we have triplets, we'll let the three of them fight it out for the two names. The guy who comes out on the top will be Donny. The runner-up will be Danny. The weak sister will be shit out of luck.