After being such a barely there blogger for the past few months, I'm kinda late to the game. You guys got a big ol' fat head start on me, but I'm only just now beginning to "appreciate" the "new and improved" version of Blogger that's been foisted upon us by the mighty blogging powers that be. (Yippee, huh?) Turned out, I freaked out over nothing. Yeah, the draft of this old post looked weird... I mean, the html coding showed in lieu of the pics and videos that were in the earlier post... but that was it. Much to my delight, everything re-appeared like magic once I hit the preview button. So not a big deal. But even if it had been, it would've totally been worth it. See, my wonderful son-in-law is verrrry musically talented (in oh-so many ways) and I simply HAD to rerun this oldie-but-goodie "just for him." And for you guys, too, of course. I mean, we ALL need to lighten up and laugh, right? (Right!)
Thought for the day: Beans, beans, the musical fruit; the more you eat, the more you toot. The more you toot, the better you'll feel, so beans, beans for every meal!
Nope; it wasn't ME!
Have you ever wondered what makes something funny? What makes one person laugh uproariously at a comedian, while the next holds his nose and says the routine stinks? I mean, we all laugh at something. Even little babies laugh.
Music and laughter ... universal languages. Is there anything better than the sound of a baby's unbridled belly laugh? That in itself sounds like the sweetest music, doesn't it? So we cross our eyes, stick out our tongues, and make all kinds of faces at babies. We tickle their chubby little bellies, make utter fools out of ourselves, and generate weird noises... all in the hopes of getting to hear their precious laughter.
And what, I ask you, does almost every baby in the world think is funny?
Apparently, they're partial to... farts ... those musical toots.
Please don't think lesser of me, but (shhh!) so am I. There must be something wrong with me. Maybe a twisted kink in my DNA helix has stunted my maturation process. That would explain it. Why else would a woman my age still think flatulence is so darned funny?
I know. Embarrassing, isn't it?
What three qualities matter most to you in the people you hang around with? For me, it'd have to be kindness, intelligence, and a good sense of humor. But lately, I've begun to question the qualityof my sense of humor, because I must admit, few things are off-limits when it comes to cracking a joke or twisting words into a groan-worthy pun, and it doesn't take much to make me laugh.
Like last week. While talking to a gastroenterologist's appointment nurse on the phone, I asked her where I should report. Upstairs, where my regular doc saw patients? No, I was to go downstairs. "Figures," I said. "In the bowels of the building." Nothing. (Tough audience.) So I apologized, and said she must hear that all the time. Nope. I was the first. See? Sick sense of humor.
Then there was the time Smarticus came home from a hunting trip and told me about a harrowing experience he'd had after one of the other fellas fell out of a tree stand. While driving his friend to the hospital, my poor hapless hubby looked out his truck window and saw a wheel roll past... HIS wheel. Needless to say, he got everything fixed, and got the guy to the hospital okay, but what would YOU have said to him under the circumstances? Me? I sang. Uh-huh. I sang, You picked a fine time to leave me, loose wheel ... See? Sick, sick, sick. But not as sick as my penchant for potty humor.
Years ago, when our daughter was about eleven, she ... how shall I say this ... cut the cheese in church. Not noisily, mind you, but with an exuberant and lingering bouquet. Most normal mothers would have scolded her for not saving her stink for the bathroom, or at least given her a suitably disapproving look. Not me. I leaned over and whispered, "Gives a whole new meaning to church pew, huh?"
Fortunately, we weren't asked to vacate the premises.
This is an ACTUAL musical!
But I can't help it. I think the sounds of flatulence are absolutely hysterical.
Call me gauche, but the very idea of a musical about a man's fartistic abilities strikes me as fall-down-on-the-floor funny. (I mean, really! Can you imagine a man on stage tooting his arse like a trumpet?) But I'm not kidding! 'Twas an honest-to-goodness off-Broadway play intended to delight all lovers of potty humor and "pull my finger" shenanigans. Entitled The Fartiste, this play, based on fart artist (I kid you not!) Joseph Pujol, a 19th century Moulin Rouge tooting star, blasted its way to some great reviews and thunderous applause. Pujol had the unusual ability to suck air in through his anus, and then blow it out again, which enabled him to use his posterior portal to tootle tunes on a trumpet, emulate the sounds of thunder and ripping fabric, and even to blow out the theater's gas jet lights. What can I say? From what I've read about it, the play didn't stink.
Can you watch this video without laughing? I can't.
A few years ago, Smarticus and I saw two boys in a Dollar Store aisle playing with Whoopee cushions they'd pulled off the shelf. The more rude noises they squeezed out, the more they laughed. Um, me too. Matter of fact, I just HAD to get me one of those things. For one of our grandsons, of course. Didn't mean I couldn't entertain myself by squeezing it as we went through the store. (WHAT? I had to make sure it worked, didn't I?) Anyhow, the intended recipient of the grand gift didn't enjoy it nearly as much as his younger siblings. Especially the twenty-month-old, who would squeeze out a good one, wrinkle his nose, and say, "EWWWWW! Schtinky!" Then he'd laugh hysterically. Um, me too.
It was about then I began to wonder if some aspects of my humor weren't a tad juvenile. I mean, laughing at the same thing a twenty-month-old found amusing? The same thing that makes babies all over the world laugh?
But, as it turns out, I'm not alone. That book on the right? Belongs to my husband. One of our grandsons picked it out for him.The shameful truth is ... our whole family cracks up at bathroom humor.
And we aren't the only ones. The reason for this, I don't know, but many people find flatulence hilarious. Not burps, or hiccoughs, or sneezes ... just poots.
Smarticus once emailed me a newspaper article about a little girl who won a speech contest with her speech about ... you guessed it ... farts. I even read an article in a scientific journal about a medical researcher whose major focus is studying ... you guessed it ... farts. (Guess his lab is in the bowels of the building too, eh?) Sorry. And another about an Australian study to determine whether pooting in the O.R. could contaminate the field of operation. The conclusion? There's a minute possibility, but only if the perpetrator is naked and taking direct aim at the surgical site. But, don't worry about your surgeon eating beans. According to the study, flatus germs are as benign as the bacteria in your yogurt. Both of these article, I must say, although reporting on the results of serious studies, (or as serious as studies in this particular field can be) were full of puns, innuendos, and fart jokes. Y'know, like something I would've written.
Kinda made me proud.
So, um bottom line, maybe I'm okay after all. Right. I'm a mature sophisticated woman. (Shut up. This is MY fantasy.) And maybe I'm not the only one with an inner child squealing I don't wanta pull your finger.
So, how's the wind blow with you? Fart jokes crack you up, too, or do they just plain stink? And what's the most inappropriate thing you've ever said or done in the name of humor? Come on. You can tell me ...
There was an old fellow named Clyde
Who fell into an outhouse and died.
One day, his brother
Fell into another, And now they're in-turd side by side.
Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.
[Hi, y'all. With Father's Day coming up this Sunday, I thought I'd be a lazy slug share a favorite old post with you about... what else? Fathers. When I used to blog five days a week, Friday posts always included a Weird News Stories of the Week feature. Although the news from the original 2011 post may not be new any more, the stories are still plenty weird, so I'm leaving them. (Weird is good, right?) Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.]
**************************************
Thought for the day: I never got along with my dad. Kids used to say, "My dad can beat up your dad." I'd say, "Yeah? When?" [comedian Bill Hicks]
If I remember right, that picture of my father, brother, and me was taken on an Easter Sunday. A long time ago. You know, back in the Dark Ages. We were mostly happy in those days, living in a tiny rental home in a fairly quiet neighborhood, with a decent-sized yard, and some room to roam around us. Things were never quite the same after we left there and moved into a row home with a postage stamp yard, and wall-to-wall people. I often wonder if our lives would have been different, easier maybe, if we'd stayed in what we thought of as the country.
He was a very difficult man with a lot of personal demons, our father, but I guess he did the best he knew how. Now that he's been gone for a number of years, I do my best to remember the good times. Like the years we spent in that home, and the day my mother took that picture. Back in the Dark Ages.
I had another post prepared for today, but in honor of Father's Day, I opted to post something about fathers, instead. The bulk of this post is a re-run of a Father's Day post from 2011, originally titled, In Honor of Toasted Marshmallows, which describes my Smarticus pretty darned well. He can be tough and crusty on the outside... sometimes too tough... but on the inside, he's very sweet and gooey. Both qualities made him a wonderful dad, especially since he had me to balance things out a little. Because he tended to be too hard on our boys, and too easy on our daughter, I had to be the Enforcer with our daughter, and the Mediator for our sons. (I mean, really, grounding them for life was a tad too much...) Anyhow, he was, and is, a terrific farter father, and I'm pleased to say both of our sons are superior farters fathers, as well. And you know, no matter how tall our kids are, I'm pretty sure they'll always look up to their dad.
This picture was taken quite a few years ago, too, but not in the Dark Ages. Our kids are no longer small enough to climb all over Smarticus, but... our grandchildren are. (Some of 'em, anyway.)
Never raise your hand to your kids. It leaves your groin unprotected. [Red Buttons]
There should be a children's song: "If you're happy and you know it, keep it to yourself, and let your dad sleep." [Jim Gaffigan]
Okay, shall we revisit that old slightly edited post now?
888888888888888888888888888888888888888
Thought for the day: Howcum a man can wait patiently for hours on end for a fish to bite, and can wait patiently in the freezing cold for hours on end, waiting for a deer to come by, but can't tolerate so much as a ten minute wait for food in a restaurant ... where it's a sure thing?
[seniorark.com]
You probably wouldn't be surprised to know the highest volume of long distance phone calls always occurs on Mother's Day. Not that there aren't plenty made on Father's Day, too. But most of them are collect. Why is it moms get the thoughtful gifts, while dads can usually count on getting aftershave or yet another tie they'll never wear? And when Father's Day rolls around, why do the kids think it's okay to buy dear old Dad something from the discount bin at the Dollar Store, and what's more, pay for it with change left over from the cash he gave them to buy something really nice for Mother's Day? As Bill Cosby put it, Fatherhood is pretending the present you love most is soap-on-a-rope.
Just because the phrase Pull my finger is in the lexicon of fathers worldwide doesn't mean they aren't as sentimental as mothers. Not at all. They just don't show it as easily. Very often, they're like toasted marshmallows: crusty on the outside, and all sweet and mushy on the inside.
In honor of Father's Day, I'd like to share some excerpts with you from an article you may have seen before. Geezers has appeared countless places without attribution, but as best I could discern, it may have been written in 2001 by a West Virginia chaplain by the name of Koren Fae Rawlings:
[morguefile]
Geezers are easy to spot. At parades, they're the ones standing a little taller and often saluting when the flag passes by. At sporting events and at ceremonies on national holidays, they're the ones who stand erect and hold their hands over their hearts when the national anthem is played.
If you bump into an old geezer on the sidewalk, he'll apologize. Pass a geezer on the street, and he'll nod, maybe say hello. Geezers trust strangers and are courtly toward women. They hold the door for the next person, and always, when walking, make sure the lady is on the inside.
Geezers have moral courage. They're the ones staring down those making offensive remarks or acting in an offensive manner. Geezers seldom brag unless it's about their grandchildren.
This country needs geezers. We need their decent values and their common sense. We need their breadth of experience, their depth of knowledge and high ideals.
Thank God for all Old Geezers.
+++
And thank God for fathers.
Mark Twain said, "When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years." And Charles Wadsworth said, "By the time a man realizes that maybe his father was right, he usually has a son who thinks he's wrong."
So give your dad a break. Even if he's not the affectionate sort, and his last hug felt more like a wrestling hold, let him know how much you appreciate him. Because he may not tell you how to live, but he lives, and lets you watch him do it.
To all you fathers, a very happy Father's Day. And to all of you who still have fathers, go ahead ... make him happy. Pull his finger.
And now, 'tis time for the (ta DA!)
Weirdest News Stories of the Week
Pull my hoof
Cows have taken a bit of heat for the amount of methane they produce, and some countries have even considered imposing a "methane tax" on the people who own them. In 2008, researchers in Argentina hooked cows to the bizarre-looking contraption on the left to collect their methane, quantify it, and ascertain how much it contributed to the country's greenhouse emissions. As it turned out, they contribute quite a bit. Final results indicated that as much as 30% of the country's greenhouse emissions consist of cow farts and burps.
*** Now, the Australian government is taking a hard sniff at camel belches. With an estimated 1.2 million feral camels roaming the outback, each belching approximately one hundred gaseous pounds of methane every year, that racks up to a global warming impact equivalent to 1.1 tons of carbon dioxide. Per camel. The recent legislative proposal would allow sharpshooters to earn carbon credits by killing camels, and then these credits would subsequently be sold to global polluters to offset their own emissions. Bureaucrats are expected to reach a decision on this proposal by the end of the year.
I'd walk a mile for a roll of Tums. [morguefile]
*** The city of Nederland, Colorado, is offering to sell the celebratory rights for ... a dead man. When 89-year-old Bredo Mortoel died, his family decided to preserve his body, in hopes of one day being able to bring him back to life. So his body, packed in dry ice, resides in an outdoor shed, and for the past ten years, this small mountain town has been celebrating this deceased man on ice with an annual festival, replete with a parade of hearses, frozen salmon tossing, and coffin races. Believe it or not, it's been a very popular festival, but you know how the economy is. The Chamber of Commerce says the festival has simply become too expensive, so they're trying to sell the rights to it, and hope an event company will step up to keep this unusual festival going.
our daughter and her husband
*** Ever wonder what those Scotsmen wear under their kilts? The answer became clear for recent groom Angus McClure, who sat his kilt-clad bottom on his new bride's knee. Unfortunately, his bare and poorly-wiped bottom left a brown "skid mark" on her pristine gown. Let's just say she wasn't at all impressed. In fact, she decked him, and a knock-down, drag-out, free-for-all followed. Police say they've seen nasty wedding party brawls before, but none quite this nasty. Seven people were hauled off to jail. The bride and groom? Once they sobered up, the report is they reconciled, and fortunately, have no memory of the melee. Let's hope no one took pictures.
Have a wonderful Father's Day, y'all.
Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.
Thought for the day: I never got along with my dad. Kids used to say, "My dad can beat up your dad." I'd say, "Yeah? When?" [comedian Bill Hicks]
If I remember right, that picture of my father, brother, and me was taken on an Easter Sunday. A long time ago. You know, back in the Dark Ages. We were mostly happy in those days, living in a tiny rental home in a fairly quiet neighborhood, with a decent-sized yard, and some room to roam around us. Things were never quite the same after we left there and moved into a row home with a postage stamp yard, and wall-to-wall people. I often wonder if our lives would have been different, easier maybe, if we'd stayed in what we thought of as the country.
He was a very difficult man with a lot of personal demons, our father, but I guess he did the best he knew how. Now that he's been gone for a few years, I do my best to remember the good times. Like the years we spent in that home, and the day my mother took that picture. Back in the Dark Ages.
I had another post prepared for today, but in honor of Father's Day, I opted to post something about fathers, instead. The bulk of this post is a re-run of a Father's Day post from 2011, originally titled, In Honor of Toasted Marshmallows, which describes my Smarticus pretty darned well. He can be tough and crusty on the outside... sometimes too tough... but on the inside, he's very sweet and gooey. Both qualities made him a wonderful dad, especially since he had me to balance things out a little. Because he tended to be too hard on our boys, and too easy on our daughter, I had to be the Enforcer with our daughter, and the Mediator for our sons. (I mean, really, grounding them for life was a tad too much...) Anyhow, he was, and is, a terrific farter father, and I'm pleased to say both of our sons are superior farters fathers, as well. And you know, no matter how tall our kids are, I'm pretty sure they'll always look up to their dad.
This picture was taken quite a few years ago, too, but not in the Dark Ages. Our kids are no longer small enough to climb all over Smarticus, but... our grandchildren are. (Some of 'em, anyway.)
Never raise your hand to your kids. It leaves your groin unprotected. [Red Buttons]
There should be a children's song: "If you're happy and you know it, keep it to yourself, and let your dad sleep. [Jim Gaffigan]
Okay, shall we revisit that old slightly edited post now? I'm even gonna leave in the four-year-old weird news bits...
888888888888888888888888888888888888888
Thought for the day: Howcum a man can wait patiently for hours on end for a fish to bite, and can wait patiently in the freezing cold for hours on end, waiting for a deer to come by, but can't tolerate so much as a ten minute wait for food in a restaurant ... where it's a sure thing?
[seniorark.com]
You probably wouldn't be surprised to know the highest volume of long distance phone calls always occurs on Mother's Day. Not that there aren't plenty made on Father's Day, too. But most of them are collect. Why is it moms get the thoughtful gifts, while dads can usually count on getting aftershave or yet another tie they'll never wear? And when Father's Day rolls around, why do the kids think it's okay to buy dear old Dad something from the discount bin at the Dollar Store, and what's more, pay for it with change left over from the cash he gave them to buy something really nice for Mother's Day? As Bill Cosby put it, Fatherhood is pretending the present you love most is soap-on-a-rope.
Just because the phrase Pull my finger is in the lexicon of fathers worldwide doesn't mean they aren't as sentimental as mothers. Not at all. They just don't show it as easily. Very often, they're like toasted marshmallows: crusty on the outside, and all sweet and mushy on the inside.
In honor of Father's Day, I'd like to share some excerpts with you from an article you may have seen before. Geezers has appeared countless places without attribution, but as best I could discern, it may have been written in 2001 by a West Virginia chaplain by the name of Koren Fae Rawlings:
[morguefile]
Geezers are easy to spot. At parades, they're the ones standing a little taller and often saluting when the flag passes by. At sporting events and at ceremonies on national holidays, they're the ones who stand erect and hold their hands over their hearts when the national anthem is played.
If you bump into an old geezer on the sidewalk, he'll apologize. Pass a geezer on the street, and he'll nod, maybe say hello. Geezers trust strangers and are courtly toward women. They hold the door for the next person, and always, when walking, make sure the lady is on the inside.
Geezers have moral courage. They're the ones staring down those making offensive remarks or acting in an offensive manner. Geezers seldom brag unless it's about their grandchildren.
This country needs geezers. We need their decent values and their common sense. We need their breadth of experience, their depth of knowledge and high ideals.
Thank God for all Old Geezers.
+++
And thank God for fathers.
Mark Twain said, "When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years." And Charles Wadsworth said, "By the time a man realizes that maybe his father was right, he usually has a son who thinks he's wrong."
So give your dad a break. Even if he's not the affectionate sort, and his last hug felt more like a wrestling hold, let him know how much you appreciate him. Because he may not tell you how to live, but he lives, and lets you watch him do it.
To all you fathers, a very happy Father's Day. And to all of you who still have fathers, go ahead ... make him happy. Pull his finger.
And now, 'tis time for the (ta DA!)
Weirdest News Stories of the Week
Pull my hoof
Cows have taken a bit of heat for the amount of methane they produce, and some countries have even considered imposing a "methane tax" on the people who own them. In 2008, researchers in Argentina hooked cows to the bizarre-looking contraption on the left to collect their methane, quantify it, and ascertain how much it contributed to the country's greenhouse emissions. As it turned out, they contribute quite a bit. Final results indicated that as much as 30% of the country's greenhouse emissions consist of cow farts and burps.
*** Now, the Australian government is taking a hard sniff at camel belches. With an estimated 1.2 million feral camels roaming the outback, each belching approximately one hundred gaseous pounds of methane every year, that racks up to a global warming impact equivalent to 1.1 tons of carbon dioxide. Per camel. The recent legislative proposal would allow sharpshooters to earn carbon credits by killing camels, and then these credits would subsequently be sold to global polluters to offset their own emissions. Bureaucrats are expected to reach a decision on this proposal by the end of the year.
I'd walk a mile for a roll of Tums. [morguefile]
*** The city of Nederland, Colorado, is offering to sell the celebratory rights for ... a dead man. When 89-year-old Bredo Mortoel died, his family decided to preserve his body, in hopes of one day being able to bring him back to life. So his body, packed in dry ice, resides in an outdoor shed, and for the past ten years, this small mountain town has been celebrating this deceased man on ice with an annual festival, replete with a parade of hearses, frozen salmon tossing, and coffin races. Believe it or not, it's been a very popular festival, but you know how the economy is. The Chamber of Commerce says the festival has simply become too expensive, so they're trying to sell the rights to it, and hope an event company will step up to keep this unusual festival going.
our daughter and her husband
*** Ever wonder what those Scotsmen wear under their kilts? The answer became clear for recent groom Angus McClure, who sat his kilt-clad bottom on his new bride's knee. Unfortunately, his bare and poorly-wiped bottom left a brown "skid mark" on her pristine gown. Let's just say she wasn't at all impressed. In fact, she decked him, and a knock-down, drag-out, free-for-all followed. Police say they've seen nasty wedding party brawls before, but none quite this nasty. Seven people were hauled off to jail. The bride and groom? Once they sobered up, the report is they reconciled, and fortunately, have no memory of the melee. Let's hope no one took pictures.
Have a wonderful Father's Day, y'all.
Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.
Thought for the day: Doctors are men who prescribe medicines of which they know little, to cure diseases of which they know less, in human beings of whom they know nothing. [Voltaire]
Actually, I have a lot of respect for the medical profession. However, some of the cures foisted upon us peons over the years? Not so much. You've probably seen ads on TV about the possible side effects of various medications (described soothingly in a well-modulated mellow voice, of course) that are horrifyingly worse than the ailment they're intended to treat. Um, yeah. I think I'll suffer through a little discomfort as opposed to risking that oh-so-dainty-sounding anal leakage or the (Pbbbt! Don't worry about it!) occasional heart stoppage.
But consider for a moment what treatments looked like in Voltaire's time. No wonder Monsieur Voltaire spoke so disparagingly about doctors. After all, docs of his day thought it was a swell idea to drill holes in their patients' skulls.And I'm not talking about a little postmortem artistic creativity here, either. No sirree, those people weren't done using those skulls yet. Yep, back then if someone yelled, "You idiot! Do you have a hole in your head?" the answer was very likely to be, "Why, yes... yes, I do."
Doctors back then also had a thing about removing some of that pesky blood from their patients' bodies. If leeches didn't do the job quickly enough, the medicos could always count on a judiciously-applied cutting instrument. ("The patient looks to be anemic. Quick... hand me the knife! Her blood is killing her...")
But as fascinating as skull-drilling and blood-letting may be, we're gonna consider another kind of treatment altogether. Let's just say... it ain't prune juice.
Here we have a sketch of a simple portable device commonly used in those days. (Heck, you never can tell when ya might need a shot up the arse when you're away from home, right?) The largest part (A) was made from a pig's bladder. Parts D and E are a mouthpiece and tap. (Wait! Wait! A mouthpiece???) We all know where that nefarious part K goes, and FG? It's a smoking pipe. (A pipe? Back up.. a mouthpiece?) What can I say? This handy-dandy take-anywhere device was for blowing tobacco smoke up... well... you know exactly where they blew it.
1776 textbook drawing of a tobacco smoke enema
Yep, tobacco was considered medicinal, and its smoke, practically a panacea. Would you believe Hippocrates recommended smoke inhalation to treat female diseases, and Pliny the Elder even recommended it to get rid of coughs? (That seems a bit counter-intuitive, doesn't it?) Later on, Spanish botanist and physician Nicolas Monardes (1493-1588) practically waxed poetic about the miraculous healing powers of tobacco smoke, and he advocated using it to treat the common cold, cancer, headaches, respiratory problems, stomach cramps, gout, intestinal worms, and the aforementioned female diseases. What's more, in the good old days, doctors believed tobacco smoke worked equally well whether you sucked it in one end or had it blown up the other.
Glyster is just a fancy old-fashioned name for enema, and a Dr. Houlston wrote the following poem in 1774 as a catchy little guide on how to resuscitate a patient :
Tobacco glyster, breath and bleed Keep warm and rub till you succeed. And spare no pains for what you do; May one day be repaid to you.
You can shove that cure...
Tobacco smoke enemas became even trendier when Europeans found out natives in the New World used 'em, too. Betcha didn't know Indians didn't just use smoke signals to communicate, didja?
It may be hard to believe today, but tobacco and tobacco smoke was widely recognized as having medicinal properties until the early 19th century. That's about the time scientists decided nicotine was actually a poison, which kicked the whole smoke enema treatment in the keister. So to speak.
Dr. Houlston's poem is all well and good, (which is more than we could say about his patients) but I think it's time for a more modern take on the subject. It's time for (ahem) mytake on smoke enemas...
She regretted eating the extra fiber beans.
A call girl once had a cold And went to her doctor, I'm told. He blew smoke up her butt And into her gut— In two weeks, she felt good as gold. Then few called on her for a fling, For she developed a peculiar thing: When she coughed or passed gas, Smoke puffed out her ass In a perfect, but smelly, smoke ring.
Turns out, like some other early medical practices, smoke enemas weren't all they were cracked up to be... so now you know where the expression, Don't blow smoke up my ass originated. See what delightful things you learn chez moi? (I don't know about you, but as for me? I'd rather let the cold go away by itself.)
He has been a doctor for a year now and has had two patients, no three, I think — yes, three; I attended their funerals. [Mark Twain]
You may not be able to read a doctor's handwriting and prescription, but you'll notice his bills are neatly typewritten. [Earl Wilson]
My doctor gave me six months to live, but when I couldn't pay the bill, he gave me six more. [Walter Matthau]
When I told my doctor I couldn't afford an operation, he offered to touch up my X-rays. [Henny Youngman]
Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.
Thought for the day: Let advertisers spend the same amount of money improving their product that they do on advertising and they wouldn't have to advertise. [Will Rogers]
Do you remember when cigarettes were touted as being good for us? Yep, according to the ads of years past, they'd freshen our breath, relax us, and by golly, a pretty woman would do just about anything for a man who blew smoke in her face.
Advertising is legalized lying. [H.G. Wells]
Ah, but that was a different time. Those were the days when leggy packs of cigarettes pranced and danced across our TV screens, usually accompanied by a catchy jingle or slogan. (I remember quite a few; how about you?) Even cartoon characters were used to sell us on the pleasures of smoking.
Advertising reflects the mores of society, but it does not influence them. [David Ogilvy]
Hard to believe, but it wasn't until 1965 that the U.S. Surgeon General proclaimed smoking hazardous to our health. Not hazardous enough for the military to stop dropping packs of cigarettes to our soldiers in Vietnam, mind you, but hazardous enough for cigarette advertising on TV to be eventually outlawed.
Like Ogilvy said, ads do reflect mores and attitudes of society. And to paraphrase the old Virginia Slim slogan, We've come a long way, baby. My brother sent me a terrific collection of old ads that aren't even close to being politically correct by today's standards. Care to take a gander at some of them? (We'll save the others for another time.)
Okay, let's take a commercial break right here. Time to check out this video of old '50s and '60s coffee commercials. Men may miss the good old days, when they were the undisputed kings of their castles, but I don't think too many of us little women will experience twinges of happy nostalgia at the sentiments expressed here...
So which of these old ads is your favorite?
Now, a more recent one to smell judge today's, um, winds of advertising. It'll blow you away. This spot was created by Canada's Ministry of Health about four months ago. Because of my keenly-developed and terribly sophisticated sense of humor, I think it's hilarious. Yep, I guess you could say it's a real... blast.
Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.
Good things may come in small packages, but that gold-covered fella in the picture isn't very small. (Or very dressed, either, for that matter.) The eleven-foot shivering statue, called Independent Man, stands tall atop Rhode Island's State House, 278 feet above the ground, and has been gazing out over the city of Providence since 1899.
Matter of fact, you could say he's looking out over the entire state. After all, the whole darned thing only measures thirty-seven miles from east to west, and forty-eight from north to south. Yep, that does make it one compact little package, but our smallest state is also one of our more independent ones. It's one of only two states (The other was Connecticut.) that refused to ratify the eighteenth amendment. In a state bearing the lofty motto Hope, and founded on principles of religious freedom and free speech, I don't reckon folks had much interest in raising a glass to prohibition.
Okay, enough small talk. Let's get right to it, and check out some pictures, shall we?
The White Horse Tavern, the oldest operating tavern in the country, was originally built in 1652, and then expanded in 1673 into the barn-like structure you see at right. Over the years, this building served not only as a popular watering hole, but also as a meetinghouse, courthouse, city hall, Tory headquarters, and boardinghouse. Last restored in 1952, the tavern is still a mighty popular place to hoist a few. (No wonder the state didn't support prohibition.)
How'd you like to wander through THIS library? Built in 1747, the Redwood Library in Newport is the oldest library in the U.S. still housed in its original building. I dunno if they carry those Fifty Shades books there, but I'll bet you could find some dandy leather-bound books bearing the unmistakable scent of days gone by.
[credit: Jess Webb, Wikipedia]
The country's oldest one-room schoolhouse, built in 1716, stands in Portsmouth. Although it's undergone some renovations, its frame is original.
Walking into the building must feel like taking a step back into history. Children who once sat at the desks are long gone, but their centuries-old graffiti still lingers on the walls for visitors to see. Also on the wall is a list of the rules... and punishments... that once governed the classroom:
Boys and girls playing together – 1 lash
Fighting at school – 5 lashes
Quarreling at school – 3 lashes
Climbing for every foot over 3 feet up a tree – 1 lash
Telling tales out of school – 8 lashes
Giving each other ill names – 3 lashes
Misbehaving to girls – 10 lashes
Leaving school without leave of the teacher – 4 lashes
Wearing long fingernails – 2 lashes
Boys going to the girls' play place – 3 lashes
Girls going to the boys' play place – 2 lashes
For every word you miss in your heart lessons without a good excuse – 1 lash
For not saying yes or no sir or yes or no marm – 2 lashes
Telling lies – 7 lashes
Swearing at school – 9 lashes
It should come as no surprise that the country's first Baptist meetinghouse calls Rhode Island home. After all, Roger Williams fled to Rhode Island to escape the restrictive Puritanical society found in other colonies. He established America's first Baptist church in Providence in 1638, and for sixty years, the congregation met in private homes or, weather permitting, outdoors. The church's first buildings were small and simple, and the current one, shown in the picture, was built in 1775.
But would you be surprised to know that North America's oldest Synagogue is located in Rhode Island, too? First built in 1763, Touro Synagogue also houses the United States' oldest Torah.
In his day, Williams was a bit of an outcast and rebelfor bucking Puritanical thinking to espouse freedoms of religion and speech. But these rights, as expressed in the constitution he wrote when establishing his colony, were later embraced in our country's constitution.
The New England Museum of Wireless and Steam, located in East Greenwich, has a ton of old radio gear, including an intact 1907 wireless station, as well as a wealth of old steam-run machinery. I'm gonna share a couple videos with you now. The first shows some of the steam machines, and the second shows a spark gap transmitter in action. (The spark gap video wasn't taken at the museum, but the generator in the video is very similar to one that's there.)
[credit: Matt H. Wade, Wikipedia]
The Breakers, a private home built for the Vanderbilt family in 1895, only has seventy rooms. To be more precise, the home was actually built in Newport as a summer homefor Cornelius Vanderbilt, so I guess that explains why its rooms didn't number in the triple digits, huh? Sitting on thirteen acres, this place cost twelve million dollars to build back then. In today's world, that equates to approximately three hundred and thirty-five million, less than it takes to run some small countries. Today, the Breakers is a National Historical Landmark, owned and operated by the Preservation Society of Newport County. So we might not be able to live in it, but we can visit. (And be grateful we don't have to clean all those rooms and wash all those windows...)
In Cumberland is Nine Men's Misery, the country's oldest known memorial to U.S. veterans. It honors colonists who lost their lives during King Philip's War of 1676.
Also in Rhode Island is the Memorial to Black Soldiers, built in Portsmouth to honor the many black soldiers who died while fighting in the Battle of Rhode Island... August 29, 1778.
Watch Hill's Flying Horse Carousel is the nation's oldest.
The country's (heck maybe the whole world's!) largest bug can be found in Providence, Rhode Island. Nibble Woodaway, a big blue termite, is fifty-eight feet long. Hmmm, I don't know that I'd care about seeing him, but there sure are a lot of other things in this little state I'd like to see. Wooden you?
Okay, it's time to move along and check out some of the laws still languishing on the books in this tiny state.
I guess kids there don't play cowboys and Indians anymore. Cap guns are illegal.
It's against the law to string a rope across a highway.
Control yourself. It's illegal to bite off another person's leg.
Riding a horse over any public highway for the purpose of racing or testing the horse's speed is against the law.
Exercising any labor, business, or work, or using any game, sport, play, or recreation, or causing any of the above to be done to or by your children, servants, or apprentices on a Sunday results in a five dollar fee for the first offense, and ten dollars for the second. (How about ministers?)
Professional sports, except ice polo and hockey, must obtain a license to play on Sunday.
Any marriage where either of the parties is an idiot or lunatic is null and void.
It's illegal to throw pickle juice on a trolley. (How about beans? Can ya throw beans?)
One must make a loud noise before passing a car on the left. (Better eat some of those beans.)
In Newport, it's illegal to smoke a pipe after sundown.
In Providence, it's against the law to wear transparent clothing. (Evidently, not all sightseeing is encouraged.)
And on Sundays, it's illegal to sell toothpaste and a toothbrush to the same customer. (This one's a real head-scratcher, isn't it?)
In Scituate, it's against the law to drive down any street with beer in your car, even if it's unopened. (I guess they want you to do your drinking at the White Horse Tavern, huh?)
******
Okay, boys and girls. It's that time again. Time for (ta-DA!) the
Weirdest News Stories of the Week
*** Have you ever done a backflip? In a car? On purpose...? A post about a small state deserves a big story about a small car... a Mini, to be exact. Believe it or not, stunt driver Guerlain Chicherit recently executed an amazing back flip in his Mini at the ski resort of Tignes in the French Alps. Wanta see?
[image from seniorark]
*** A New Zealand police officer was running a wee hours of the morning routine patrol this week when things suddenly turned rather wild and woolly. He thought there was something odd about the 1994 Ford Laser hatchback he spotted... and he was right. Inside the very small car were four men. And ten hog-tied sheep. Nope, they weren't out on some kind of a kinky date. These very baaaaad men were stealing the tasty critters. Since it is currently the middle of a very hot summer in New Zealand, I suspect the men were't all that upset to be relieved of their hot dates. What? You don't think ten wool-covered critters in a compact car are hot... and smelly? (I'll bet they had to take a hose to the interior of that car.)
*** Remember TV's Mr. Ed? A horse is a horse, of course, of course, and no one can talk to a horse, of course, that is unless the horse, of course, is the famous Mr. Ed. Well, theMidland, Michigan horse in this short video may not be able to talk... at least, he hasn't said anything yet... but he does do a pretty good Houdini impersonation:
WE TOLD HIM NOT TO EAT THE BEANS! [image from seniorark]
*** An article in this week's New Zealand Medical Journal suggests that airplane passengers should damn the consequences and let those farts blast. After all, cabin pressurization can only go so far in easing intestinal discomfort exacerbated by pressure changes. Good manners, of course, dictate that a person in distress try to be as discreet and polite as possible when seeking relief, but seeing's as how the air inside those cabins is constantly recirculated, fellow passengers may not take too kindly to frequent out-gassing, no matter how sweetly you say, Excuse me. (So it's probably best to let it out as quietly as possible and keep your mouth shut.) Dr. Rosenberg, the article's author, suggested that airlines should consider installing seats embedded with charcoal, or hand out blankets with the stink-zapping compound sewn into them. Or how about this? Travelers could be breath-o-lyzed for methane prior to boarding, and then those with high levels, indicating a higher probability of, you know, letting 'em rip, could be assigned to a special seating area. No more smoking and non-smoking sections anymore, but with the able assistance of this simple non-invasive test, planes could institute farting and non-farting sections. A Fart Free zone, if you will. (One can only wonder what one would do in the free zone if yesterday's burrito starts to kick in.) I guess passengers could always wear odor-absorbing undies, too. (I mean, how uncomfortable could a crotch full of activated charcoal be?) Anyhow, so there ya have it. According to at least one medical authority, holding in that gas could be hazardous to your health, so the next time you're airborne, don't be afraid to scent the air, if need be. Just, um, don't sit next to me. *** One final video, and this is especially for all the Star Trek fans out there. Would you believe computer scientists at the University of Illinois, in Chicago, have developed a 3-D Star Trek holodeck? Called CAVE2, scientists envision some mighty amazing possibilities for it:
Pretty neat, huh? Here's to a weekend that's simply out of this world...
Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.
[NOTE: Images lacking attribution come courtesy of Wikipedia and public domain.]
