Picture Acrochallenge!

Hello, beginning of weekers, and acroers as well.

You know, I had a recipe du jour last night, but I was tired, busy, and didn't get around to making a Picture Sunday to post it. Therefore, I thought I'd turn it into this week's acromania.

I have a reason for the recipe. Yes, when did you ever think you'd see a recipe du jour with a purpose?

I bought some cereal a while back. I realized I wasn't getting enough fiber in my diet. There are all kinds of commercials at the moment for foods designed to, well, not to put too fine a point on it, to keep your gastrointestinal area in line. Dannon's hawking Activia Yogurt, and Kashi's cereals are apparently so good at this they (as their commercials show) turned a 57 year-old man into a marathon runner. (He apparently trains by running for the bathroom.)

So I went checking food labels to find something with the least sugar, and found Kashi Go Lean. And this time to put a fine point on it, it sucks. It looks and tastes like barn scrapings. I ate two bowls over two weeks, and it now sits in my cabinet.

So I decided since the Next Big Thing is food that makes you "go," I'd create my own, and maybe make my fortune and bid the working world goodbye. From the "Breakfast Cereal" file in cardland, please say hello to my new breakfast cereal, Hoppies.






















Yes, they'll have you hopping, all right. In fact, Hoppies is full of all natural ingredients, and those ingredients are Kashi Go Lean, sauerkraut, corn, and prunes. If that's not a straight trip to a healthier intestine, I don't know what is.

Now, let's turn this into an acro. No, it won't be, "What Happened To You When You Ate Hoppies." It shall be, "Tell Me About Your Breakfast Cereal." Would yours be sugar and prize-filled? Served hot, with butter? Made of shredded cardboard? The possibilities are endless.

Everyone gets three entries to come up with the best acronym they can that not only matches the topic above, but also the letters below, which are randomly drawn from the acrobasket. The acrobasket is the living embodiment of fiber. Then tomorrow night at 10:00 est, I shall be reading the entries and naming the winners.

So, the topic, "Tell Me About Your Breakfast Cereal." The letters:

D E N L Y L

Now, chow down, and acro.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* And an Olympic update it is! My second Comfy Chair Cinema movie is now up. Please hit the Comfy Chair Cinema link on your left there, or I'll make it easy, go here, and view the latest movie. I'm quite proud of it. I made it all by myself.

Dumb Cookie

I certainly got a shock yesterday. Yes, I found out, my friends and blogees, that I have been living right smack-dab under an assumption.

I learned the sad truth as I was getting ready for work yesterday morning, a freezing cold early Monday after a long weekend. It was as if the Hand of Fate waited till times couldn't get much worse, then reached down to pinch my head off. And not only that, but I had to learn this fact - while cold, sleepy, and headless - from The Today Show, the bane of my morning existence.

You see, I wouldn't say I'm exactly filled with self-confidence. If you've read at least 10 of the approximately 1000 blogs I've amassed here over the last 6 years, you should know that. But in a rather humble way, there's one area where I thought I maybe had a little bit on the ball. And that's in the general region of my noggin.

I always thought I was fairly bright.

I mean, I know I make the colossal blunder from time to time, and when I do I generally write about it. I get frustrated floating around blindly in the world of computer technology. I've been diagnosed as a Pod by Mr M, and my friend, workmate, and mother figure San once said, "I've walked barefoot through your mind. It's a scary place." But I don't know, I do well at Jeopardy. I remember lots of things, even if they're things that one doesn't necessarily need to lead a successful life. I scored over 5 million points in Text Twist. I've learned how to flash up my blog in html (well, with help and advice), and make a 13-second movie starring a yodeling pickle.

But yesterday as I was getting dressed, The Today Show laid this bit of wisdom on me. Married people are smarter than single people.

Those Today Show Bastards opened their segment with the simple question. "Are married people smarter than single people?" Well, surely not, I said to myself. At best, inconclusive results. But as the segment continued, an obviously married (as was the Today Show moderator) woman went on to extol the intellectual superiority of the married person. And the longer she talked, the lower my jaw began to hang.

Now, let's get two disclaimers out of the way right now. First of all, if you're reading this and you're married, I'm not calling you dumb. OK? And second of all, as all things go, I'd like to think that your marital status has nothing whatsoever to do with how smart you may or may not be.

Anyway, as I said, "As all things go." But as this talking yoo-hoo continued on, I sat on my bed and began to think. I know a good deal of people. And I'll be right up front and say I know a good deal more single people well than married people. But if I took all the people I know and had to pick the top five or ten smartest, 90% of them would be single.

To me, it's a given. Single people, well, live alone. They run a household, do household tasks and household business. They do the things that are normally split between husband and wife. I take care of my house, my finances, and can give myself a pedicure, paint rooms, put up window blinds, and do small fix-it jobs. And I'm smart enough to know when fix-it jobs are small, or then I hire out. You show me married couples who hire out before the husband completely destroys a large household appliance or the plumbing of an entire house.

Single people also have free range of ideas. If I want to like opera and NASCAR and aerobics and feng shui (though in reality I detest all those things), I can. I always think of married couples as having one mind. If the man loves baseball, the woman grows to love it, too. Then they have kids who get put on baseball teams, and they become a baseball family. Suddenly life revolves around going to baseball games. "You know, before the kids came along, I used to be right on top of my Hummel porcelain figure-collecting skills. Now I couldn't tell you one figure from the other. Except the little boy playing baseball."

Oh, but this is not true, says Thomas Crook, Ph.D. He says it right here.

If you'll look at the article, you'll notice right off the bat that Dr Phoodnick there is a neuroscientist. To me, that says that the fellow has a little bit on the ball brain-wise, and something tells me that being married didn't win him his Ph.D. But that's just me. Anyway, Dr Doctor turns this article into a tome of love for his dear wife, and leaves me wondering if he's done something recently to piss her off in a big way, but he tells us all about how she makes sure to learn new facts every day, and then she brings those new facts home and shares them with little ol' him.

Well, that's fine. What if a man's married to someone as dumb as a bag of hair? To someone who has no interest in anything other than eating bon-bons and watching "The Guiding Light?" How in the hell is that going to make him smarter? Sure, the wife might learn a few new tricks, like how to program the remote control, but the husband's going to lose upwards of 50 IQ points in the duration of the marriage. And vice versa. I'm not picking on women here. I am one, you know. You show me a woman who works an office job and comes home to a husband whose evenings are filled with taxidermy and World Wide Wrestling, and I'll show you a gal who ain't gettin' any smarter.

Ah, but there's the rub, says, Mr Dr Ph.D. You have to work at it. And not only does he say that, he gives you smart couples a laundry list of things you need to do, which, if you're so damn smart, what does it matter anyway? But let's go ahead and have a look.

1. Take dancing lessons. It's apparently a great brain workout, combining the physical and mental. I do that. Alone. It's called "Workout Tapes."

2. Watch movies. This gives you the opportunity to discuss plots and characters. I watch movies. Alone. Normally around 100 a year. I discuss them. With friends.

3. Throw a party for a diverse group of people. Apparently, because you're married, this makes you smarter because not only can you be at a party with a diverse group of people, like any single person can also do, but you can "discuss what you learned the next day." Guess what, Ph.D Crook - I do that too. We all do it. It's called "gossip."

4. Learn a language together. Any single person can learn a new language. The only possible advantage marrieds may have is that they can throw words back and forth when at home. However, that small victory is all but washed away by Dr Neuro's next suggestion, and no, I'm not making this up. "Or sign up for Merriam-Webster's Word of the Day." So, let me get this straight. As a single person, I can't go in and learn a new word a day and increase my vocabulary, thus making myself more intelligent and coming off as a complete and utter boor at those parties full of diverse people? Why do married people get to have all the fun?

5. Take on a home project to learn each other's skills. So a woman can re-wire a lamp and a man can learn about decorating, says the Good Ph.D, but as I said above, single people already know how to do both those anyway, so why don't you and your new-fact-a-day-finding wife just piss off out of my life.

Anyway, I'm not believing a single word of it, it's hogwash, and my single friends are smart. I mean, Jesus, they're smart enough to not get married.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Acrowinner. We have a single acrowinner. Which brings me to this question - are you all sick of acrochallenge? If you are, please don't be afraid to say so. I won't hurt my feelings, and will relieve me of trying to think up a topic every week. Does someone want to submit topics? Would you like it on a different night, say a weekend night? I'm easy, I can change it, move it, or delete it. The acrotopic was "Things That Suck About Modern Life."
- This week's winner is the DeepFatFriar, with his simple but profound, "Living's easy; murder's not." DeepFatFriar's single, you know.

Acrochallenge!

Hello, acroers and acroees. And acroites as well. Welcome to another edition of acromania.

There was no acrochallenge last week, seeing as how I didn't have internet connection till right before podcast recording time (prt). We're back this week, and I'll use last week's acrotopic: "Things That Suck About The Modern Age."

Is it internet screw-ups? Cell phones? Gas prices? Wars overseas? You tell me. Everyone gets three entries to come up with the best acronym they can that matches the topic above and the letters below, which are randomly drawn from the acrobasket. The acrobasket lives in a simpler time. When men were men, and baskets were wicker. Then tomorrow night at 10:00 est, I shall read the entries and name the winners.

The topic? "Things That Suck About The Modern Age." The letters:

L E M N

Now, acro!

Betland's Olympic Update:
* In an effort to please, I've now embedded "The Sound of Pickles" at the Comfy Chair Cinema. Easier for the viewer! Link is to the left, top of Blogrolling.

Picture Sunday

Hello, end of weekenders, and welcome to another round of Picture Sunday. It's a particularly hard Sunday night for me. I was off from work Thursday afternoon, Friday, yesterday, and today. Going back tomorrow shall be less than fun.

Now, don't think I don't realize that I've been doing a lot of pictureless Picture Sundays lately. I do. So I thought I'd browse through my files and files (and files) of pictures and see if there's anything I've missed showing you. And guess what I found - pictures from the day we helped Kellie (with an ie) pack up and move away. A sad day, indeed. However, a few happy moments. Because while no one was looking, I put some stuff on my head!

Yes, it's another edition of Picture Sunday - Stuff On My Head!

Here's a picture of me with a cake pan on my head. And I have the expression of someone, well, who surely must have a cake pan on her head. (Actually, this was the first picture, and I was devilishly happy I was getting away with this.)

























Well, certainly not very flattering, but I guess that's to be expected on a hot day when you're helping someone pack all their worldly possessions into boxes.

From the same box, how about me with a sieve on my head?






















OK, so I shall know in the future not to buy any beanies or close-fitting hats. That's just awful.

However, I soon left the kitchen boxes and found something very near and dear to Kellie's heart. She loves cows, you know.





















Nothing says "I shall remember all our good times together" like putting someone's cow on your head.

OK, now that that embarrassment is over with, I have a big announcement to make.

Big Announcement.

Ahem. Ahem.

Yes, as you all know, I got that digital camcorder for my birthday (thanks, Mr M), and I'm determined to do something with it, namely refurbish and reopen the closed-down (for health reasons) Comfy Chair Cinema. And tonight is the grand reopening.

We have moved the cinema, however. And that, my friends, is some serious refurbishing. Instead of having a link on my main webpage, which I now neglect with fervor, I've started the Comfy Chair Cinema Blog. Yes, if you'll look to your left, you'll see a link right there at the top of the blogrolling list where you can access it. Bookmark it, for any new movie we finish - notice I said finish! - will be linked there to view. I'm putting them up on You Tube in an effort to embarrass the shit out of myself and anyone who participates with me.

And our first movie is up. Please visit the cinema and have a look. If you dare. Link here below tonight, and to the left from here on. I'll make Olympic Update announcements if anything new goes up.

The Comfy Chair Cinema

OK, news flash out of the way, let's get to the recipe du jour.

You know, today is Easter. Did you know that? Good. I don't really celebrate Easter, not that I have anything against it, but I thought I'd try and make another holiday recipe, just like last week. It's from the "Holiday Lunches" file at cardland, will you say hello, as he hippity hops into your dining rooms, to The Easter Beany.






















Yes, what says the resurrection of our Lord and Savior like a bunny made out of pinto beans? Nothing! Just take your beans, shape a bunny, and add your accoutrements. Do bunnies have whiskers? Well, mine does, they're cheese. Ketchup mouth and ear interiors, and olive eyes. And the poor fella has no nose, which, after the beans are eaten, I guess is a good thing.

Happy week.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Remind me never to eat gravy again. I'm too old. It makes my heart burn.

The Pet(s) For Me

Hello. I promised you a blog this week, and a blog you shall have. It won't be long, it won't be much. But I'm nothing if not honest, and I try to keep a promise.

You know, I'm a dog-lover. And I've said it before, but this is the longest I've ever been in my life dogless. I often think about taking the plunge again, but too many things are holding me back, mainly the fact that I work all day, live on a busy street, and have no fence. And I'm gone just about every weekend.

My friend the dishy Michelle is entering the world of dog ownership, and she's investigating all the options, trying to find the best dog for her lifestyle. She's a smart girl, that dishy one.

And so many people, many people who don't have dogs and wouldn't take care of mine if I got one, are urging me to get a doggie. Or even a cat. Now, I try not to be a cat-hater, and I'm not, per se, but I just can't warm up to cats. Mr M now has Alice the cat, and if I got a kitty that turned into something like her, well, let's just say I have that creek out back of my house, and....

No, I joke. Really, I joke.

Anyway, one day this week I got a goodie in the mail. I'd ordered it from Ebay, and it arrived. It was a comic book, one I hadn't seen before, and thought I'd get it for fun, well, it was fun until after I hit the "confirm bid" button and realized the extortionate shipping price attached to it. But by then I was confirmed and had to pay.

























It's a cute little book, and Sherman has his own story of going back to Roman times. I'm not so sure who, in 1972 when this was made, decided Sherman needed to be on the cover of this book dressed up like a Christmas tree. And apparently that summer at the beach did a number on his once-red hair.

In between the comics of Sherman, Rocky & Bullwinkle, and Boris & Natasha, there are ads. Imagine my surprise at finding an ad inviting me to blow myself up.

















Oh. But I read further and found I was being invited to blow myself up into a poster-sized picture of myself, which, when I think about it, is even scarier than blowing myself up with a cherry bomb. Three feet by four feet, people. Think about that.

But in those pages, I was taken back to my youth when I saw another ad. And I realized that if I'm going to leave the realms of the petless, this is how I need to do it.




















I've never understood sea monkeys. I mean, I think I remember finding out at one point of disillusionment that they're some sort of sea plankton, are the size of a pin head, and basically look like you have a dirty fish tank. Maybe all that came from some poor soul who bought them, I'm not sure.

But imagine! If you got a telescope for Christmas, you could take a few monkeys out and look at them. And is this the the wonderment you'd be presented with? I mean, hell, just look at Monkey Mom. She has a Jane Jetson hairdo, complete with hair bow! I don't know how her red lipstick stays on in that bowl of water, though. And Monkey Dad, standing upright, hand on hip - apparently sea monkeys are way more civilized than regular land monkeys.

Here's my favorite, though, in the print:

Best of all, we even show you how to teach them to obey your commands, like a pack of friendly trained seals. What a way to surprise your guests.

Well, I'd be surprised, I can tell you that. "Hey, Jim, watch this! Momo, fix Jim a scotch and water."

A Bowlful of Happiness, indeed.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* I'm blogging on the Friday of a holiday weekend. Yes, I am dodging doing my taxes, thanks.

Hi.

I'll blog this week, I promise. I just thought a nap tonight would be fun.

And it was!

Picture Sunday

Hello, end of weekenders. Welcome to another round of Picture Sunday.

First of all, let me extend a hale and hearty thank you to the other boys at the Poderosa for taking over the blog last week. It freed me up to deal with a week of hell at work, and I enjoyed what they had to say.

I spent the weekend at home, basically not leaving the house. Mr M and the DeepFatFriar came down today, and brought dinner with them, chicken soup. So I did a minimal amount of work and a maximum amount of lazing. And of course, because of that, there's not much to tell.

So let's get to the one picture of the night. You know, Spring is in the air. My daffodils are starting to bloom, and thoughts of love abound. In my closet.

Seems my favorite blouse, the white, blue, and yellow striped one, has fallen for my favorite jeans, the dark blue ones. I hope it's a lasting relationship.

























And so to the recipe du jour.

Tomorrow is St Patrick's Day. Yes, that day we all pretend to be Irish, and pretend that we like wearing green and drinking beer, even if beer lays heavy in our stomachs, and the green has to be fished out of the bottom drawer because we don't wear it any other days of the year. And so for tomorrow, the recipe du jour will be pretending to be Irish too. From the "It's Irish!" file at cardland, would be please say a jiggy hello to Saint Chicken Paddy.
























What could be more Irish than a chicken patty adorned with parsley hair and a parsley beard and mustache? Nothing, that's what! Add some peppercorn eyes, a cheese nose, and pepper mouth, and you have yourself an edible leprechaun. Beer optional.

And on a St Patrick's day note, I was doing a little computer doodling again this weekend, and headed over to jibjab.com. Rather than have my little film here eating up memory and not loading for some of you, I'll just leave a link.

A Hackensaw St Patrick's Day

Happy week.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* We worked on a new movie today, but unfortunately, I need to learn some serious mini-film skills before I can make it ready.
* Thanks to Sherman for lending his St Pat's hat to the recipe.

(A day on which your humble blogger turns the reins over to the newest member of the Poderosa commune, clarinet deliverer Che Guellama.)

¡Saludos!

¡Hola!

Soy Che Guellama. Llama #27 de Chile. Trabajo para Sr Luis Rossi. Entrego los clarinetes.

Quiero vivir en Virginia.

¡Viva La Poderosa!

¡Adios!

Che's Olympic Update:
* Soy una llama buena.

(A day on which your humble blogger turns over the reins to the erudite Mr Peanut.)

You Too Can Be Well-Mannered!

Hello, readers. Mr Peanut here. And how are you this evening?

You see, it's very important when addressing someone to inquire how they are doing. This shows interest in your friend or acquaintance.

I feel it takes little time or effort to be polite. Manners seem to have gotten lost along the way nowadays, and so I thought I'd use this small space Bet gave me to pass along a few helpful hints to make you a more civilized citizen.

Let's begin.

Since this is the cold and flu season, I thought you should know that if you must cough or sneeze in public, you should do so into your left hand, if you are right-handed. This leaves your right hand clean to shake hands and open doors, especially for a lovely person of the female persuasion. It is also quite kind to say, "Excuse me" after sneezing in public.

Now, let's go to a subject very near and dear to my hostess Bet's heart. Hats. When should a gentleman remove his hat? Bet says a man should remove his hat anytime he is indoors. She is adamant about that. And while that would certainly be polite, the true rule of etiquette is that a man should remove his hat when entering a house, restaurant, church, or theatre. I would like to side with Bet, however, and stress to all you gentlemen, young and old, that a baseball hat is a hat like any other and should be removed.

Speaking of my friend Bet, I think it important for me to move to the subject of compliments. When one is complimented by another, it is not polite to deny the compliment. Simply say thank you and move on. No one wants to compliment another, then have to defend the compliment.

Here's a rule of thumb for a very modern problem. Cell phones. Of course cell phones are useful, but please, always excuse yourself when using a cell phone. Go to a private area to receive or make your cell phone call, please.

Another modern wonder is the caller ID. Please remember, when checking the number, to simply answer the phone with, "Hello," and not, "Hello, Mr Smith," "Hi, Bob," or worse, "Yo, homey." This is very bad etiquette.

I'm often asked, "Mr Peanut, when I go to visit another's house, is it customary for me to take a gift?" I always take a gift when visiting, a nice assortment of peanuts and peanut-related items, and this is proper. Something small for the home would be fine.

However, when attending a party at another's house for an occasion, if the invitation includes the phrase "no gifts, please," do not take a gift. It is rude to ignore a request from your host.

I'm very happy that in Sherman's blog of Tuesday, he mentioned that after Friday Night Tag we all congratulate the winner before we celebrate with pizza. When competing in a sporting event or game, it is always appropriate to congratulate the winner, and tell the other participants it was a pleasure to play with them.

Here's an interesting tidbit. In these days of gender roles, people often wonder who pays having dinner out with a friend. Actually, the person who extended the invitation should pay the bill, regardless of sex. That means, regardless of whether the person who extends the invitation is male or female. It doesn't mean whether or not there is sexual contact.

An interesting fact for you homeowners. I have a friend who owns a lavish apartment in New York City, and every time I visit, I'm asked to remove my shoes. This is quite cumbersome for me, as I have to remove both shoes and spats. This is not proper etiquette. It is never polite to ask visitors to your house to remove their shoes, no matter how clean you'd like your carpet to remain.

And so I will leave it for there. You know, most good manners are simply common sense. Just remember to treat others the way you would like to be treated. Think of others, and good manners will follow.

Until next time, love and legumes.

Yours truly,

Mr Peanut, esq.

Mr Peanut's Olympic Update:
* Always remember, please and thank you cost nothing, yet mean so much.
* Also please remember that my hat is part of my being, and therefore I cannot remove it in Bet's house, as you can see in the picture above. I have apologized and explained this to her, though, and we've come to an understanding.

(A day on which your humble blogger turns over the reins to the adorable Good Luck Baby Lily. Who has a hole in her midsection where Gossamer the Monster tried to eat her on my birthday, but she's OK.)

Hi to yOu

Hi.

Hi. My name is Lily. I am just litttle. I have good luck.

I like to drwa pictues.

I like Sherman.

I try to play the flute. I like the flute.

I like the byos at our house.

I like to play.

I like Huklbery Hund. He is nice to me.

I like all you to be my friend.

What do you all like?

Bye

Lily's Olympic Update:
* I like wen Sherman reads books at me.
[Lily likes a lot of things. - ed.]

(A day on which your humble blogger hands over the reins to the loveable boy Sherman.)

You're It!

Hi, pals! Sherman here.

Boy, a whole blog and I can say anything I want.

You know, me, Bet, and the other cartoon characters here at the Pod sure do have a lot of fun. We sing, and play clarinets (well, Bet and I do, and sometimes Mr M), and every Wednesday night at our house is Fish Stick Night. We have fish sticks and tater tots, and I always make up some tartar sauce. Friday night it's always a big pizza, but before that, Friday night is something else.

It's Tag Night!

Yep, all us characters play a big game of tag every Friday night. It's the best part of the whole week. And we don't play regular tag, of course. We play cartoon tag. Never heard of it? Well, it goes a lot like the tag you guys play, but there are some rules. This makes Bet laugh, because she says our tag is pretty much a free-for-all, but we do have to follow the rules. Here's how Poderosa tag goes.

Poderosa Tag

1. The hour before tag (7:00 pm) is for bending and stretching. This is where we meet in the living room of the Poderosa and stretch. We boing up and down, of course, seeing how high we can go, and we practice our zip-scrams. This is where you run in place as fast as you can, then take off so fast there's a "wheep!" sound, and dust flies around your feet. We also practice our lifting of heavy objects, like Bet's couch, and make ourselves flat so we can go under doors.

2. Tag begins right at 8:00 pm.

3. The ceiling is off-limits. I don't like this rule very much. Sometimes when I get going, I just can't help it, and I take a turn up the wall and head straight onto the ceiling. If that happens, it's a disqualification. The reason we can't go onto the ceiling is because Good Luck Baby Lily and Che Guellama are not technically cartoon characters, so they can't run on the ceiling. That means we could all go on the ceiling and they could never tag us. It's an unfair advantage. So the ceiling is out.

4. If you are tagged, you are out. I know this sounds very simple, but the rule is in there for a reason. Because that's how you play tag! Ha ha, I crack myself up sometimes. Actually, though, there's kind of a little exception to this rule. The little exception is Good Luck Baby Lily. Sometimes she's the first to be tagged, being a baby and all, and, also being a baby and all, when this happens, she pouts up and starts to cry. Nobody wants her to cry, especially on something as fun as Tag Night, so if she gets that way when she's tagged first, we let her keep playing. If she's tagged second or beyond though, she's fair game, and has to sit out when she's tagged.

5. Because of rule #4, do everything possible to not get tagged. This is where things really get fun. Other than the ceiling, we can do anything or go anywhere. Mr Peabody and I had a great finish one night when I boinged myself up onto the top of one of Bet's floor lamps to avoid him. Then he started to boing himself up there with me, so I whoosed back down to the floor. Only he just pretended to boing! He was waiting for me when I whooshed, and tagged me, and won the game. Lily once won tag because she climbed up into the silverware cabinet and hid in a spoon. She fell asleep, and we were having so much fun we forgot about her. There were many cheers when Huckleberry Hound won the game, and that woke her up. She climbed down, crawled into the living room, tagged Huckie, and won tag. One time, Gossamer the Monster was running around, and Quick Draw McGraw was coming up behind him, ready to tag him and win the game. Then Gossamer tripped and fell backwards, onto Quick Draw, and won tag, but we don't think he realized he won. He's a monster, you know.

6. Hiding is a legal part of tag. Part of the great fun of Poderosa Tag is that involves a good deal of hide and seek as well. See, if you're hiding, no one can see you, and you can look around and check on other characters and plot your strategy. Helpful hint: Huckleberry Hound is usually hiding behind a window blind, and his blue tail is normally hanging out from the window blind. I like to check all the windows first for his tail, so I can tag him. Mr Peabody is the best at tag, because he often uses military strategy to play, but he's also an excellent hider. He's posed himself in Bet's album covers, in front of pictures of himself, and even on the television screen. When he takes to hiding instead of charging, he's hard to beat.

7. If Bet tags you, you are not out. But watch out, she will swat at you if you get in her way. Don't say anything, but I think this is Bet's way of trying to get in on the game. This happens a lot when she has hidden herself away in the dennette while we play. She'll be answering an email and typing something like, "Hello, it was good to hear from you. I was just sitting dow3o84urog$us#yr" because one of us has run across her keyboard. When this happens, she starts flailing her arms at us, and it's so funny we all have to stop and laugh.

8. In cases of a tie, or for a ruling of judgement, Mr Peabody has the final word. Yep, good old Mr Peabody. He knows all the ins and outs of tag, and what's fair and what isn't. And he's very impartial. He's impartial to a fault. He'll rule against me, against Baby Lily, and even against himself.

9. It's not forbidden, but we're not supposed to hide on the liquor tray. This is because Bet and Peabody said something about it making Mr Peanut sad. I guess it makes him miss the Big City or something. Bet also said something about broken liquor bottles making her very sad as well.

10. After the final person is tagged, and the winner congratulated (good sportsmanship!), we must clean up our messes. After all, we are in Bet's house. If we move it, we must move it back. If we take it, we must return it. If we break it, well, thankfully that hasn't happened yet, but I have a feeling her arms would start flailing around again if that happened.

If you don't mind, I'm a pretty good tag player myself. I once tagged Baby Lily, Mr Peanut, Huckleberry Hound, and Che Guellama all at the same time when I sat on a dish towel, like a genie on a flying carpet, popped out of the dryer, and landed on all of them at once. The record still stands as the most tags at one time.

So if you have a free Friday night and want to come over for the festivities, please, you're welcome anytime. Please bring pizza, though.

G'night!

Sherman's Olympic Update:
* Ooooh! Mr Peabody just handed me the envelope containing the acrowinners - he said I could read them to you! If I recall, the acrotopic was for you to tell us your WABAC fantasy. Here we go....
- Honorable Mention goes to me, because no one else played. Yippee!
- Runner-Up goes to DeepFatFriar, with his, "Ancient Romans overlook yodeling south Britons." Mr Peabody edited that one, I think.
- And this week's winner goes to LilyG, with her, "Along Riviera, oiling young Sonny Bono." He actually chuckled when he saw that one. A chuckle from Mr Peabody's pretty good!
- Thanks to everybody who played! Mr Peabody was very proud of you all!

(A day on which your humble blogger turns the reins over to the inimitable Mr Peabody....)

Acrochallenge!

Hello, there. Peabody here. I trust everyone is of keen mind and nimble fingers as they read. Welcome to another round of acromania. (Acromania, by the way, isn't a proper word, but Elizabeth uses it often.)

I must admit to you I'm rather upset by this opportunity, which I was actually quite excited about in the beginning. You see, I came up with two excellent acronym opportunities only to have them both vetoed by Elizabeth. The first was "Create Your Own Algebraic Formula," and that was closely followed by "Fun With The Periodic Table." Elizabeth said neither of these would "work."

So I continued forth. As you all know, I built and operate the WABAC machine, a sophisticated contraption I built for my boy, Sherman. In it, we go back to various points in history and visit famous figures. We often help them out to make sure they "got things right," so to speak.

Today's acronym is, "What Is Your WABAC Machine Fantasy?" If you were allowed one trip in the WABAC, where would you go, who would you visit, or what would you do? Simple, people. Very simple.

The rules for acronym are as follows. Every person playing gets three entries to come up with the best acronym they can muster. This acronym must match the topic above and the letters below. Those letters are drawn from a small, round, wicker basket that Elizabeth has deemed the acrobasket, and has given human qualities to. Elizabeth's rather silly at times. Tomorrow night at 10:00 est sharp, I shall read the entries submitted and name the winners of, ahem, acromania.

The topic is, "What Is Your WABAC Machine Fantasy?" The letters shall follow.

A R O Y S B

So there you have it. Your assignment. I suggest you put on your thinking cap and play.

Mr Peabody's Olympic Update:
* Elizabeth seems to keep a clothespin in her basket. It's very annoying.

Picture Sunday

Hello, end of weekenders. I'm gearing up for a really harsh and busy week at work. I think I'm going to be just too busy to blog. So on a suggestion from Mr M, I asked for help.

I have a houseful of cartoon characters with something to say. And so this week I'm going to let them say it. Every night this week, a different border at the Poderosa will take over my blog. I can't wait to see what they come up with.

We'll start tonight with Huckleberry Hound. This is for two reasons. One, he loves to cook, and two, he's been trying to learn to take some pictures. So tonight's perfect for him. Without further ado, may I introduce, Huckleberry!


















Howdy, pardners. It's your old pal Huckleberry Hound. And that there Bet has done asked me to write her a blog tonight. Now, I don't know much about these machines, but I told her I'd do my best.

When Bet got her a new camera for Christmas, she gave me her old 'un. I been learnin to take some pictures with it.

Here's the first 'un I took. It's of my little buddy Sherman and his father, Peabody. I like to call it "The Family Portrait."
























Oh, my. I done got my thumb in that picture. I gotta remember about that in the future.

My next picture is of my friend Mr Pee-nut. He's an awful nice fella, and he posed for this picture just the other day.

























Well, I'll be durned. That's some of Mr Pee-Nut, anyway.

Now, this is my try at takin' a picture that I'm in. That's called a "self portrait." I grabbed my old bud Quick Draw McGraw and said, "Git in a picture with me." And so he did. This is us just a-hangin' round the Poderosa.




















Well, that there weren't too bad, was it? That might be my best picture yet.

Now, y'all probably know I like me some cookin'. I like to cook for the boys at the Poderosa, and Bet, too, and I'm just pleased to be able to do that there recipe du jour. I didn't know what to make, but Bet said that you make the recipe funny. And so that's just what I did, folks.






















There's my recipe. Meat Loaf & Brussels Sprouts. This 'uns really funny. See, it's funny in two ways. It's called meat loaf, but a loaf is bread. And then they call 'em Brussels sprouts, and I got these at the local market. So they are Virginia sprouts. Ha ha ha ha ha, it's funny. I like a good joke.

So that's about it, and this is your friend Huckleberry a-signin' off.

Huckie's Olympic Update:
* Does anybody know how to take one of them fancy picture computer programs and take a blue thumb out of a picture?

The Great Oz Has Spoken

Hello.

You know, I'd completely forgotten all about it.

I blogged about, well, let's go back to the beginning. About 18 months ago I did a long, rambling, ranting, raving, hair-pulling, and foot-stomping blog, and it was all about how everything in this country is so fucking overpackaged. Sealed bags are within sealed bags, sealed bags are within sealed boxes, and items are encased in plastic wombs that only kitchen knives will unleash.

I revised that blog, continued it, if you will, back in January.

When I bought Sherman a remote control sports car for Christmas (yes, I buy my toys toys, what of it?), it was packed away in a box sealed so tightly and bolted in with so many untwistable twist-ties that it took me almost an hour to open it. We went from fingers to fingernails to knives to wire cutters. It would have been funny had it not been so frustrating, and even then Mr M and I did laugh, but it wasn't a belly laugh, it was more of a sickly chuckle.

About halfway through the opening process, I started telling Mr M I was writing a letter to the makers of this contraption of horror giving them a piece of my mind, and yes, I know, how very generous of me when I have so little to share. Mr M bet me I wouldn't, and so then it was written in stone. I had to do it. And I did.

For those of you who may have missed it, here was my letter, written January 2d, and written only because the maker, MGA Entertainment, had a website as frustrating as their packaging. It would only take complaints of 2500 words. I've written thank-you notes longer, you know me.

I'm an adult woman. Childless, but a sometime toy and doll collector who will buy something that strikes my fancy.

Over the Christmas holidays I purchased your Bratz remote control sports car. I'm sure you know the one. The white convertible with FM radio capacity, opening doors and trunks, and safety belts on the seats. And don't get me wrong. It's a great car. It's well-made, adorable, and works perfectly.

The problem with the car is that I didn't think I'd ever get to experience the fun of owning it.

I brought your car home from the store and proceeded to open it up. It was approximately 8:00 pm. I began on the outside, on the plastic pull tabs. They were taped shut to the box. They would not pull open, nor would they give when I slid a finger or fingernail underneath them. I tore the plastic around them for the first two tabs, then resorted to a small kitchen knife for the rest.

Once I had the box open, I found that the car, which in its box is perched on a small cardboard platform, a platform that has nothing underneath it, well, almost nothing, was taped to both the box and the platform, and that you had also taken to using a favorite packaging item, twist-ties, to bolt it down on each side. And to add insult to injury, these twist-ties weren't just poked through plastic and cardboard and twisted. They were - as I'm sure you already know, since you did this - run through thick plastic bolts, then knotted anywhere from three to five times. And these twist-ties are not the simple kind we get around TV wires and the like. They are so thick and unwieldy, fingers became sore after about the second knot.

After finally getting the cardboard platform untied from the box, I was left with - a really cute car affixed to a cardboard platform. With tape, which I managed to cut away, only to find that what was underneath that cardboard platform was more bolts and twist-ties, this time with the ties not only threaded through the bolts and knotted multiple times, but also threaded through the spokes of each of the car's tires. After untwisting the first tire's knots, I could take it no more. I resorted to the kitchen knife again, but these twist-ties were so thick and strong the knife wouldn't cut through them. Finally, my friend, who until now had been watching me tackle this automobile with some bemusement, went looking through his tools and found a wire cutter.

He cut the twist-ties and freed the car from the cardboard platform, and we were still left with a car we could not play with, because we had to de-thread the remainder of the twist-ties through the spokes of the car.

So I began opening my car at 8:00 pm. I finally began the task of loading the batteries into it at 8:55. And pardon me for being so bold, but that's just too long.

I know of no reason your packaging must be like this. It's absurd. In fact, there was a point during the opening where I wondered aloud what Christmas morning must be like for the poor child receiving this car, this child who's chomping at the bit to play with it, and the poor parent who gives it and has to spend the entire morning getting the thing out of the box. And isn't the age recommendation you place on your products actually wrong, when a knife is needed to open the box for play to begin?

If you can explain to me why you must use these overpackaging methods, I would love to hear it.

Thank you

I mailed the letter the next day, and pretty much forgot about it. Until yesterday.

In yesterday's mail, there was a plain white envelope addressed to little old me. It had nothing on it but a stick-on address label. I turned it over, and saw the return address sealing the envelope said "MGA Entertainment." A-ha! I scared those corporate bastards enough to have them mailing me a groveling apology!

I opened the envelope, and found the letter inside, typed in Comic Sans font, about 16pts big.

Dear Bet's Full Name,

Thank you for contacting MGA Entertainment.

We apologize in advance for the error you were getting through the website.

We appreciate you taking the time to share your thoughts and comments about our Bratz Remote Control Sports car. We are sorry for the inconvenience you had to go through to get the car out of its original package.

We would definitely take your comments in consideration to our packaging department. Thank you nevertheless.

Sincerely,

MGA Entertainment

Well. That was some letter, huh.

1. "We apologize in advance for the error you were getting through the website." No you didn't. Had you apologized in advance, you'd have called me before I had a nervous breakdown trying to write a 2500-word complaint.

2. "We appreciate you taking the time to share your thoughts...." Shouldn't that be, "We appreciate your taking the time?" That's how I learned it, but I went to school in the sticks.

3. "We would definitely take your comments in consideration to our packaging department." Huh? You would? You would if what? We would definitely take your comments to our packaging department a) if we had a packaging department, b) if we thought they'd listen to us, c) if they weren't in a separate building on the other end of the lot, d) if it wasn't lunchtime. If what?

4. "Thank you nevertheless." I looked this up in the dictionary. It means, "Never under any circumstances whatsoever are we ever going to mention this to anyone. Now go away from us."

I can only hope it took so long to get a reply because of the other letters pouring in from people who still don't have their sports cars out of the box.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Maybe I should have had Mr Peabody's crack team of lawyers draft my letter.

I Call My Kitchen The Egg. Doesn't Mean I Want To Act Like One.

Boy, what a night. This very blog was in doubt when the massive rains and winds that are hovering over B'field caused a lengthy power outage. I left for awhile, and when I came back, all was well again. But if it doesn't stop raining soon, I, along with the Poderosa, might be floating down the Betty Bet Bet Inspirational Highway to points east.

I mentioned briefly some time back that I, in doing some after-work activities here at the Pod, struck a few yoga poses. Yes, folks, I'm trying to enter the peaceful and zen-like world of yoga.

I found a book I'd bought some years ago, bought specifically for its title. It's called "Yoga For Wimps." I saw that book, figured, "Hey, no one's as big a wimp as I am," and figured it needed to come home with me. And it did, but it sat on the bottom shelf of a table in my living room for some three years, and if that doesn't speak to what a wimp I am, I don't know what does.

But lately I've been wanting a way to relax and stretch after my usual low-impact "march and huff and sweat" workout. "Yoga For Wimps" kept calling to me, and I unearthed it from that table ledge, and when I saw that the cover featured a bespectacled man holding a cup of coffee, I thought this might be exactly what I needed. I figured if I got good enough at my yoga poses, I could not only stretch and relax but also drink my coffee, possibly by holding the cup in my foot and bending it over my head.

So a few weeks ago after my workout I got the book, got in the floor, and opened it right up. And something struck me right off the bat. It isn't necessarily a book for wimps. This is because, well, from my estimation, wimps need to be told exactly what to do. "Hey, wimpy! Look. You start by doing this. You do it for twenty seconds, then you turn over and do it this way. And if you think you're man enough, then you can do this for 15 seconds, and after that, you'd better do this, and then this."

This book isn't like that at all. You open it up, and it's just pages and pages of normal people in different poses. There's no rhyme or reason to them, nothing that tells you where to start and how many to do at a time, or to start with these pages and then increase a page as you go on. Nope, it's do it yourself, do what you want, it's your life, you bought the book, do it as you please. Which is a nice philosophy, but if a person (like, uh, me) buys this book and doesn't know yoga from full-contact sumo wrestling, it's rather confusing.

So I decided what the hell, I'll start at the beginning. I opened it up and creased to the first pair of pages. There were six poses on those pages. The first I called, well, I called it something akin to "fucking impossible," because it was a man on his back, rolled up in a ball, with his knees on his chest. I couldn't hit that position if you put me in a trash compactor, but I gave it a go and got somewhere in the same county as he was, and so I laid there awhile like that and decided to soldier on.

The next couple of poses were fun and easy, one was pretending to be a table, just on your hands and knees, then moving onto the back again, knees bent, feet flat on the floor, ass in the air. I'd done three, well two and a half, poses, and I was feeling good. Till I went to the next pose.

The next pose, I call "The Egg." It's you, on your knees, all balled up, face touching the floor, hands pointing towards your feet. And folks, when you're all balled up like that on your knees with your hands at your feet instead of supporting you, your face not only touches the floor, it makes an imprint in the carpet. I didn't like The Egg at all, and there was a small point where I went away to a cosmic place, but not in a good way, in more of a, "Is this what death is like?" place.

The other poses involved sitting and leaning on a chair, so I was OK with those, and I'd completed my first two pages of yoga poses. I thought I was pretty damn special.

The next two pages were right up my alley. What I wanted from this yoga thing. They involved lying on the back, legs straight in the air, then making V's and O's and all other letters of the alphabet with the legs. They were nice and stretchy, and I was feeling rather relaxed and proud of myself, and after four pages and 11 poses, I called it a night.

And I stuck with those poses for about a week. Because the Wimp People didn't tell me whether I should or shouldn't.

Then I got adventurous and turned to another two pages. This is where your "easy household props" come into play. Yes, the Wimp People say their yoga is so simple (and wimpy) that you don't have to buy any special equipment. You use your chairs, your blankies, and your neckties. However, if you're a single woman you have no neckties to speak of, hopefully your father does, and mine did.

The first pose on the new pages had me just sitting up straight, butt on a blankie, with my legs spread in a V. It was nice. I liked that one. From that, you turn your waist this way and that, holding that position and stretching your waist. Then you grab a necktie and do a pose I like to call "Pulling Your Legs Right Off Your Body." In this, you take the tie, loop it around your foot, and pull your straight leg up until you can hear every bone in your 40-something body start to crack, and some muscles ripping as well. Then you change legs and do it again. From that pose you head to the "Oops, My Legs Are Off, I'd Better Push Them Back On" pose, which involves putting the necktie around both feet of your straightened legs and not lifting them, but pulling them towards you and therefore reattaching them to your hips.

The last pose on those pages is sitting in the floor, legs spread in a V again, up against a chair, your arms folded on the chair and your face resting on your arms. This has become lovingly known as the "Oh, God, What Have I Done" pose, but it's very comfortable, and provides several seconds to say a prayer that your newly pushed-in legs will remain attached to your body.

After doing now six fantabulous pages of yoga poses, I decided to up the ante and turn the page. In all poses, the woman was standing. I don't want to stand. To me, yoga is a floor sport. My flu was pretty much in mid-rage, too, and so I decided the last thing I needed was to stand up and start lifting body parts with a necktie. The possibility of hanging myself was just too great.

And so that's where it stands as we speak. I've pulled off and reattached my legs a good number of times, and apparently the chair-prayer is working because they've stayed on. The first knees-to-chest pose is getting better and I can hold it longer, but I'll never get The Egg. Seriously, I'm afraid I'm going to break my nose doing The Egg. So I've decided to ditch The Egg. These Wimpy Yoga People seem to be so blase about the whole deal, I doubt they'd even care, and I'm not telling them anyway.

I'm flying along on page 9. There are 100 pages in the book. Wimps don't want 100 pages of yoga poses. They want 9.

I'm thinking of tearing the other 91 pages out.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Acrowinners, we have acrowinners! So, tell me all about your perfect car.
- Honorable Mention goes to LilyG, with her, "Nearing Kansas, oil, transmission is respectable." Very smart. Lily knows about being stuck in Kansas.
- Runner-Up goes to the DeepFatFriar, with his, "Nikita Khrushchev's old tank, iridescent red." Somehow I can see you in that, Friar.
- And this week's winner is the dishy Michelle, with her, "Needing kerosene only, terrific interior, romantic." For being able to work "kerosene" and "romantic" into the same sentence, I salute you.
- Thanks to all who played, you've all done very well!

Acrochallenge!

Hello, acroites, acrophiles, acroers, and acroees. Welcome to another round of acromania.

I just finished a two-hour orgy of happiness called "watching 'Top Gear.'" "Top Gear" is a program on BBCAmerica, and is kind of a car show, but it's so, so much more. It's fun in so many ways I can't go into it here. I just saw the first two episodes of their new season.

So I'm thinking cars. This week's acro will be, "Describe Your Perfect Car To Me."

All the other rules are the same. Everyone gets three entries to come up with the best acronym they can that matches the topic above, and the letters below, which are randomly drawn from the acrobasket. The acrobasket likes a convertible, made of wood. Plenty of trunk space. I'll be reading the entries and judging at 10:00 est tomorrow night.

Again, the topic, "Describe Your Perfect Car To Me." The letters:

N K O T I R

Rev your engines and acro!

Betland's Olympic Update:
* I drew the clothespin out of the acrobasket again. I really need to move that.

Picture Sunday

Hello, end of weekenders. Well. Guess you didn't think you'd see me on a Sunday night, did you? I've missed more Picture Sundays lately than we've all had hot dinners, but I'm back and ready to give it a go. I guess this means I might finally be on the mend, and the flu did not win the battle.

I finally got a spurt of energy on Thursday night. I cleaned both the kitchen and the bathroom and caught up on my laundry. That made me feel human again, but oddly enough I celebrated this feat by not doing much on Friday.

Oh, I also put my coat rack together on Thursday. See, I've been wanting a coat rack for the Poderosa for some time. I have a rotating bullpen of jackets, I never know on what day I'm wearing what jacket, and my coat closet is in the living room of the Pod. I never enter or leave my house from the living room, so it's stupid for me to house jackets in there at night. So I end up draping them over kitchen chairs and the banister leading into the dennette. I was getting tired of it. I wanted a coat rack, and I wanted one now.

Or then. I ordered one online over a month ago. It was advertised as shipping in one to two days. When I got the shipping confirmation, it told me it would ship February 22d. I finally got it Thursday. I was almost out of the notion by then, I mean, Spring's just around the corner for cryin' out loud, but I put it together none the less and put it in its rightful place, by the dennette door.

























I tell you, folks, it's neverending excitement at the Poderosa.

I headed out to B'burg on Saturday for clarinet quartets - again - which turned out to be clarinet trios - again. It was fine though, Mr M, Lisa, and I played till Lisa's and my lips were mush, were called wusses by Mr M, and so we killed him and buried his body in the back yard.

Not really. We just quit playing.

Then it was to the DeepFatFriar's, who's getting settled in in his new apartment and invited us over for dinner. It was lamb and rice, asparagus, garlic bread, and a dessert I passed on, but some wine I didn't. In fact, I so didn't pass on it I got a little tiddly, which was fun because after dinner we all went out shopping. I was giggly and possibly obnoxious, but light bulbs, magazines, and bedding later (Mr M's the proud owner of a new bed), we dropped the Friar off and came back home. We watched half a movie and called it a night.

However.

However, before all that fun and frivolity began, I got my birthday present from Mr M. And how nice and generous was this, it was a Flip digital camcorder. So now I won't have to fret over whether or not to get one, because I have one! It's the cool back version that records 60 minutes and has a zoom.

























Now, this means two things to me. First of all, look out Hackensaw Boys. I'm so excited because one of the next times I see them is actually in B'burg, at a daytime outdoor street festival. If that's not a prime recording venue, I don't know what is.

The other thing it means to me is.... Well, some of you who've been around a long time will know. Remember The Comfy Chair? Not the one I sit in, but the one that's a website I haven't updated in over a year? Well, in the early, early days of The Comfy Chair, Mr M and I introduced The Comfy Chair Cinema, where we made little 30-second films that were dumb and goofy and completely endeared themselves to me. There was "Two Feet of Music," which was about 20 seconds of my feet conducting a Sousa march, and "I," which was about 15 seconds of a close-up of my eye, while Indian sitar music played in the background. We made "Driving Mr Peabody," with Sherman and Peabody in an old Barbie car (if I'm not mistaken, Ken made a cameo in that), and maybe one or two others. Ever since I saw the Flip camera and started wanting one, I've been thinking about how neat it would be to revive The Comfy Chair Cinema.

I'm thinking the first movie should star Sherman and my sister's yodeling pickle. Maybe a little recreation of "The Sound of Music." The pickle can be Julie Andrews. So we'll see what happens.

Thank you Mr M.

And now - could it be? Yes it is! A real-live recipe du jour. I've been away from the recipe for weeks now, so please, be kind. One just doesn't ease back into the recipe du jour, you know.

I've been thinking a lot about breakfast lately. I never eat breakfast, and I know it's the most important meal of the day and all. A couple of weeks ago I bought some cereal. Now, I've never been much of a cereal fan, but this was supposed to be good for you, and I figured it would be a quick way to get in a breakfast. When I was buying it, I realized I hadn't bought or eaten cereal in about four years. I've eaten two bowls in two weeks.

Now, if I had the time, I could do something better. Scramble an egg, and have some bacon. I like eggs and bacon. Who doesn't like eggs and bacon? You? Well, maybe you haven't tried eggs and bacon the recipe du jour way. Please, from the "Sweet Breakfasts" file in cardland, say hello to Bacon and Eggs.























Yep, spring is upon us, Easter is upon us, so what could be better for breakfast than some pieces of bacon alongside a couple of Cadbury Creme Eggs, sunny side up. This one's easy as pie (or eggs) to make. Take your eggs, break them apart, and put your bacon on the side. Yum, yum. Or not.

You know, even when I ate candy and liked sweets, I could never stomach a Cadbury Creme Egg. It is the epitome of the phrase "too much." And while I was taking the picture for this, even though I know M & Ms were the actual product, all I could think of was, "Thanks Eas' Bun'!" "Bawk Bawk!"

Happy week.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Since I have no update per se, I'll give you a snippet of conversation between Mr M & I this afternoon over messenger. It begins with "15d," because that's our shorthand for, "I drove safely and arrived in one piece." Seems, oddly enough, I woke up this morning with a burn on my arm:
agnes says:
15d
Bruce says:
[applause]
agnes says:
THERE you are.
agnes says:
boy, am i mad at you. really REALLY mad at you
agnes says:
i know you must have a lot of pent-up frustration at me, with my being smarter and funnier and a better clarinet player and all. so i almost understand your socking me in the nose while i was asleep.
Bruce says:
That was a nose socker, not me.
agnes says:
but i noticed that sometime while i slept i seem to have gotten a BURN MARK on my arm. now, burning me while i sleep is just plain sadistic.
Bruce says:
That was Dave. [deepfatfriar]
agnes says:
well, if it wasn't you - and i'm not saying it wasn't - i'm guessing alice for the second suspect. she was very quiet last night.
Bruce says:
She isn't allowed to play with matches.
agnes says:
and i also waved the candlestick at her last night when she got on the table.
agnes says:
so? why would she follow the rules now?
Bruce says:
She listens to me.
agnes says:
ohhhh yeah
agnes says:
i've seen her 'listening' to you
agnes says:
i wouldn't be surprised if the two of you didn't get together and burn me
Bruce says:
I burn you every time I play the clarinet. Why should I need more?
* See, I let it end with him having the last dig. Who says I'm not nice?