Category Archives: A Cry for Help

Who Speaks For The Mr. Puddleses of This World?


All these years I thought it was the marjoram I was tasting.


Er, people don’t seem to get the above joke. I know because I tried it out. But I have heard the best jokes are the ones that need an explanation so I will try and do so.
Obviously, Paul and Joanne are cooking this dog in a recipe experiment that would later become Newman’s Own spaghetti sauce.
But there’s so much else going on here which distracts from the obvious. Paul’s socks, his shorts-windbreaker kitchen wear combo. How slim and young Joanne Woodward is. The era, the glamor, the nice big kitchen cupboards.
But of course this is the sort of seductive trappings that enabled them to get away with this in the first place. Poor poor Mr. Puddles. Ask yourself, did you ever see another photograph of him again?

By The Time I Get To Tease It

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Suppose you’ve got, oh, five hours to kill in downtown Phoenix. What to do? Well there’s always missing the turn-off over and over to the Curly Tail BBQ and resigning yourself to a couple of Mickey’s Big Mouths and a sack of Beer Doh!nuts from the Keg ‘n Kreme Glazed and Brews, then belching through a showing of Sausage Party followed by heading over to the car dealership and putting no money down, no interest for 6-months on a new Chevy Silverado
But that was yesterday.

So naturally I opted for the $70 Bridal Updo at The Coiffure Salon. I’ve never had a Bridal Updo!
I thought — gee, it might be weird mentioning how I came in because of the air-conditioning and having nowhere else to go and wanting to get the Beer Nut smell out of my hair — but once I started telling them about how real super Chad was and how his sister and mom were flying in from Myrtle Beach and how we had our rings custom-made out of burl and the big reception at The Curly Tail, well I’m fairly sure I fit right in and it didn’t seem weird at all. Here’s my bridesmaids!
As you can see, poor Francie ended up with more of a Doggie-do than an Updo.

What Can It All Mean?

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Here we are, near the stubby end of January, and I still haven’t figured out the meaning of the illustration on my free calendar from G&G Market (two convenient locations). Is the man sitting on or emerging from that book?

And if he is being delivered from it — Alien-style — how did he know to wear a white shirt?

And the bubbles. Surely the bubbles mean… something?

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Ah yes — now that a dam busters army of Jumbuctopii (The Wonder Jumbo-underpants drying Octopus) has arrived — it all makes sense!

The NoteSchnook

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This is in front of our main downtown library. The note Charlie is holding says
“Meet me downtown, Charlie Brown. Signed, The Little Red Headed Girl.”
Cute, eh?
Yeah, cute.
Charlie’s been holding this note for years and I don’t think The Little Red Headed Girl is going to show.

Charlie here, is clearly a pawn in a pathetic Chamber of Commerce/Downtown Development type enterprise. And it’s heartbreaking. He is being used I tell you. He was obviously commissioned, as his shirt depicts a downtown scene; so that is why I feel it only fair to point out that this cruelly deceitful promise of The Little Red Headed Girl, is nothing more than another relentless attempt to promote “Downtown” by these capitalistic succubi!

(Or, uh maybe not, don’t really know how the statue came to be here.)

Stylish Attire With Owls

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Here’s a note I sent to a friend regarding my S.A.S shoes: Director’s Cut.
(I was too excited at the time to go into this much detail as per the color choices etc.)

“I’m not saying your S.A.S. shoes aren’t alluring, I’m only saying I just got a pair that make yours look like something Beyonce would wear on the cover of GQ Magazine — in one of those “I’m just here wearing only a snake & these sexy sexy S.A.S. Shoes” poses.

I’d send a photo but I know how jealous you get at the sight of “Inappropriately -Petted Denim” (I think that’s what the color is called; in choosing them, I passed up such options as “Miracle Whip Crust” and “Matted-fur Mole Taupe.”
Hopefully you’ll get over it in time and will be happy for me.

When I was buying these shoes, a woman, at least 20-years my senior, was balking at how dowdy the shoes were.
Not for me, baby, not for me!”

Johnny ( Potato ) Cakes

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I was curious as to how long someone could listen to one of those Christmas Sirius channels before losing all desire to go on living. There’s several channels: ” Holly”, “Country Christmas”, “Christmas Pop” etc.

It may well be too late for me. Nevertheless, I have switched over and am entering my second hour of Radio Hanukkah; I think the only thing I miss are the Johnny Mathis covers.

And by miss I mean I’ve spent the last one-third of an hour trying to determine which musical selection Mr. Mathis would be suited for. There’s some lovely songs and he would do well with many of them but I think he could bring something super-fun and special to “Take a Potato.”
Okay, now I’m making a list of songs and in my mind I’m creating a Hanukkah album for Johnny; not only the novelty songs but every song I hear — I wonder what Johnny could be doing with it.

Like I said, I think it may be too late for me.

Puffery

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My name is Pogsworth Pellinger and I am here to talk about my Peanut Butter Puffin problem. I shied away from the Peanut Butter Puffins for so many years because I didn’t think they could compare to Captain Crunch Peanut Butter Crunch: a round crunchiferous substance that took over my life, nearly ruined my personal and professional relationships, and did something quite permanent and nasty to my Wiffle ball pitch.

But I discovered something five days, nine and a half boxes, plus three and a quarter half-gallons of milk ago: Peanut Butter Puffins are muddafuffin better. Although I don’t think they turn the milk peanut-buttery the way the Ol’ Captain’s balls did, but who needs it, really? The less-porous Puffins stay so splendidly crispy.

I have to go now and uh …work on healing and recovering some more and yep, that sort of thing.

“A _ _ _ _ _ _ Serenade”

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A year ago my favorite radio show, Talk of the Nation, went off the air. I have been heartbroken ever since and my brain hasn’t fared so well either. I knew there would be a Flowers For Algernon type of decline in intellect as that show was my last, best hope at following current events and other weighty matters. I was able to, well, if not absorb, at least suck in information.

I decided to track my decline in spirit and brainwavery. But how can a person accurately monitor their own intellectual decline?

Also, if you want to show a reduction in intellect, wouldn’t you need some evidence that you possessed some brain activity to begin with? See I didn’t think of that, which proves that there wasn’t much happening upstairs after all.

Nevertheless, I decided to videotape my regression for science.Here are some notes from a recent viewing of the videotaped footage.

Upon learning that Talk of The Nation is to be terminated:

Subject (that’s me) seems to be practicing for future misery: ran around turning off every radio in the house, turned the TV on to Maury, put face in a big plate of coldĀ  gummed-up nachos and sobbed.

(These “nachos” have been made from frosted Mini Wheats and shredded carrots; subject was getting real nachos but got kicked out of line at the La Texanita taco truck for excessive weeping.)

Day 67: Subject seems unsteady and is observed approaching a banana and other soft fruits with a can opener.

Day 112: Subject examines a box of Fiddle Faddle and makes lengthy notes with elaborate drawings of the snack items and question marks. Subject drops pieces of the snack item on to the floor from various heights.

This exercise seems to be about determining which is the Fiddle, which is the Faddle. It is uncertain if any conclusion is arrived at.

Day 233: Subject undertakes the “Tiny Fun Crossword Puzzle” found in the pages of Miniature Donkey Talk magazine.

Gives up after five minutes, despite all the answers containing the word donkey with clues such as “____Kong, “Friend of burrow”, “Friend of burrow and ass” and “Where tails are pinned.”

In conclusion, thanks a lot NPR. I hope you’re happy: another life ruined. I’m not saying I was genius to begin with but now I can’t even get the lid off a banana.

And another thing, those stories that are meant to make people cry?

Well I never cry.

Never.