Gene Pool Cleaning Day

One week in advance, notices will be posted warning the reasonable, rational, and responsible people to stay inside and off the roads for twenty-four hours.

During that time, anything goes on the highways of the nation. No speed limits, no stop lights, and no turn signals required. . . and no traffic laws. Any vehicle in any condition will be allowed, including gravel trucks, Model T Fords, and Sherman tanks.

No doctor, nurse, or other medical personnel will be required to staff any Emergency Room or ambulance. Those who do will draw "hazardous duty" pay.

Free beer will be provided to all participants. All the fools on four wheels will be encouraged to play "chicken" at speeds in excess of 100 miles per hour.

Bulldozers and tanker trucks filled with water and detergent will be prepared to clear the highways of smashed vehicles and bodies and wash down the highways at the end of the Holo-day.*

Simple and inexpensive funerals will be paid for by the grateful taxpayers, who can then look forward to several months on the highways, safe from the dangers of criminal negligence.
　
*Holo-day: abbreviation for Holocaust on the Highways Day.

Conquering Evil

I wasn't sure what my Mom meant when she said that we should conquer evil. My older brother said that it meant not being selfish and that meant sharing my ice cream cone with him after he had already gulped his down.

He surely loved chocolate ice cream and had his eyes on mine. I liked to savor mine, which in this case was probably not too smart. He was bigger and stronger than me. What he could not wheedle out of me he could just grab. But I wasn't giving up that easy.

"Eddy, maybe evil is casting greedy eyes on someone else's ice cream cone. You know," I said. "Thou shalt not covet."

Eddy really hated it when I quoted scriptures to him, but it did make him pause. And that's all I needed to make my escape.

I was shorter than him but much faster so I lit out with him hot on my trail. I bobbed and weaved and ran like a scared jack-rabbit, which I was pretty close to being in this case.

Heavy Eddy lumbered after me, getting madder, but more winded, by the minute.

Finally, he stopped, gasping and blowing like a horse that had got fat grazing too long in rich pasture. "Well, Nate. (gasp) Maybe (gasp) you're right," he said, looking up at me in the tree I had climbed with one hand.

"Oh-oh," I thought. "Here it comes. Gotta save face with a good excuse 'cause he can't catch me. Try to get me close enough to snatch my cone."

"Let's face it;" he continued. "We need to co-operate and conquer evil as a team, you and me. Come over here and we'll shake on it."

"Okay, Eddy," I say. "As soon as I finish this DELICIOUS, SCRUMPTIOUS CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM CONE!" And with a gulp I swallowed the melting remains of Eddy's passionate desire and hopped down.

Eddy just looked at me. "How can I conquer evil without chocolate ice cream?"

Around the Corner

Around the corner and down the street,
I follow the lead of my fleeting feet.

With the wind in my hair I flee from care
with a smile on my face, cruel fate I dare.

Around and around I skip and sway
wondering what wonders will come my way.

I run this way and I dash that way
Filled with the joy of another new day.

BUT. . .

Around the corner and out of sight
Are the claws that catch and the jaws that bite.

A frumious bandersnatch it might be
to grabble and gobble up you and me

and wash us down with barrels of beer. . .
I really do wish we had never come here!

If You Can't Beat 'Em. . .

"Hey, Cuz, where's your dog?

"He disappeared soon after I moved here to Florida. Then I got me a little wiener dog; named him Hotdog. He lasted about 3 weeks. A litte mongrel half-terrier was next. Lasted only a week and a half, though.

I asked the lady at the local grocery if they had alligators here in Jacksonville. She said "Yep; pert near everyone does, whether they want 'em or not."

"Good Grief, Billy boy! Looks like you had a serious am-phiby-us reptile problem. What did you do?

"Wa-a-l, I figured I needed the biggest, meanest dog that walked this green earth. So I got me a pit bull name of Mr. Teeth.

He worked out great.

Heard a ruckus one afternoon, and when I looked out the window he was chasing this little 'gator a barkin' and a growlin' somethin' fierce. As he was about to chomp that scaly critter, it slid under the fence and down into the canal just as Mr. Teeth hit the end of his chain. WHANG!

That woulda broke a lesser dog's neck. As it was, it just made Mr. Teeth angrier and meaner. Somebody's poodle wandered into the yard just then and 'ol Teeth grabbed him; shook him like a rag doll, broke his little neck, and bit off his head.

I figured I got me the right dog now! Big, mean, and vicious. Chases alligators. Right!

Turns out I was a mite premature in my satisfaction. One night I heard a furious snapping, snarling, & barking.

Then silence.

I quick grabbed a flashlight, my shotgun, and a handful of shells and turned on the porch light.

Dang! Where's my dog? I walked out where Mr. Teeth was supposed to be. All I found was the heavy-duty chain with his dog collar on the end. No dog. Just the collar.

And it had teeth marks on it; big teeth marks, Homer."

"So, no more pets for you, huh, Billy?"

"Oh, no! I got a pet. He's out in the back yard, Homer. Ain't he a beaut?"

"You got a dang ALLIE-GATOR for a pet?!

"Sure do, Homer. Can't keep a dog around here so I domesticated me an alligator. Raised him from a tadpole. He don't bark and he keeps the prowlers away."

"Well, I'll be . . . What's his name him, Billy?"

"Fido."

My Finger and Small Appliances

I looked down at my swollen, infected finger. Boo-Boo says that I need to soak it in water as hot as I could stand it. That would heal it, he assures me.

Well, I tried it but the water was hotter than I could stand! My somnolent Basset hound Doogie awoke with a start, barking and moving in a slow circle as I cussed a blue streak and jumped up and down.

There must be a better way. What if I put it in the microwave and set the timer for only 15 seconds? Dang! It won't turn on unless the door is shut.

Maybe I can cut a hole in the door and stick my finger in it. Whoo! That's hot hot hot. And Boo-Boo says I got a dandy sunburn on my nose.

My wife is gonna think that we been tipplin'. Which is not a bad idea; might soothe the pain.

I'll try putting it, very lightly, in the wife's curling iron. If it gets too hot, I can pull it right out.

There.

Now to plug it in.

Holy Smokes and Oh Shit! Ow dammit ow dammit ow ow ow! I stick my finger in Boo-Boo's cold glass of beer.

Ahh! That's better!

Hey, it stopped hurting. And the swelling's gone down!

Oh, quit complaining, Boo-Boo. Open another beer. This one's for healing my finger.

Hot-diggety-dog, Boo-Boo! We have discovered the cold beer cure for infected fingers!

We are going to be famous - written up in all the medical journals - maybe get the Nobel Prize in medicine.

Hey, Boo-Boo. Do you think Budweiser would pay us to make a commercial?

Rabbit and the Hunter

It was in the fall of the year that I discovered the true origin of the legendary terror of the North woods.

I was hopping along in the woods, nibbling nettles, munching moss, and scarfing down skunk cabbage when I heard human sounds.

Cautiously moving towards the disturbance, I soon came upon the campsite of a large hairy man. He had draped a big tarpaulin over a low-lying tree branch and fixed it to the ground by pieces of branch that he had sharpened to a point at one end. Nearby, a long-haired dog was scratching himself and shedding hair.

By his mumbling, stumbling manner I could tell that this man was a "beer hunter." He went into the woods, ostensibly to hunt deer, but spent most of his time guzzling beer, eating badly cooked pancakes smothered in molasses, and sitting in front of a smoking fire made from green wood.

He had started on the beer early, had stripped down to his trousers in the warm afternoon, and was now attempting to pour warm molasses out of a huge crock jar onto a large stack of pancakes.

As I watched in fascination, he tripped over a tree root, narrowly missed falling into the fire, and spilled the crock of molasses. He then slipped and landed face down in the spreading pool of that icky, sticky goo. He slipped again when he tried to get up and landed right back in the stuff, but on his back this time. He rolled over, dead leaves and debris sticking to him, and rose unsteadily to his feet.

He tried to wipe the warm molasses off his naked torso with his bare hands but succeeded only in spreading it further.

Now thoroughly coated in molasses, he grabbed the dog and tried to wipe the molasses off him by rubbing the startled pooch over himself like a towel. This managed to add dark brown hair to his coat of molasses . . . and now his sweaty, sweet exertions attracted a swarm of bees.

With a roar, he batted at them with his large, sticky hands. He grabbed a can of beer out of his tent, popped the top, and poured the foaming liquid down his throat. This seemed to calm him temporarily and he belched hugely. But the bees came at him fiercely and stung him above his left eye, which swelled shut immediately.

Well, he lit out of there, roaring in a drunken rage, swatting bees, and running crookedly through the underbrush until he came crashing out of the woods onto the near-by highway right in front of two maiden school teachers taking pictures of a rare ruby-breasted bull-finch twittering in the tree above them.

Wild eyed, he roared drunkenly at the two terrified women. Glaring at them out of his one blood-shot eye, he waved his arms at the besetting bees and charged back into the forest.

[Wow! Instant legend! The headlines next day read "SASQUATCH ATTACKS!"]

I hopped as fast as I could but lost him in the greenery. But then I heard a sound like a foghorn in mud. Hopping toward it, I found that it emanated, along with a very bad smell, from the large, hairy beer hunter crouched behind a low bush.

Suddenly, he stood, pulled up his pants, and went crashing through the underbrush right in front of me. I froze with fear, not daring to move lest he see me, and watched as he staggered through the forest toward his camp, trailing both foul language and smells.

Figuring that I had seen everything that might be interesting, and finding myself in the midst of some truly succulent greenery, I decided that my curiosity was satisfied but my stomach was not. What is more important than a good meal?

It's All In My Head

It was the end of the day and I headed for home. Walking down the road I stumbled on a toad. "Watch where yer goin', Jack!" said the toad. But toads don't talk! My wife always said I had an over-active imagination, so I said "Excuse me, Mr. Toad, I beg your pardon very much. Believe me when I say that I meant no harm. And anyway, this conversation is just a figment of my imagination and is not taking place. It's all in my head." "Humph!" said the toad. "Wait 'til you take off your shoe tonight. Just see if you think those warts are imaginary!"

I squared my shoulders and continued on, ignoring the interesting but wholly imaginary conversation that had just taken place.

"Br-ack-cack-cack!" said a large red rooster by the side of the road. "What did you say?" I asked. "Never mind, said he." "I'm just trying to think of a good reason to cross the road. Got any ideas? I don't want to stand here all day, but I've got to have a good reason."
"Well, why don't just go ahead and cross it." I suggested. "You do want to get to the other side, don't you?"
"That's it!" said he. "That's a very good reason!" And with a flurry feathers he did just that.

"Well, well," I thought to myself. "Always glad to be helpful; but roosters don't talk. Not even large red ones. I'll just ignore this latest conversation. It's all in my head."

As I started on my way again, I heard a loud, strange humming sound and saw something with bright, whirling red, green, and blue lights descending with huge majesty to block the road ahead and smash the fences on either side. "My, my!" I said out loud. "What is this. . . and what's next?"

As the large, silvery saucer-shaped craft settled down, I could hear crackling and pinging sounds as it cooled off. Suddenly, an orifice opened in its side and an object emerged, somewhat like an egg out of a chicken.
The egg-thing rolled toward me and then split open. Out jumped a short, blue fellow, dressed most extraordinarily. He wore a forest green, peaked hat, the bill of which was encrusted with diamonds. He wore a gold lamé jacket over a white silk shirt, tan buckskin jhodpurs with twin creases down the legs and slender green leather shoes that came to turned-up peaks in front. On the peak of each shoe hung two tiny silver bells. One rang C# and the other rang Db, like real close, you know?
He raised his six-fingered hand and said, in a warbly, high-pitched voice "Take me to your leader!" "Ooh, man!" said I. "Take me to your tailor!

After a very interesting exchange of opinions about inter-galactic trade and the meaning of life, I finally convinced him that he should go to Washington, D.C. and talk to the President. I encouraged him to land on the White House lawn, not on the roof. I wasn't sure it could take the weight of his ship.

"Well, that was interesting," I thought. "But everyone knows there is no such thing as flying saucers or little green men . . . or little blue men, for that matter. It's all in my head."

Finally, I could see my house up ahead. I walked gratefully up the path to my house and entered with a sigh. "Honey, I'm home!" I said. "Did you have an good day, dear?" my wife asked.

"Boring. But on the way home I had some unusual encounters and amazing conversations!

But it was all in my head."