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Lit Lovers Rejoice! Sir Archie Ferndoodle Rides Again.

28 Mar

by Roger White                                                                              

 

Fellow time/space voyagers and other occasional devotees of “This Old Blouse,” I am more tickled than a coffee can full of dung beetles to announce the return of my dear friend, back-porch expectorational master, and legendary raconteur of the obsequious and purulent, Sir Archie Ferndoodle (applause, applause, applause).

As I’m sure you remember, the esteemed Dr. Ferndoodle holds an associate’s degree in postmodern comparative limerick studies from the University of Southern Panama’s Correspondence College and has been featured five times in the American Anthology of Poetry. Just a few of his classics include “Oh, Staff Sergeant, My Staff Sergeant!,” “Why Is the Man Always from Nantucket?,” and possibly his greatest epic, “The Squirrels Stopped Talking to Me Today.”

Sir Archie has a rare treat for us in this installment. In his inimitable style, the Fernman has taken several classic tunes from the songbook of popular culture and rendered them as his own, with updated, shall we say, acerbic lyrics so pertinent to today’s manic milieu. Or something.

Disclaimer: The Spouseman—and the newspaper/periodical/bathroom wall compendium in which this diatribe appears—doesn’t necessarily agree with the views and opinions of Sir Archie. He is his own woman, and we bear no responsibility or legal burden for his espousings. So there.

With this heartfelt caveat (and sincere attempt to head off legal action), I give you Sir Archie’s renderings. By the way, it’s important to keep the tune of Archie’s specific song choice in your head for these to make any sense whatsoever. If that is, indeed, possible. So. Archie’s first offering is called “Ivanka in the White House”:

 

Ivanka in the White House

(to the tune of “Drive My Car” by The Beatles)

(verse 1)

“I asked my girl where she wanted to be,

In New York City or in D.C.,

She said Daddy, I wanna be near you,

In the White House with Jared the Jew.”

 

(chorus)

“Ivanka, you can have the West Wing,

We’ll set you up with all of your bling,

You can sell your furs and your rings,

And Dad will tweet for you.”

 

(verse 2)

“Barron’s got a floor to himself,

With a team of counselors for his mental health,

But Melania and I aren’t sharin’ a bed,

So you could move in with me instead.”

 

(chorus)

“Ivanka, you can have the West Wing,

Or you-know-where, I won’t say a thing,

Damn, it’s so good to be the king,

And Putin, I owe you.”

 

“Tweet, tweet n tweet, tweet, yeah!”

 

Um, ok. For his second favoring, the Fernman has rendered this ditty entitled “Perry in Charge”:

 

Perry in Charge

(to the tune of Tom Jones’ “She’s a Lady”)

(verse 1)

“Well, I’m the Energy Top Dude,

And now solar power’s screwed ’cause oil’s my cash cow,

Yeah, I ran for president,

I told Donald to get bent, but that’s all past now.”

 

(chorus)

“I’m Rick Perry, woah, woah, woah,

I’m Rick Perry,

Those rumors are false, ’cause I’m no fairy,

And I’m towin’ the Trump line.”

 

(verse 2)

“Well, I’m not sure what I do,

But I think I make the rules on nukular weapons,

But this can’t be as hard

As Dancing with the Stars, man, I was steppin’,”

 

(chorus)

“I’m Rick Perry, woah, woah, woah,

I’m Rick Perry,

Renewable power’s our adversary,

Let’s build that pipeline.”

 

And last, and surely least, Ferndude gives us “Lysergic Wood,” which he says is his ode to psychedelic substances:

 

Lysergic Wood, An Ode to LSD

(to the tune of The Beatles’ “Norwegian Wood”)

(verse 1)

“I once ate a squirrel,

Or should I say the squirrel ate me,

He showed me his brain,

We baked it into a nice quiche lorraine.”

 

(chorus)

“We smoked purple crayons,

As the walls melted into the sea,

Then Timothy Leary appeared

And said why’d you take three?”

 

(verse 2)

“I played canasta with Jesus,

His Holiness beat me two games out of threezus,

Then me and the squirrel flew to Mars,

But squirrel wasn’t squirrel, he was Pat Benatar.”

 

(chorus)

“We smoked purple crayons

As robots made love to the cow,

Then Hunter S. Thompson said man you’re in big trouble now.”

 

(verse 3)

“And when I awoke,

I was in a cell with a large man named Mel.

He kept pinching my ass,

Dear God from now on, I’m sticking with grass.”

 

Roger White Sir Archie Ferndoodle holds an associate’s degree in comparative limerick studies from the University of Southern Panama’s Correspondence College. Sir Archie’s classics include “Oh, Staff Sergeant, My Staff Sergeant!,” “Why Is the Man Always from Nantucket?,” and perhaps his greatest epic, “The Squirrels Stopped Talking to Me Today,” For further adventures, visit oldspouse.wordpress.com.

 

 

OK, Cowpokes, Time for the Fifth Biennial OFPhC

16 Nov

by Roger White

 

I know what half of you are saying: You’re saying, “Well, there it is. He’s run out of material again. Despite the ridiculous wealth of silliness, brain-scrambling absurdities, and downright knuckle-dragging stupidity in today’s world, the Spouseman can’t think of one funny thing to say in this installment. He’s washed up, burned out, run dry, come up empty, on fumes, bit the dust, hit the wall, thrown in the towel, given up the ghost, run down the curtain and joined the choir invisible—in other words, he’s kaput.”

 

And the other half, in a rejoicing and ebullient tone, are exclaiming, “Huzzah! The Great and Glorious Spousemaster has heard our pleas and decided to favor us with yet another of his brilliant contests! Another opportunity for mind-expanding fun, mirthful frivolity, and a chance for free stuff! What a kind, thoughtful, and oh-so-creative wordsmith we have in our midst!”

 

And yet the third half of you are still scratching your pants and wondering just what in the hell “run down the curtain and joined the choir invisible” really means. Well, that takes some doing, but here goes: The term to “join the choir invisible” is George Eliot sort ofin reference to the poem penned by George Eliot in 1867 entitled “O May I Join the Choir Invisible” in which the author longs for the afterlife in which he can spend eternity singing hymns “whose music is the gladness of the world.” To be precise, however, George Eliot was the nom de plume of poet Mary Ann Evans (1819-1880), who used a male pen name to ensure that her works would be taken seriously, seeing as how female authors of Evans’ time were stereotyped as writing only lighthearted romances.

 

Now, to be even more precise, this term “join the choir invisible” was referenced in a Monty Python skit entitled “Dead Parrot Sketch” (originally aired 7 December 1969) in which John Cleese wishes to return a Norwegian Blue parrot he purchased
Hello POLLYfrom Michael Palin because the unfortunate bird is “bleeding demised, passed on, no more, ceased to be, expired and gone to meet its maker—a late parrot!” Despite Palin’s assurances that the poor parrot is merely “pining for the fjords,” it’s quite obvious this is an ex-parrot.

 

Anyway. For the second half of you, leaning forward in your La-Z-Boys with anticipation, be comforted, for here I bring you the Fifth Biennial Oldspouse Familiar Phrase Contest (OFPhC). For the first and third halves of you, feel free to skip over to Mike Jasper’s column. He usually has coupons for free beer at Boomerz for those who read to the end. And yes, I have received yet another supply of premium glossy bumper stickers as prizes. For those too young, old, sensible, or deciduous to remember, the OFPhC involves a pile of phrases, quotes, movie lines, book titles, common sayings, utterances, and/or bodily function noises that I’ve rendered in a somewhat obscure manner. Your job, should you decide to accept it, is to come up with the more common version of said utterances. For example, say I give you the phrase “Croaking before disgrace!” You say, “Death before dishonor!” Get it? See how easy?

 

First three people (I will accept dogs and possums, too) to respond at roger.white@tasb.org with the correct answers each wins a premium glossy bumper sticker (sorry, the “Keep Oak Hill Obtuse” ones are all gone—you get “Jesus is Coming. Hide the Bong”). And you get your name in the newspaper! Pseudonyms are fine.

Exciting, huh?

 

OK, ready and. Go. What are the more well-known versions of these sayings:

  1. In my dad’s home, there are lots of ritzy estates.
  2. You’re not anything except a canine used primarily for tracking.
  3. Birthed Untamed.
  4. A brain is an awful item to throw away.
  5. If glares could commit homicide.
  6. Cease the printing machines!
  7. Blood-pumping muscle to blood-pumping muscle.
  8. Nancy!These cowboy shoes are manufactured for treading.
  9. Subsistence of those in the best physical shape.
  10. Escort me out to the baseball contest.
  11. The evidence is within the dessert.
  12. An opening in 748 divided by 748.
  13. Squatting on the summit of the earth.
  14. Existence is a female dog.
  15. The lively Irish dance is not down.
  16. Four letters after T denotes the location.
  17. I’m as satisfied as a liquid party refreshment.
  18. Here we circumnavigate the perimeter of the plant bearing mulberries.
  19. Twelve a.m. cowpoke.
  20. She spews expletives with as much proficiency as a member of the navy.

 

Roger White is a freelance cowpoke living in Austin, Texas, with his lovely female spouse, two precocious offspring units, a very obese dachshund, and a cat with Epstein-Barr. For further adventures, visit oldspouse.wordpress.com. Or not.

 

A Mighty Wind Cometh (from an Empty Caveth)

15 Aug

almanack schmalmanackaesop schmaesopby Roger White

Never let it be said that the Spouseman ignores his readers. I recently checked my inbox and found myself inundated with an e-mail, which lamented the fact that I haven’t tested you guys with a Quizzical Quotes contest in ages. I figured we’d seen the end of QQ, seeing as how the last time we did this, three of you wrote in threatening physical violence (I won’t name full names, Ronnie, Margene, and Achmed) and I ended up in protracted litigation with the estate of Aesop’s Fables claiming copyright infringement.

But.

Ye have spoken, and thee has listened. Besides, the nifty column I had drafted about the quirky personalities in my neighborhood didn’t make it past my copy editor (that being my lovely wife)—so you’re safe for now, Ronnie, Margene, and Achmed.

The object of QQ is simple: give me the more popular version of the quotes, sayings, poems, tidbits, cereal boxtops, song titles, book titles, phrases, expressions, adages, aphorisms, platitudes and proverbs you see below. For example, the more well-known version of “I’ll take freedom or croaking” is … anyone? Bueller? Come on, it’s “Give me liberty or give me death.” Dig? Dug.

First 10 of you who e-mail me at rogdude@mail.com with anything close to the correct answers win a nifty “Jesus Is Coming, Hide the Bong” bumper sticker. First 10 of you who e-mail me your PayPal account information and anything close to the correct answers win two bumper stickers and a VIP seat at my book-signing party (to be announced as soon as I hear back from my guy Larry at Self-Publish America).

So here goes. I was going to go with 50 of them, but I got tired. Sue me.

1. “You are not just puckering your lips and melodiously blowing a tune popular in the Old South.”
2. “Rap on oak.”
3. “Treading on chicken-embryo casings.”
4. “Don’t inspect a free large, solid-hoofed herbivorous quadruped in its oral cavity.”
5. “Each canine possesses its 24-hour period.”
6. “Existence in the Driving Corridor Designated for Speedier Vehicles.”
7. “What’s the latest information, feline?”
8. “Don’t mooch things off other people and don’t loan out your stuff, either.”
9. “The clock doesn’t hang around for anybody.”
10. “In what manners do I really, really like you? Where’s the calculator?”
11. “The puny, soft-spoken guys will get the third planet from the sun.”
12. “A threaded knot at the appropriate interval precludes the necessity for three squared.”
13. “Amalgamated, our posture is upright; split apart, we hit the floor.”
14. “The precipitation in the northern Iberian peninsula comes down principally on the flatlands.”
15. “A snapshot equals a lot of talking.”
16. “Devotion has no eyesight.”
17. “Consume, imbibe, and laugh it up, because two days after yesterday we could kick the bucket.”
18. “An egg-laying winged vertebrate within the extremity has the same value as five minus three in the shrubbery.”
19. “As a pair of ocean-going vessels that came within close proximity of the other after the sun went down.”
20. “Only a couple of items are sure things: pushing up daisies and governmental levies on personal income.”
21. “Confection is nice; however, alcohol has a more rapid effect.”
22. “Being really smug and happy with yourself precedes a sudden drop.”
23. “The neatest items of existence don’t necessitate a trip to the bank.”
24. “My mind processes information, so I gotta be here.”
25. “Grasp this career occupation and push it.”
26. “This is a canine-consume-canine planetary sphere.”
27. “Twelve divided by four bed linens facing the breeze.”
28. “As comfortable as an insect within a floor covering.”
29. “Getting even is sugary.”
30. “Glimmer, Glimmer, Diminutive Gaseous Orb.”
31. “The guy who is the final guy to snicker has the highest-quality snicker.”
32. “Need is the mom of contraption.”
33. “The only item we should be scared of is being scared.”
34. “OK, let’s have the guy who’s done nothing wrong hurl the initial rock.”
35. “To Assassinate the State Bird of Texas.”
36. “Clear liquid’s all around, but we can’t imbibe any of it.”
37. “Every one of the monarch’s large, solid-hoofed herbivorous quadrupeds and every one of the monarch’s male homosapiens failed in their efforts to reconstruct the egg man.”
38. “Bluntly, Red, I do not care.”
39. “I detect spoilage in the Copenhagen area.”
40. “See ya, mean globe.”
41. “Inactive appendages equal Satan’s studio.”

Roger White is a freelance writer living in Austin, Texas, with his lovely wife, two precocious daughters, a very fat dachshund, and a self-absorbed cat. For further adventures, visit oldspouse.wordpress.com.

Sir Archie’s ‘Words for the Now’

10 Apr

by Roger White

 

All right, gang, I’m at a bit of a crossroads here. Don’t get me wrong. I’m as big a fan of poet Archie Ferndoodle as anyone, and I consider it an honor to present his unique musings in this forum. But ever since his mom passed away in February at the tender age of 109 (breast implant surgery complications, the poor dear), Sir Archie has taken it upon himself to live with me and my family. Mr. F has seven cats and a dyspeptic parrot that sings ’70s country songs in the dead middle of the night. If you’ve ever been awakened at 2 a.m. to the strangled strains of “Harper Valley PTA,” you may have an idea of the trauma. And that’s not the worst part. Apparently, Archie is on a strict diet consisting chiefly of pan-fried liver, steamed cabbage, large-curd cottage cheese, and Oreos (with double stuffing). The whole house smells like a marathon gastric bypass surgical procedure.

The wife and kids are calling for drastic action. But I can’t put the guy on the street, can I? He’s a living legend. In fact, just this morning as we were tidying up after Roscoe the Parrot’s . . . uh, indiscretions on my wife’s oriental rug, the Great One handed me his latest. Yes, the former poet laureate of the Greater Southwestern Scribes Society, which meets every third Thursday in the back of Sue’s Salon in Cement, Texas, has done it again. (And remember, if you mention this column at Sue’s Salon, you get a coupon for 7 percent off of her patented orange-mint hair removal paste. It really works, too. Sue’s upper lip looks fantastic!)    

As I’m sure you remember, the esteemed Fernie holds an associate’s degree in postmodern comparative limerick studies from the University of Southern Panama’s Correspondence College and has been featured five times in the American Anthology of Poetry. Just a few of his classics include “Oh, Staff Sergeant, My Staff Sergeant!,” “Why Is the Man Always from Nantucket?,” “The Squirrels Stopped Talking to Me Today,” and his latest, “Lenticular Haiku,” which was the inside-cover poem in the most recent edition of the Cement Area Greensheet.

Sir Archie has decided of late that many of our old standards—proverbs, parables, fables, and the like—are in desperate need of updating to more accurately reflect our life and times today. So the Great One has blessed us with his latest work: “Words for the Now.”

So without further ado, I give you Sir Archie Ferndoodle:

 

            “Words for the Now”

            by Archie Ferndoodle

 

            If at first you don’t succeed,

            Apply for a government bailout.

 

            Slow and steady never goes viral.

 

            One bad apple lands a reality television show.

 

            Two wrongs make a nifty presidential debate.

 

            Early to bed and early to rise requires Ambien and amphetamines.

 

            A Rolling Stone gathers retirement benefits by now, surely.

 

            Neither a borrower nor a lender be; now, regulatory agent, that’s where the safe money is.

 

            This above all: of thine own self promote like crazy.

 

            All that glitters isn’t gold, but all that’s gold can be sold 24 hours a day at Achmed’s Gold Emporium & Pawn.

 

            A penny saved is a colossal waste of time.

 

            What’s good for the goose probably doesn’t contain enough artificial growth hormone.

 

            A bird in the hand is worth a couple rounds of Avian Flu H5N1 vaccinations.

 

            It’s always darkest before the energy companies invest in their infrastructure.

 

            A friend in need is everybody not in the “5 percent.”

 

            A man’s home is his castle until it becomes the bank’s castle.

 

            Speak softly and carry a stun gun.

 

            Practice makes perfect, but it still can’t beat steroids.

 

            Laughter is the best medicine unless you can afford real medicine.

 

            Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, and I’ll sue your butt for everything you’ve got, including mental distress and anguish.

 

            Sticks and stones may break my bones, but defriending me on Facebook? Now, that really hurts.

 

            Actions speak louder than words, but rumors are even louder.

 

            A stitch in time is not as easy as Velcro.

 

Roger White is a freelance writer living in Austin, Texas, with his lovely wife, two precocious daughters, a very fat dachshund, and a self-absorbed cat. For further adventures, visit oldspouse.wordpress.com.

 

 

Hey, Fitz! Take This Footlong Hoagie and . . .

26 Oct

by Roger White

Ladies (and you sleekly camouflaged metrosexuals), you must pardon me if I wax sportsetic once again, but my hackles have been raised. Mind you, I had a pretty cool topic this time around, too. About that Harold Camping guy—ya know, the old geezer who keeps moving his predictions for the end of the world back a few months because his Bible math was somehow flawed? Apparently, when May 21, 2011, came and went and all his followers had to repaint their vans and try to buy some of their stuff back, he then corrected himself by saying May 21 was a “spiritual” judgment and that what God meant to say was that we will all burn on October 16, 2011. Oops. Well, when October 17 dawned on a non-fractured, unscorched earth, Harold was in full backtrack again. “Oh, well, here in Leviticus, you see, I neglected to carry the three and divide by Moses.”

Ah. Of course.

But no, as creepy as guys like Harold are, he’s not a hackle-raiser in my book. No, the alien in my belly of late is one Frank Fitzpatrick, columnist for the Philadelphia Inquirer. Understand, kids, as I attempt to relax my hackles through third-eye meditation that I am a lifelong Dallas Cowboys fan. And I am old. Which means I’ve been watching the Pokes since the days of Jethro Pugh and Chuck Howley and Howdy Doody and Mirabeau B. Lamar and all them there.

If you know just the teensiest bit about the Cowboys, you know that there are no two cities that enjoy hating them more than Philadelphia and Washington, D.C. Well, ol’ Fitz of the Inquirer recently put to paper the myriad reasons he hates my beloved Cowboys, so I found myself utterly unable to resist rebuttal.

So herewith you’ll find Fitzpatrick’s reasons for loathing Dallas, followed, respectively, by my reasons for wanting to aim my southern end toward the City of Brotherly Shove. You may not get some of the references unless you own every single Cowboys yearbook and every edition of the weekly subscriber newsletter from August 1960 to the present, but here goes:

Fitz: Tom Landry’s hat. Did he think he was hiding his baldness? The Cowboys first coach wore fedoras right through the Age of Aquarius, shielding his head while the rest of us were expanding ours. I could maybe see the need for one on a December Sunday in Green Bay. But indoors in New Orleans? Or Miami? It was an affectation of the arrogant.

Me: Dick Vermeil’s lachrymal glands. Was there ever a whinier, more emotionally histrionic car salesman of a coach than Vermeil? He could break down sobbing reading a cereal box. Remember his tear-stained announcement of retirement because of “burnout”? Hey, can I do that? “Really, I’ve loved every one of you words and syllables, but it’s time to move on..waaahh!”

Fitz: Jimmy Johnson’s hair. Speaking of inappropriate headwear. The guy apparently missed wearing a helmet so much that he created one out of hair, mousse and his Arkansas sensibility.

Me: Rich Kotite. Need I say more? Okay, I will. Rich coached the Iggles about the same time Jimmy coached Dallas. The results speak for themselves. And when Rich said publicly he was going to look around for other coaching jobs midseason in 1994, Philly lost its next seven games. Richie was promptly canned. And he had absolutely no hair. Zip. Bupkiss.

Fitz: Jerry Jones’ face. It’s been lifted more frequently than Kyle Kendrick. The current owner’s narcissistic infatuation with Botox speaks volumes about his ego, his team and his disposable income.

Me: Christina Lurie’s hair. The wife of the Eagles’ owner looks like she was used as a ground wire at a General Electric power plant. Really, can’t anything be done? No wonder Jeff “accidentally” smacked her in the face when he was attempting a high-five (see Youtube).

Fitz: The old stadium. Who builds a football stadium in a place called Irving? Has there ever been a Texan whose first name was Irving? If so, I’m betting he didn’t wear spurs. Anyway, is the weather in Texas so bad and are the fans so delicate that they needed to cover the stands with a roof? Typically arrogant Cowboys fans liked to say the reason there was a hole in the roof was so God could watch his favorite team. If God’s really a Dallas fan, how do you explain Leon Lett?

Me: The Vet. Easily the worst playing surface in the history of the league. More careers likely ended prematurely at the Vet than in Vietnam. Seems fitting that both Paul Owens and Tug McGraw, who made appearances at the Vet on its final day in use, both croaked soon after. Was like playing on a field of ground glass and asbestos, many said.

Fitz: The new stadium. Aside from Rick Perry, is there a more ridiculous monument to Texas excess? A $1.5 billion shopping mall of a stadium in a state  where the governor seriously considered laying off 100,000 teachers.

Me: Lincoln Financial Field. Let me get this straight: When the stadium opened, the Eagles imposed a ban on hoagies and cheesesteaks being brought into the stadium, citing security concerns? Guess you can never tell when a lunatic fan’s going to smuggle in a loaded hoagie. The smart call would have been to ban snowballs.

Fitz: Michael Irvin.  Tough to like the man who still holds the NFL record for most felonies in a season.

Me: Donovan McNabb. Webster’s defines “loser” as a person who has failed at a particular activity. The photo accompanying this definition in the unabridged Webster’s is one of Donovan McNabb in the playoffs.

Fitz: Deion Sanders. Enough said.

Me: Kenny Jackson. Eleven TDs in eight years for a first-round pick. Nice payoff there, guys.

Fitz: Lee Roy Jordan. This 1960s Cowboys linebacker was obnoxious long before that trait was in vogue.

Me: Tim Rossovich. At least Lee Roy didn’t set himself on fire. And hey, Jordan was good.

Fitz: Tony Romo. Dallas’ maddeningly erratic QB once dated Jessica Simpson, perhaps the reason his quarterback rating that year was lower than her IQ.

Me: Michael Vick. This one’s almost too easy. At least Romo only dated a couple of dogs; he didn’t kill them.

Fitz: Barry Switzer. If there ever was a more oily football coach — not counting Johnson and his hair tonic — I can’t recall him. He’s his sport’s answer to John Calipari and Bobby Huggins.

Me: Buddy Ryan. Choosing between lunch with Hannibal Lecter and Ryan—coin toss. At least Lecter would offer intelligent conversation.

Fitz: The star. I like most stars. The Christmas star, movie stars, Converse All-Stars, Ringo and Sally Starr. But the mere sight of one of the blue Cowboys variety is enough to make me physically ill.

Me: The whole blue-collar, world-against-Philly crapola.  Look, my wife’s sister lives up there. So I know. Give us a break with the attitude. It’s wearing thin. Ya need a new shtick. Loserville sounds good.

Fitz: Dallas. Don’t think I’ll ever be able to disassociate the city from the JFK assassination. Dallas stole my innocence. And where was Joe Bob Isbell on November 22, 1963?

Me: Low blow. You were really reaching on this one, Fitzy boy. I think it’s the whole five Super Bowl titles versus none that may be behind it. Oh, one more thing: How did the Phillies and Sixers do this year? Now, let’s compare…

Roger White is a freelance writer living in Austin, Texas, with his lovely wife, two precocious daughters, a very fat dachshund, and a self-absorbed cat. For further adventures, visit oldspouse.wordpress.com.

Move Over, Aesop. Here Comes Mr. Ferndoodle.

13 Jul

by Roger White

            Oh, compadres, I am more than overjoyed to hand over the quill and ink (okay, keyboard and mouse) for this edition to my dear friend and poet, Archie Ferndoodle. To those few who may not be familiar with Mr. Ferndoodle and his work, Master Archie is the current poet laureate of the Greater Southwestern Scribes Society, which meets every third Thursday in the back of Sue’s Salon in Cement, Texas. Sue asked me to mention that for the next two weekends, she is offering clip-on hair extensions at 20 percent off with a coupon from the Cement Sentinel. And you get a free scrunchie with every shampoo.

            Anyway, Mr. Ferndoodle (or Fernie, as his closest fellows call him) holds an associate’s degree in postmodern comparative limerick studies from the University of Southern Panama’s Correspondence College and has been featured five times in the American Anthology of Poetry. Just a few of his classics include “Staff Sergeant, My Staff Sergeant!,” “Why Is the Man Always from Nantucket?,” and “The Squirrels Stopped Talking to Me Today.”

            I am humbly honored to introduce this latest work of Master Archie’s, in which the bard has given us contemporary interpretive musings on some of the more well-known sayings of yesterday. Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to give you Mr. Archie Ferndoodle:

 

            “A Stitch, a Horse, and a Can of Pearl”

            by Archie Ferndoodle

 

            Necessity is the mother of invention.

            Failure is the stepfather of rationalization.

            Lust is the naughty uncle of impropriety.

            Vague shame is the daughter of inebriation.

          

 

 

             

 

            A stitch in time saves nine.

            “Reply All” in haste equals job erased.

            A text while driving may mean not surviving.

            A tweet while senseless brings consequences.

           

            A picture is worth a thousand words.

            A raise is worth a chronic brown nose.

            A flat is worth an attempt at second base.

            A needle is worth a dozen batting titles.

           

 

           

 

 

            You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink.

            You can tell a kid it’s bedtime, but you can’t find her iPod.

            You can delete your browsing history, but you can’t fool I.T.

            You can explain to your wife about football, but you can’t make her get it.

           

            Birds of a feather flock together.

            An honest politician is just an apparition.

            Dogs of a kind sniff behind.

            Computer experts tend to be Egberts.

 

            Slow and steady wins the race.

            Dull and sycophantic wins the corner office.

            Clenbuterol and EPO win the Tour de France.

            Lowbrow and negative wins the election.

 

            A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse!

            The remote, the remote, my Bud for the remote!

            Unleaded, unleaded, my left arm for unleaded!

            A Paxil, a Paxil, my handgun for a Paxil!

 

            A jug of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou.

            A can of Pearl, a DVD, and Blanche.

            A ton of sun, a dearth of rain, and stroke.

            Some flashing lights, a scent of herb, and jail.

     

           

 

            Good fences make good neighbors.

            Thin cube walls make nosy coworkers.

            Odd neighbors make weird noises.

            Good brownies make many neighbors.

 

            A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.

            A kick in the crotch is worth two hundred youtube hits.

            A full TP roll at hand is worth a bazillion in the cabinet.

            Two kids in college is worth, … gimme a minute, I’m still tabulating.

 

 

 

 

Archie Ferndoodle is a close and personal friend of Roger White. Roger White is a freelance writer living in Austin, Texas, with his lovely wife, two precocious daughters, a very fat dachshund, and a self-absorbed cat. For further adventures, visit oldspouse.wordpress.com.