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So That’s Why They Call it the Poop Deck! OMG!!!

14 Feb

by Penelope Ashe

 

Editor’s note: While “This Old Spouse” columnist Roger White continues his recovery yowzaand convalescence from male breast-reduction surgery, guest columnist Penelope Ashe has agreed to offer her wacky, offbeat observations and unique comic stylings with her very own “From Penelope’s Pen.”

 

Hi, out there!!! Penelope Ashe here!!! First, let me tell you a little bit about myself. My name is Penelope Ashe, and I am an XX-year-old divorcee living in Bastrop, Texas, with my two adorable poodles and one snarky, mean old cat. You didn’t really think I was going to tell you how old I was, did you? Hahahahaha!!!

I have an online associate’s degree from Belford University, I was an actress and singer in Houston (actually, the suburb of Sealy!) for several years (Shakey’s Olde Time Dinner Theatre), and I have my own Pinterest following in the disciplines of scrapbooking and merkin weaving. My friends and family have always told me how funny and witty I am, so when I found out about this chance to write my very own funny column, I just couldn’t resist!!!

Well, anyway, enough about me, on to the humor!!! Are you ready???

Did you hear about that cruise ship that got stuck in the ocean without any power? OMG, it floated around in the Gulf of Mexico for days, while passengers had to wait in line for like ever for food—and they had to do their business in buckets!!! I guess that gives a new meaning to the word “poop deck,” huh? Hahaha!!!

And what’s up with that Charlie Sheen character? OMG x 2!!! What I don’t understand is that after all his misbehavior (do you really think he drank real tiger’s blood?), he gets another zillion-dollar contract to star in another TV show?!? Do you think if I acted up sheenlike that that I would get my very own TV show? Maybe something like “Here’s Penelope” or “A*S*H*E”—get it? (Like “M*A*S*H” except a little different.) By the way, did you know that they have a sitcom in the Philippines called “Ful Haus,” based on the all-time classic American show “Full House”? Isn’t there a law? Anyway, with Mr. Sheen being a total wackjob like he is, I don’t blame his brother, Emilio Estevez, for taking a stage name.

How about poor Lance Armstrong, huh? Everyone in this part of the world pretty much worshiped the ground he rode on until all the steroid accusations against him were proven to be true. We had a Lance Armstrong bike path, Lance Armstrong Avenue; everybody wore his little yellow wristbands, etc., etc. And now everybody in and around Austin rides their bikes wearing their aerodynamic helmets and faux Lancecompetition outfits, looking quite ridiculous if you ask me. I’m sure many of them would have given their left you-know-what to be Lance Armstrong—which is real funny if you know that Mr. Armstrong only has one you-know-what? Hahahahah!!! And now Lance has admitted that it’s all true—Lance was lanced with hypodermic needles more times than a drug addict. I guess you could say he was a drug pedaler. Get it???!!!

You know, for some reason, every time I try to actually say “hypodermic needles,” I end up saying “hypodeemic nerdles.” I always thought that would be a great name for a garage band. The Hypodeemic Nerdles!!! What do you think? Anyhoot,….

Can you believe the Pope is heading off to retirement? I didn’t know they could do that? Can you just picture him in a baggy bathing suit, long black socks and sandals, with his tall Pope hat on, scouring the beach with his metal detector. I guess now that he’s no longer on the job, they’ll call him Ex Benedict. Hee hee hee!!! Like the breakfast.

Apparently, we just missed being hit by a giant asteroid, only by a few hundred miles or look outso. Did you hear that? Whew!!! That would have been a really rocky end, huh? It would lend a new meaning to getting really stoned, huh? Talk about getting stuck between a rock and a hard place!!! Hoohooooo!!!!

Well, I guess that’s all for now, readers!!! If you want to join my Pinterest site for scrapbooking, just tweet #penelopespals@283, and I’ll be sure to reply. Air kisses and e-hugs!!!

 

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. Penelope Ashe, author of “Naked Came the Stranger,” is a part-time cosmetologist at Sue’s Salon in Cement, Texas.

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Lenticular Haiku, by Sir Archie Ferndoodle

9 Jan

by Roger White

Fellow time/space voyagers and other occasional devotees of “This Old Blouse,” I am more tickled than a duffel bag full of marsupials to announce the return of my dear friend, front porch sartorial mentor, and fellow breakfast-nook philologist, Sir Archie Ferndoodle (applause, applause, applause).

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 been gently coaxed out of quasi-retirement to once again bless us with phrasings, words, syllables, parts of syllables, and renderings of nocturnal animal sounds from the Ulan Bator region as only Sir Archie can. (And remember, if you mention this column at Sue’s Salon, you get 10 percent off a five-ounce jar of Sue’s Coconut Heel Scrub with the purchase of at least $20, not including her patented Tomato-Lye Jamboree Hair Tonic.)     

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, “A Stitch, a Horse, and a Can of Pearl,” which was the inside-cover poem in the most recent edition of the Cement Area Greensheet.

The more astute of you may have seen Fernie’s hand in the Christmas edition of “This Old Mouse.” Raise your hand if you had the notion that Sir Archie was the ghostpen behind“The Nitrous Before Christmas.” Well, you’re dead wrong; I wrote that while flying low in my dentist’s office, but I did have ol’ Fernie in mind. In fact, he may have actually inhabited my body during that whole experience, but we digress again.

So anyway, without further magoo, I give you Sir Archie Ferndoodle, who has just returned from a five-month sojourn at the Tao Sendaha Haiku Sweat Lodge, just north of Pittsburgh.

 

Lenticular Haiku

by Archie Ferndoodle

 

Hand old, withered

Extended to young happy boy who

Smiles and

Coughs up a small border town near

Flagstaff.

 

Deposit slip with no meaning flutters

In brown surge of empty day. I find Julia at

Home making love to the Buick

Again.

Better judgment whispered

Toyota, Toyota.

Toyota. Smash hindsight with

Bitter hammer of stoli rocks. Ah.

 

Three grateful invertebrates argue

On who passed

Wind while each ascends

The assistant professor’s

Mortgage.

 

 

 

Trees and earth know much more

Than they sing

To man accused of listening of listening

Of listening to Alex

Trebek and his minions. Only refuse

And then hear again, the daily

Double. Oh! Bodies of

Water for Four

Hundred.

 

Heat. No heat. Heat. No heat.

Damn toaster. Fling the

Shiny monster down the hillock to

CRASH waves of filament element

Parchment and wire. No heat toast is mere

bread and

Sorrow.

Dear Julia. I’m trading it

In.

 

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.

Tired of Your Unwanted Gold? And Other Stuff

25 Feb

by Roger White

I can’t make up stuff to write about that is any sillier than real life. And if I did make it up, you wouldn’t read it because you would say, “Oh, he’s just making that stuff up, and it’s silly.” But you do read this stuff because you know I’m not making it up because I wouldn’t be silly enough to make this stuff up. This is real stuff, and that’s why it’s funny. And isn’t “stuff” a funny word? Say it out loud. Stuff. See? Kind of like rhubarb.

Here’s an example of the stuff I’m talking about—and I promise not to say “stuff” any further in this venue. Have you seen the TV commercial in which the benevolent, dulcimer-toned gentleman asks if you are tired of your unwanted gold? I kid you not, this is a genuine television commercial. And when I saw this one, it was one of those coffee-spewing moments. Got Folger’s all over the dog.

In the ad, this poor woman is at her cluttered and unkempt jewelry box, surrounded by junky mounds of tasteless gold bracelets, rings, necklaces, and tacky Krugerrand coins. The horror. But, thanks to Gold-Away (name changed to protect the perpetrators), she can send all that pesky gold (in an envelope, mind you!) off to Connecticut – why is it always Connecticut? – and even get some money in return!

Yes, not only is this beleaguered gal now able to shed those unsightly precious metals, she gets paid for it. Something along the lines of $5.00 per pound!

The only thing more stunning to me than the premise of this commercial is the fact that it has been running for months—which means it must be working! Try as I might, I just can’t imagine the scenario. But here goes:

“Damn it, hon, if I trip over any of this gold bullion one more time, I’m gonna fling the cat! Why do we have all this old, klunky gold lying around?”

“Now, Jethro, don’t get yer antlers all twisted. We can send it off to Gold-Away in these here special envelopes, and they’ll take care of it for us.”

“Well, thank heaven for Gold-Away. I think I broke my big toe.”

The same principle (that principle being, of course, taking as much advantage of the feeble-minded as is corporately possible) applies to just about anything and everything produced by a certain mint named after the bespectacled philosopher-statesman who got struck by lightning whilst flying his kite. I won’t mention the mint by name for fear of legal action, but let’s just call it the Benjamin Mint.

Have you seen what these guys are offering? Get this, you can purchase, for example, the entire 11-coin Sacagawea 2000-2010 Dollar Collection—if you act now!—for only $99.00. The mint fails to mention that each of these rare coins is worth precisely one dollar each, and they’re all in circulation. So if you go to the laundromat or get change from Starbucks often enough, you’ll find them. For, oh, about eleven bucks. Total.

Ah, but this particular Sacagawea set comes in a handsomely crafted box with crushed velvet and shellac and all that, the Benjamin people will argue. My answer, Hobby Lobby, ten bucks.

It gets worse. I shall now read from the brochure: “These coins are made from pure copper with a manganese brass outer clad!” What do they think the Sacagaweas on the street are made of—tomato aspic?

Again, this is real life. Why would I lie?

It is the apparent success of ads and commercials such as these that dims my hopes for this mighty nation. And more importantly, it makes me almost want to stop watching TV. Almost. Instead, I keep one of those nifty foam bricks within arm’s reach of the recliner. A well-aimed toss of this baby right into the kisser of the benevolent, dulcimer-toned Gold-Away man does wonders for the blood pressure.

I was lucky to get my foam brick, too. There was a limited supply, the guy said, and I called just within the 20-minute window to get the insider’s deal. Sweet.

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