Books and the U.N.

     Don’t you hate incompetence?
    I had a recent go-round with that purveyor of books named after a river in South America.  I put it this way to avoid being sued; but in thinking about it further, since each staff member makes unsuccessful use of two hands and a flashlight on a minute-by-minute basis, there are obviously no fingers left over for dialing a lawyer—so I probably have no worries in that regard.
     At any rate, I was irritated that an order I placed nearly one month ago had not yet arrived.  Being the thoroughly modern Millie that I am, I hopped on the internet to deal with the problem.
     I’m so silly sometimes.
     The website is a paean to the morass of useless information organized in an idiotic fashion that we in this county call, “marketing.”  The opening page is a downright assault, and according to these people, I now have a “plog” and I don’t even know what the hell a “plog” is!
     Remember those heady days when Amazon used to be just a bookseller and buying reading material from them was efficient and uncomplicated?  Remember when the milkman delivered milk?  Remember when … er, yes, well …those days are gone and they aren’t coming back anytime soon, let me tell you.
     Now you can purchase pretty much anything you can think of at Amazon.   It has become an internet mall, I’m sorry to say.
     And, of course, with huge growth you get huge headaches, and when things go wrong, they go horribly wrong.
     For example:  my book order.  Remember my book order?
     After I pried the home page from by throat, I ran a gimlet eye over the large colorful headings and finally found “Help” off in a corner in a type size usually reserved for disclaimers.
     I clicked on it, optimist that I am.
     BAM!
   Another assault.  There was so much information on this page that the idea of reading War and Peace suddenly gave me a warm fuzzy feeling.
    Doggedly, I slogged on.  I am nothing if not dogged.
    About halfway through this mess, they had the nerve to place the following announcement:
           “You can find help quickly using the self-service tools
             and information in Help.”
    Well no, you can’t, either.  I needed a phone number.  I wanted to talk to a person.  I studied the entire page for contact information, then came across this little gem:
           “If you still have questions, you can contact Customer
            Service from any Help page.”
     I’m ON the fucking “Help” page!  There is NOTHING labeled, “Contact Us.”
     After the paramedics left, I aimlessly clicked on links on that page, just for something to do until the Valium drip kicked in, and lo and behold (I always wanted to write that), I FOUND CUSTOMER SERVICE CONTACT NUMBERS!
     The cloudy skies parted and a beam of pure sunlight came through my window, bathing my computer in a warm, white glow.  Seraphim sang.  A beautiful chord played.  I finally had the information I needed and snatched up my phone.
    This is kind of a neat concept—you type in your phone number and they call you.  I typed in my number.  In less than ten seconds, my cell phone rang.
    “Hello?”
    “Hello, miss madam.  This is Mr. Jagdish Banergee of a small but tiny town in India, you see.  And how my I be of assist … excuse me, please … Karti get that goat out of the living room … now what I can I do for you today, miss?”
    “I’m calling about my book order that I placed one month ago and still have not received.”
    “And how would you describe these books you say you ordered, miss?”
    “Six inches tall, blond hair, blue eyes, and one of them walks with a limp and wears an eye patch.  Are you kidding me?”
    “I still need a description of these alleged books, miss.”
    “Will my order number do?”  I gave him the number and there was a pause while he keyed it into his Radio Shack TRS-80.  Six other children were admonished about various household offenses involving kerosene and two cobras were evicted from the premises before the information he had requested arrived.  But finally, it did.
    “Oh, yes, yes, dear, dear, dear, me, miss.  Those books will not be available until they are available, you must understand.”
    “But the website said that every one of these books was in stock when I ordered.  In stock!”
    “In StockHOLM, perhaps, miss; but not here to be sent to you in your insignificant barbaric village that consumes beef by the bargeload.  No, no, no, miss.  Not until they are available.”
     “Well, why does the website say that they are in stock when they aren’t?”
     “That is only an estimate, my dear miss.”
     “How can it be an estimate?  You either have them or you don’t!”
     “This is not the case, miss, oh my goodness, no.  And … excuse me again, miss … Surresh, the cow does not belong in the kitchen—take it back to its bedroom, please … now, miss, how can I help you through this unfortunate time of trial?”
      “You can send me my books!”
      “Ha ha ha ha ha, miss; you are a very amusing person of the female persuasion.  You will receive your books the minute they are available to you and no sooner.  Now, though this conversation has been most enjoyable, I must now attend to other aspects of survival.  Have a most pleasant whatever time of day it is in your world.”
      Click.
       I called again.  I figured I’d roll the dice once more and maybe I’d be connected with someone who was at least on the same continent to help me.  I punched in my phone number and again, in less than ten seconds, it rang.
     “Hello?”
     “HaRO, hon’able buyer-san!”

           Anyone know where the nearest Barnes & Noble is?

 

 

MY SO-CALLED JOURNALISTIC CAREER

I have often been accused of having more courage than brains; and reliving these experiences on paper, I find I must bow to an observant public.

My editor (a/k/a “Attila”), having assigned me the impossible task of covering Deep River, that thriving metropolis all of one square mile large, was done with me.  I left his office with no names, no addresses, and no leads.  The only thing I knew for sure was the location of this diminutive burg and the telephone number of the Town Hall.

I decided that the first thing I ought to do was to call the Town Clerk and get the schedule of town meetings for the month.  At least it would be something to cover.  Here’s what happened:

“Hello?”

“Hello.  Town Clerk, please.”

“This is the Town Clerk,” the same voice replied.

“Oh, well this is the Provincial Picayune Gazette reporter for Deep River.”

After her hysterical fit of laughter subsided, she asked, “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like the schedule of the town meetings for this month,” I replied.

Following another seemingly endless guffaw, she asked, “Honey, are you kidding?”

I assured her I was not.

“Lady,” she chuckled, “we haven’t had a town meeting here since the garbage truck broke down back in 1910!”

Seeing that I was getting nowhere with this human cabbage, I asked to be connected with the First Selectman.

“Speaking,” she said.

I rattled off a list of every official position I could think of, asked to speak to each one of them.  She answered to them all, right down to dogcatcher and second-in-command of the local flea circus.

Disheartened, I hung up the phone.  But then, like a thunderclap, an idea boiled up in my brain.  Why not call a resident and do an expose on living inside a small town dictatorship?  Or, better still, the pros and cons of living in a ghost town?  Trembling in anticipation, I located a telephone directory and began flipping pages.  I went through that phone book at least seven times, but Deep River was nowhere to be found.  Somewhat irritated that Ma Bell had seen fit to deny the very existence of the town I was reporting on, I called the telephone company to inquire as to what they had done with Deep River; because, if it’s not listed in the directory, then it surely must no longer exist.  For that matter, things were getting so surreal, that I began to believe that it might never have existed at all.  The telephone company has an ‘in” on these matters, and their word is not to be doubted.  As a matter of fact, if the directory is published and your name is omitted, it might be a wise idea to check your pulse.

When the receiver at the telephone company was lifted, I prostrated myself in a position of submission and asked, “May I speak to the Holy One?”

“Do you have Vatican approval?”

“No,” I answered,” but it is a matter of the utmost urgency.  I’m sure the Benevolent One will understand, if you will please make an exception.”

“The Christian Patriarch understands all.  I shall put you through,” she said softly.  And I was connected with HIM . . . the One in charge of Customer Service.

“Oh, Great Lover of Truth and Light,” I addressed Him, “Will you suffer to answer a question from a humble, unworthy servant?”

“Yes, my child,” He replied.

“Oh, Master of Wisdom and Keeper of Charity, where is Deep River?”

“Page 23,” He said.  “May the Lord bless you and keep you and endow you monthly with wealth and an abundance of long-distance telephone calls.”  Then he hung up with a gentle click.

Awestruck by the religious experience I’d just been through, I quietly replaced the receiver in its cradle.  No church service had ever been like this.  It was like a direct line to the Almighty, who, if He were located on earth would, out of necessity, be the CEO of the telephone company in order to maintain the equivalent measure of power He enjoyed in heaven.

After considering whether or not the current CEO could walk across the Connecticut River unaided by a bridge, I remembered my original purpose and picked up the directory once again.  What had he said?  Page 23?  I turned to the twenties.  No Deep River . . . and what was worse, no page 23 – until I looked closer.  Page 23 was stuck between pages 22 and 24.  I disengaged it and looked upon the Deep River listings . . .a full half page of them.  The first half was comprised of a listing of Town Offices; all, of course, with the same telephone number after each one.

A tear trickled from the corner of my eye as I counted up the population of Deep River . . . on one hand . . . with fingers to spare.

I did find a listing for the Boy Scouts of America, oddly enough.  With that in mind, I phoned and arranged for an interview about scouting in Deep River.  I got a Pulitzer Prize-winning scoop about the town’s negligence in providing the Boy Scouts a place to meet and hold functions. The fellow I spoke with had been the scout leader for the last 35 years, but didn’t have a whole lot to do, since no one had joined his scout troop . . . ever. 

It was my considered opinion that if a meeting place had been erected, he would have moved in there; lock, stock and torn tee shirt.  Anything to escape the rabbit hutch he was presently inhabiting, along with six dogs and twelve cats, which, if the fragrance filling the house was any indication, he never let outside.  And the noise!  The dogs tore at the cats and the cats scratched at the dogs until it was no longer possible to determine which was which, unless you judged by height and amount of blood.

As soon as I was able, I beat a hasty retreat from the premises.  After I dried my tears and blew my nose on my interview, I drove to the town garage, punched quarter-sized holes in every tire on the garbage truck, and poured five pounds of sugar into the gas tank.

There was a town meeting that Friday at 8:00.

 

DIARY OF A MAD COPYWRITER

     I left the field of advertising (I was a copywriter) when I determined that wracking my brain to come up with catchy names for lard and tampons was one of the most ridiculous things a grown-up person can do for a living. 

 

Here’s a small vignette, by way of demonstration:

HE:  How was work today, dear?  What did you do?

SHE:  Oh, I spent two hours of my finite existence naming toilet bowl cleaner.  How does “Flushy Brushy” grab you?

HE:  I don’t really understand it.  I think it needs revision. (“HE” peels off his human facemask revealing . . . gasp . . . the client!)

SHE:  You!

HE:  Yes!  Yes, it’s me!  And I’ll keep on throwing this copy back in your teeth until I get what I want!  I don’t know what I want, but this isn’t it!  “Flushy Brushy” is way too cerebral!  The average consumer will never understand it.

SHE:  What about “Potty Clean”?

HE:  Where do you get your ideas, anyway?  The city dump?  That stinks!  (HE pauses)  Hey!  I’ve got it!  “Stink-Away”!  Whaddya think?

SHE:  Yeah, boy.  That sure has class-A mass-market appeal.

 

The product is released and consumers go wild, snatching up every tin of Stink-Away they can find.  Then they all run, en masse, to sprinkle it all over their local advertising agency.

That’s pretty much the way things go.  The real payoff was that I was continually subjected to copy direction from a man who thought “comma” was spelled “coma.” (a state into which he would have fallen, had idle wishing proved productive).

The funniest thing that ever occurred during my tenure was the company picnic, attended by two dozen advertising executives standing around, trying to figure out how to have a good time at a function that they couldn’t bill to the clients. 

Should any of you still be considering a career in the field of advertising, even after reading this far, I shall now include the first six lessons from The Ad Man’s Primer (which I just made up).

LESSON #1 – The Ad Man

See the Ad Man

See him thinking.

Think, Ad Man, think,

See him get nervous.

He chews his nails.

He tears his hair.

He gulps Maalox.

And it’s only 8:00 in the morning!

 

LESSON #2 – New Employees

See the New Employee.

See her smiling face.

She is happy.

This will not last.

She does not chew her nails.

She does not tear her hair.

She does not gulp Maalox.

The other employees are not sure

Whether she is dead

Or on drugs.

 

LESSON #3 – The Art Director

See the Art Director

He flits from here to there.

He worries about color

And amount of copy.

He talks funny.

He adores antiques.

He wears tight silk pants.

He works part time

For the Tooth Fairy.

 

LESSON #4 – The Account Executive

See the man panic.

Panic, man, panic.

This is the Account Executive.

He is called “A.E.” for short

Though others have four-letter names for him, too.

He browbeats The Copywriter.

He makes The Art Director cry.

He “suggests” changes

While he holds a stick

With a nail in it.

He “points things out.”

He “asks for clarification.”

He never comes right out

And says, “Change this!”

He doesn’t want to stifle

Your creativity!

 

 

LESSON #5 – The Client and The Agency

The Client is who

The Agency depends on to survive.

The Agency is the parasite.

The Client is the host.

Or vice-versa.

The Agency does everything

To please The Client

No matter what!

Want to be the smartest person in the world?

Become The Client.

The Agency will treat you just like Einstein,

Even if you can’t add, write, or tie your shoes.

Think of all the money you’ll save.

Now you don’t have to go to college

        Or even finish high school!

 

 

LESSON #6 --THE CLIENT

 

        See The Client.

        Demand, Client, demand!

        He is unreasonable.

        He makes Donald Trump

        Look like Tinkerbelle.

        He will draw all over original artwork.

        The Art Director will hang himself in the Ladies Room.

        He will rewrite award-winning copy.

        The Copywriter will be taken away in restraints.

        He will tell The Account Executive how to do his job.

        The Account Executive will toss him out the nearest open window.

        The Client learns a hard lesson as he hurtles toward the ground.

        You don’t screw with salesmen on commission.

LOOSELY TRANSLATED

I am so excited!  I recently returned from Europe after a two-month stay, only to discover that someone I had met in Paris had dropped me a line.

I am also quite proud of my ability to translate it.  I didn’t know any French at all before visiting Paris, but within a day or two, I was jabbering away like a native!  As a matter of fact, here is the letter, with my expert translation capitalized and in parentheses.

 

Mars 2012  (MAILED FROM MARS IN 2012)

Bonjour!  (WASSUP?)

Comment vas tu?  (I TRUST YOU HAVE RECOVERED FROM THE DYSENTERY). J’ai tres bien (THE PEN OF MY AUNT IS IN THE GARDEN OF MY UNCLE).  Quelle heur est t’il?  (DID YOU SPEND HOURS EXPRESSING DISGUST AT THE SMALLNESS OF THE MONA LISA?)  Moi, aussi  (MY BUTT IS THE VICTIM OF PAINFUL CONSTIPATION).  C’est vrai, il ne pas chocolate  (COULD YOU PLEASE SEND SOME EX-LAX?)  Madonna aussi  (I UNDERSTAND THAT MADONNA HAS THE SAME PROBLEM).  L plume de ma tante est en le jardin de mon oncle  (WHILE IN PARIS, DID YOU EAT MUCH SPOILED FOOD COVERED IN RICH CREAM SAUCES?)  Oui  (ALSO, SEND ME SOME NAUGHTY MAGAZINES).  Comment s’appelle t’il?  (IS IT TRUE THAT THE TERM “FRENCH KISSING” IS DERIVED FROM WHAT U.S. GOVERNMENT OFFICIALS ARE COMPELLED TO DO TO FRENCH HEADS OF STATE’S NETHER REGIONS IN ORDER TO SECURE ANY SORT OF EVEN THE REMOTEST COOPERATION?)  Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?  (HAVE YOU PURCHASED A NEW COUCH?)  Present-nous, veux tu?  (GIVE ME THE NEWSPAPER BEFORE I BECOME VEXED).  Des saucises, sans doubt  (THE SPAGHETTI SAUCE IS FULL OF SAND).

Au revoir  (LATER, DUDETTE)

Jean Paul  (GEORGE RINGO)

 

If you have anything you need translated, be sure to send it my way.  I’m always glad to help.

CAT-ASTROPHE!

              I made the grave error last night of running out of my cat’s (a/k/a “Her Imperial Majesty’s”) favorite flavor of tinned cat food.

 For those of you who aren’t owned by a cat, this doesn’t sound like a big deal.  You think (erroneously) that, like a dog, if a cat is hungry, it will eat whatever you give it.

 To quote my cat (if I’m interpreting her dirty looks correctly), “I don’t THINK so, Bitch!”

Tango has this thing for Fancy Feast Salmon.  It’s all she eats.  After three days in a row of the stuff, I’d be gnawing the bark off trees instead, but she’s perfectly happy with it, day after day.

 Stopping at the grocery store on the way home, I remembered that she needed more Fancy Feast Salmon, so I went to the appropriate aisle and (fade in ominous chord) THEY WERE OUT OF IT!  Tiny beads of perspiration formed on my brow, and I began to hyperventilate.  Desperately, I searched through the tins at the back, hoping against hope that there would be just one dusty little tin that someone had overlooked.

 Nada.

 So, I tried to think like a cat, and picked out a couple of tins of the most disgusting-sounding and stinkiest types of food I could locate.  I finally settled on a tin of mouse knuckles, goat lips, and fish heads, all chopped up in a gay combination; and a tin of pureed filter organs from, I think, six different varieties of wildebeest.

Though cats can’t read, they have unequalled comparison skills, and she was immediately onto my game.  Deciding to ignore the fact that, where Tango spits, grass never grows, I dished up the mouse knuckles.

I’m here to tell you that I have never smelled anything remotely like that cat food this side of Elizabeth, New Jersey.  My eyes watered.  I broke out in a strange rash.  All my hair fell out at once.

 I scraped the ghastly stuff into her dish, and threw away the melted spoon.  She glared at the disgraceful mess, then at me, then at her dish again.  The last time I looked, she had dragged it to her litter box and was in the process of burying it.

After that, she went to the phone and speed-dialed her lawyer.

I think she’s going to sue me. 

 Any defense lawyers out there willing to take on a cat in court?

 

Welcome to My Nightmare

 

It was my wedding day, labeled by those who are either still single or too old to remember, as “the happiest day of your life.”  Take it from me; it was everything but the happiest day of my life.  It was a nightmare come true, and I always felt as if, somewhere, somehow, either Rod Serling or Alfred Hitchcock were behind it all.

It began with getting dressed.  Mom helped, of course.  While she was smoothing my gown, fixing my hair, and zipping me up, she was reminiscing.  Verging on entry into her second childhood, she decided to rehash mine one more time before starting on hers.  Naturally, all this happy reflection was accompanied by a virtual Niagara Falls pouring from her two bloodshot orbs.  And all along I thought my childhood had been happy.  Silly me.

As it turned out, this was only a mild prelude to the waterworks yet to come.

“I can’t believe it,” Mom sobbed, looking at me (by now, her mascara had run to the extent that she resembled an Alice Cooper roadie).  “You’ve grown up,” she observed astutely.  “You’re not a little girl anymore.”

“Oh, sure I am, Mom,” I said.

“No, you’re not.”

“Oh, sure I am!  I’ll always be a little girl!”  Being only five-foot-one, there isn’t exactly much hope for a basketball career.

Time was growing short, so Mom wrung out her handkerchief out into an already drowning potted plant and waded from the room to be seated in the church.

I checked my appearance once more, hoping that my veil would drip dry without puckering.  I was ready, but evidently Dad wasn’t, because he was nowhere in sight.  Frantic, I rushed up and down the hall.  Not a soul.  Three minutes until “The Wedding March”!  Two minutes!  Something had to be done, and fast.  I certainly couldn’t go walking down that aisle alone!

Strains of “The Wedding March” filtered down the corridor, just as the church janitor walked by.  He was a short, fat man who looked like he just crawled out of a pipe; but he had two working feet, so, in blind madness, I grabbed his arm.

“Come on!”

“Hey, where we goin’?” he demanded, waving his mop.

“I have to get married!”

“Well, dat ain’t my problem, lady!  Aincha never hearda birth control?”

I continued to drag him down the hall.  Arriving at the open door, with every head turned his way, he realized he was stuck.  He did try to make the best of it and appear as dignified as possible, despite the fact that he smelled disgusting and looked like his clothes bore him a longstanding grudge.  Everyone was standing as we walked down the aisle.  My mother took a peek at this creature on my arm and quietly threw up into the nearest hymnal.

For the most part, this was the first look my fiancé’s family got at my family, and there were several whispered remarks made as we passed.

“She looks beautiful, but he certainly isn’t much of a dresser, is he?”

 “If this is what he looks like when he goes formal, I wonder what he wears around the house.”

“I didn’t know there was a full moon tonight.”

Finally, we reached the altar, and my intended, the janitor, and I faced the Revered One who was to perform the ceremony.  My soon-to-be husband looked at the piece of debris standing next to me, then at me, then at him again.  His eyes bugged out as if he thought that, all this time, I’d been hiding my real father from him.  The little man with the mop smiled at him (which, having no teeth, struck me as a wasted effort) and said, “Hiya, kid,” with breath that could melt Satan’s eyebrows.  The groom backed off about six feet.

The preacher began.  “Dearly beloved . . .” a sniffle.  I didn’t even have to guess where that was coming from.  As the ceremony progressed, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.  I couldn’t tell if it was because everyone was so happy for us or if it was the little Janitor’s cologne (Cesspool #5) that was getting to them.

Anyhow, after the ceremony, everyone kissed everyone else and wished us happiness.  At that instant, my father came rushing down the aisle.  It seemed he had gotten locked in the men’s room while trying to get a spot out of his tuxedo, and that’s where the little janitor was going, with his passkey, when I went and grabbed him.

Think the reception was any better?  Not a chance.

When hubby and I arrived, the band was going full bore; however, it wasn’t the four-piece dance band I had originally hired.  This was a seven-piece band, playing such mellow, danceable tunes as “Take Me Home, Country Roads,” “Alice’s Restaurant,” and “We Shall Overcome.”  So what happened to the band that should have been there?  Oh, my father-in-law took care of that.  What we had before us was his nephew’s country-western-folk-rock-pop-jazz-blues-marching funeral band.  Explanation?

“They needed the work,” pop-in-law said

From the way they played, I wasn’t surprised.  What did surprise me is that they weren’t covered with tar and feathers.

Strangely enough, my husband was really grooving on the trash that was blaring forth, and was out on the dance floor doing the Virginia Reel with his mother.  Hoping fervently that this was all a bad dream, I made a bee-line for the bar and gulped down several inches of something that tasted like it would be more at home in the local mortuary.

The original caterers made it, though, and there was quite a spread; or at least I figured there must have been, since all the relatives were squeezed in at the buffet like hyenas around a dead giraffe.

After watching my husband do a polka with his Aunt Matilda, I decided to hell with the traditional dance with the groom, and went to get some grub, now that the crowd had thinned out. 

There was a good reason for this.

There was no food left. 

There were even teeth marks in the china; and my youngest brother-in-law was looking at my bouquet and salivating.  Feeling that it would be either my flowers or my leg, I tossed them to him.  He pounced and, growling, devoured it completely, deftly spitting out the little plastic Cupid that was affixed to the top.

     From across the room, I saw my husband making his way to the punch bowl.  He has no tolerance for alcohol of any kind, but before I could get to him to warn him that the punch was spiked, he’d already downed three glasses of it and was on his fourth.  By the time I reached him, he no longer recognized me, and refused to stop drinking the punch.  It was a little early to leave the reception, since we had only just arrived, so I tried to deal with mingling as best I could.

Leaving my newly acquired sot, I circulated to try to meet some of the members of his family who didn’t look familiar.  There was his Uncle Fudd from Mud Springs, Georgia; Aunt Hepzebah from Vultureville, New Jersey; and a couple of tone-deaf thugs who walked in off the street because they liked the music.

At last, after what seemed like years, the time came when it was acceptable for us to depart.  Having ignored all that nonsense about throwing garters and bouquets, I marched across the room; only to find my husband with his head floating, face down, in the punch bowl.  I grabbed a handful of hair, yanked him out, slapped him back into semi-consciousness, and dragged him from the reception hall amid cries of “Good Luck!” and showers of rice.

The happiest part of my marriage was now over.

 

TO HELL WITH POPCORN!

Please, whatever you do, don’t ever microwave popcorn that isn’t in pre-measured bags. Let me explain. . .

There was a great movie on last night (“Desk Set,” a favorite of mine) that absolutely required popcorn, but I discovered that, aside from the 80 tins of Fancy Feast Salmon now occupying my cupboard (God help me if I run out!), the larder was bare of this film-viewing essential.

Driven by a mindless popcorn frenzy, I figured I could take loose popcorn, put a little oil in it, and pop it in a big bowl in the microwave.

In case you didn’t know . . . you can’t.

Well, let me amend that.  You can, but there are consequences.

I poured four cups of popcorn into the bowl (I know, I know), and added a little oil.  How long to pop it, though?   I decided that 10 minutes would be enough time.

And sure enough, after about eight minutes, it began to pop.

After nine minutes, the microwave exploded.

After nine and a half minutes, my kitchen was awash in popcorn.

After 10 minutes, the popping finally stopped, and I surveyed my kingdom.  There was two feet of popcorn on the floor, so, quick thinker that I am, I asked myself, “What is the fastest way to get rid of all this popcorn?”  The answer hit me like the ball peen hammer I deserved to be hit with.

I called up the local pigeon breeder.

In 15 minutes, there was a knock at the door.  When I opened it, a flock of pigeons rivaling anything Alfred Hitchcock could imagine in his blackest mood filled my house.

Five minutes later, the popcorn was gone and the pigeons were gone, but there was pigeon poop covering everything like a fresh coat of paint . . .  varnished paint!

In order to clean up the pigeon poop, I called a maid service that advertised steam cleaning.

After they arrived and finished laughing themselves sick, I called a carpet cleaning service.  They got the bird poop out of the carpet, but couldn’t do a thing for the walls and the furniture.  They suggested I either bring in statuary and forget it, or get some scavenger insects to get rid of the rest of it.

So I bought 2,000 crickets.  And, you know, it worked!  The bird poop was gone, but the crickets bred in the carpet, and soon my home was filled with 200,000 crickets.  The noise was positively deafening!

Then somebody suggested that I bring in frogs to eat the crickets.  So I bought 600 frogs and turned them loose.  They got rid of the crickets, all right, but then I had 600 fat croaking frogs hopping all over the place.  And you can’t truly say you’ve had a bizarre experience until you’ve sat down on a toilet and had it croak up at you!

The same person, on hearing of my dilemma, suggested that I get garter snakes to get rid of the frogs.  Why I continued to listen to this lunatic, I’ll never understand, but I bought 75 large garter snakes, and the frogs were history.

But have you ever smelled garter snake poop?

I have a new address now.  I’m living in Antarctica where there are no animals and no popcorn!

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