Against Closed Eyes In Marketing

Many people use the term illegal immigrants and illegal aliens to describe the humans that sneak over the border between the United States and Mexico. But we should not call them illegal aliens otherwise the alien beings might get upset. Who knows we may have aliens living on our planet there are older than we are and have been here longer.

In other words they are not illegal aliens at all. And we should not be mean to little green men who may live our planet. So instead of calling these illegal immigrants; the illegal aliens we need a more descriptive and politically correct term so we do not confuse them with the aliens that live on our planet which meet us no harm.

Therefore we should not call the illegal immigrants; illegal human aliens, that way we do not piss off the real aliens who have more advanced technology that we have been might start a war with us. You see most Americans have nothing against alien beings from another planet or perhaps aliens that live on our planet and have for possibly hundreds of thousands of years.

Nevertheless a more descriptive and politically correct term for the illegal immigrants would definitely be illegal human aliens and not illegal aliens. Please consider all this in 2006. (No, I am not an avid Coast-to-Coast AM listener with Art Bell and George Noory, but do turn in occasionally).

“Lance Winslow” - Online Think Tank forum board. If you have innovative thoughts and unique perspectives, come think with Lance; http://www.WorldThinkTank.net/wttbbs/

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Over-Committed

It is with concern that I notice a large sector of society
over-committing themselves financially. It is increasingly
noticeable that few people can actually afford the cars they
drive. Noticeable, because purchasers are having to forego the
usual safety features one would normally expect on a motor
vehicle. The car owners, having paid out their hard-earned cash,
can simply not afford such luxuries. One could imagine that the
problem I am relating is applicable to those modes of
transportation with an elevated price tag–high performance
vehicles such as BMW’s, Porsches, and the like. On the contrary,
evidence points to this being an issue that has no respect for
barriers of income or education. Why do I say this? Let me tell
you of my observations.

New cars seem to lack indicators. Many vehicles now only come
equipped with the coloured plastic or glass lenses to ensure
that they look good, but the functioning parts have been removed
to save a few pennies. Every time I see a car make an
unsignalled turn directly in front of me as I hurtle 100
kilometers an hour towards it, I think “Poor fellow, he’s
over-extended on his capital.” Everything from a sports car to a
beat-up truck is appearing without the humble blinker
connections.

This phenomenon is spreading at an alarming rate. Not only has
it gone into every sector of society, but is also affecting
numerous other vehicle features that were once considered
standard fare. Side and rear-view mirrors are lacking, being
replaced with cheap, non-reflective plastic instead. The few
cents saved in this area allows them the flexibility to change
lanes, hold up traffic, cut off cyclists and ignore the police
car following behind with it’s flashing lights, all without
undue concern. “I’m sorry officer, I just didn’t see you behind
me, and I didn’t hear you either as the stereo was on quite
loud.” ‘Cut-back’ is a concept which should never be applied to
a motorist’s sound system!

To further support my case, there is the unusually large number
of cars that I see with only one headlight going. Headlights
are, I agree, fairly expensive to replace. The cost of a bulb
can set you back a mighty $19.00. Money that is ill-afforded
these days when that same amount will provide the vital
rejuvenation of a ticket to the movies and popcorn.

Perhaps more telling, and a more annoying example of the
headlight dilemma, is the sharp increase in vehicles available
without dimmers fitted on the headlights. Owners are opting for
the reduced cost of full beam lights, instead of the much more
expensive dual operational lights. Faced with an oncoming
vehicle around a sharp corner on a road you do not know–a
swampy ditch on one side and a rocky cliff face on the
other–you can be quite compassionate on the poor under-financed
individual coming towards you, with lights that could be seen on
Jupiter.

Brakes are another victim of this tendency for cost cutting.
Many hapless drivers are travelling around our cities, seemingly
so impoverished, that the brakes have been sold to buy the
latest mobile phone faceplate. So, as I stare at the vehicle
roaring through the red light in front of me, I think that I
should donate a few dollars to “HILDAZ” so that she can invest
in some brakes - the name kindly provided by the lovely
personalised plate adorning the bumper. Of course, Hilda does
not acknowledge my gesture of goodwill, since she is locked in
some life or death conversation on her cell. It is no wonder the
road statistics are so high when stopping a car necessitates the
presence of another object in its path - be it car, fence,
ditch, or streetlight. I am ashamed to say that most other
motorists on our roads who are equipped with brakes are not
assisting these people, When they could be offering their
vehicles as a stopping mechanism for brake-less fellows, they
are, instead, waiting for inordinate amounts of time to pull
away when the light turns green, ensuring that they are not
tainted by association with poorer citizens. Thus the hard-up
person without brakes continues to careen at excessive speeds
through populated areas, red traffic lights, and pedestrian
crossings, with no fault to their own person.

A further sign of financial over-commitment on a vehicle is
viewed in the lack of maintenance. You need only take a stroll
through a parking lot to take note of how many vehicles are
outside of the warranty, or registration, often both. Another
very visible sign of this is the emissions cast in our faces,
almost as if they are gloating about their lack of solvency. Or
perhaps it is a silent, yet pungent plea for assistance. When
next a vehicle shrouds you in the filth of exhaust, perhaps you
should make a diary note to pay your respects at the vehicle’s
inevitable upcoming funeral.

These are just my observations and I cringe to think what other,
unobservable signs there may be of this pervasive problem on our
roadways. There may be symptoms of financial hardship which are
not so easily seen on a daily tour of the city.

When will this slide into poverty cease? How long can we
support people who cannot afford fully functioning vehicles? I
just pray that every person on the road will put aside their
frustrations and spare a compassionate thought for the
under-privileged on our roads. In this way, our streets will be
safer for all.

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Last night my wife, Nancy, and I were alone in the house. We were just falling asleep when we were startled by a thunderous thump and a loud, drawn-out dragging sound coming from somewhere within our house.

We both sat up in bed and Nancy whispered, “What was that?”

Now how am I supposed to know what’s going on in the rest of the house? I’m not clairvoyant, I’m scared. I’m the only person I know who’s childhood hero was the Cowardly Lion from ‘The Wizard of Oz.’ The problem is, if I tell her the truth she’ll want me to investigate. Apparently, during our wedding vows I agreed to take out the trash and investigate psychotic murderers crawling around our house in the middle of the night.

I decide not to panic her. “It was just the wind,” I assure her, my voice quivering with fear.

“Oh, okay,” she says and believes me! “Thank goodness you’re here or I’d be frightened to death.” Then she rolls over, closes her eyes and immediately falls back to sleep. How in the world can she fall back to sleep? Does she really believe I’d be capable of defending her from the evil fiend that could make a noise like that?

She falls back to sleep and I have to lie there waiting for some monster to break down the bedroom door. Naturally I suddenly have to go to the bathroom. Bad, but not nearly bad enough for me to climb out from under the covers.

It’s not that I’m really afraid, I know those things only happen in the movies and the Grim Reaper is not wandering around my living room looking for his next victim. The only reason I don’t investigate the noise is because I know it really was just the wind. And I don’t have to go to the bathroom that badly, it can wait until morning. Everything always seems better in the daylight. Besides, Nancy always gets up before I do.

Gary Mosher is co-author of the award-winning ‘Buddha in the Boardroom’, the book that shows you how to excel in today’s chaotic and stressful workplace environment. Read the first chapter for FREE at http://www.bodhitreepublishing.com

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Hello porchers! I’ve been watching for y’all. Have a seat, and
let’s chat. So, tell me, are you working on those New Years’
resolutions? Uh-huh, call me Miss Cleo, but I bet losing weight
tops the list, right? My powers also tell me you’re gonna need
some cash, that fat-free food’s expensive. But don’t worry, I’m
here to help.~smile~

Have you heard? Folks are suing McDonald’s for making them fat!
Yep, the same folks who pay good money to super-size have become
super-sized and–get this–they’re surprised and angry.
Although, it hasn’t gone to trial, I’m hearing that the
plaintiffs have a good chance at winning and if they set a
precedent, I think I have a good case against Zaps Potato Chips.
For a small fee, you can join my lawsuit. Surely, you know about
Zaps CrawTaters, Jalapeno Chips and Dill Pickle Chips–if not,
run to the store and load up. You can thank me later.

But, back to my suit. Between long hours at work and longer
lines at the mall, I’ve treated myself too many times lately. I
mean, I deserved to ride home with a diet coke and some Zaps
CrawTaters. The good news is that I looked, and there’s not a
warning on the Zaps bag anywhere–not even a hint that consuming
large quantities would make it hard to button my jeans.
Seriously, I think they put something addictive in there! I’m
trying to get a court order to look through their records. They
should pay, don’t you think? ~smile~ Pass the CrawTaters…I
need a fix.

Hugs, Shellie

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And then it happened! On the corner of his favourite Tamil daily
page, inside this small rectangle space was a banner proudly
proclaiming… “Find your life partner.” “Get married now!!” It
was an Internet matrimonial site ad. More so, an Indian
matrimonial portal ad!!!

Now, Mr. Paul has 2 sons, both in their late 20’s, marriageable
age, according to most Indian parents. Paul is familiar with
newspaper ads. He’s been reading them for some time now and also
has posted some ads for his sons. What could be different with
an Internet ad?

So, Mr. Paul clicks on the Internet ad. He is lead to a page
where the details are requested. Mr. Paul fills in the details
and submits it. He is given an ID. Mr. Paul has to login to the
account and check and update his account. So far so good.

A few days later, Paul as usual goes out for work and his wife
is at home cooking, the phone rings and she picks it up. A small
voice cracks up in the phone saying, ” Is this Mr. Paul’s house?
We are friends of Ms. Aarti, She is 55, and divorced and we are
looking for a suitable person for her. We are interested in his
profile. Can we come and meet Mr. Paul?” The wife obviously is
speechless, quite furious and doesn’t know what to do. And it
didn’t stop with one call. There were a few more on the same
day, enough to make her really give a hard & serious look at the
situation.

Mr. Paul comes in from work to a fuming welcome from his wife.
He is totally freaked out when his wife explains to him what
happened. Then Paul explains that he had provided his details
instead of his son’s details in the Internet site quite
ignorantly in the perception that this was similar to the
Newspaper ad.

The story ends with Mr. Paul contacting the support team of the
matrimonial portal and getting help with deleting his profile.
It’s sad that the search for a life partner for his son left his
marriage in a soup.

The point is that, the Internet and other conventional mediums
like newspapers work in completely different ways. Newspaper ads
are mostly, what we can term as parent - centric wherein, the
person posting the ad is more often the parent, relative or a
friend to whom the ad is posted for. Whereas in the Internet,
the onus is on the person who is actually looking out.

It would be quite a while before people get accustomed to how
things work via the Internet. Until then, there will be some
clicks that actually break a few marriages rather than make
them.

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Copyright The Quipping Queen 2006.

DOG DITTY DAILY #6

Motivational Moment for Misguided Masters & Mutts

Compiled by Hugo Hotagen, DDD (Duke of Doorknobs &
Doghouses), a loyal lapdog-in-training apprented to the affable,
agnostic and all-round air-headed Court of the Quipping
Queen.

A quirky, quizzical and sometimes questionable quotidian
quotation, in honor of the “Year of the Dog”, follows
herewith:

“When invited for a weekend in the country, remember to bring
a rubber ball. Bounce it for the child; throw it for the
dog.”

Author: Lewis Lampham (Editor of Harper’s Magazine).

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Tom Cruise, the biggest male box-office attraction in American cinema, that is, until he recently displayed a variety of astonishingly off-putting antics, has now taken another dramatic step in his imaginative quest to end his career, which was largely based on his once seemingly cute and innocent appeal.

Much to the dismay of his millions of fans, the film icon has renounced scientology and become a Moslem Fundamentalist.

Troubled by his apparently self-destructive behavior, we were able to arrange an interview.

NewsLaugh: You seem to be behaving in rather odd ways lately, Tom. What’s behind it all?

Cruise: You have no idea what it’s like to suddenly find yourself the most popular movie star in the world when you can’t possibly see any reason you’d reach such a pinnacle. So what happens is you get this really subliminal desire to take yourself down.

NewsLaugh: Oh, so that’s why you’ve been acting like a jackass?

Cruise: Exactly! I don’t feel I deserve the celebrity, so I’m trying to destroy my career any way I can.

NewsLaugh: Actually, you’re doing an outstanding job.

Cruise: Well, you know, whatever it takes. At first I tried just jumping up and down on Oprah’s couch and acting crazy in love. But, come on, that was way too sweet to do the kind of damage I was hoping to do.

NewsLaugh: So you began to emphasize your strong belief in scientology?

Cruise: Well, came out about it in the most offensive ways I could think of.

NewsLaugh (pointing to his new beard and white turban): Why the Islamic Fundamentalist turn?

Cruise: Glad you asked. My new picture, Mission Impossible III, opened at $34 million. Of course, it was projected to open at $45 mil., but $34 mil. is still way more than I deserve. So I decided I had to do something really radical to finish off my career.

NewsLaugh: You’re certainly chose effectively. It would be hard to imagine anything that would alienate more fans.

Cruise: So isn’t it great? I’m only holding back on one thing. Notice the white turban?

NewsLaugh: It’s a little hard to miss.

Cruise: Right. I picked it because, as you know, the good buys always wear a white hat. I don’t plan to switch to black unless I see that I still have some box-office appeal.

NewsLaugh: Why can’t you just get back to being the nice, excitable guy you appeared to be in films like Jerry McGuire? That’s obviously what your fans want.

Cruise: You really think so?

NewsLaugh: Of course. Is that how they came to know and love you?

Cruise: But, given my present state of mind, how can I possibly do that?

NewsLaugh: True. Hey, just a suggestion, but maybe you should examine your present state of mind.

Cruise: You think so? Well, first let’s see how the beard and turban thing work out.

Tom Attea, creator of NewsLaugh.com, has had six shows produced Off-Broadway and has written comedy for TV. Critics have called his writing “”delightfully funny” and “witty” with “good, genuine laughs.”

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Big Matt used to be a lab proctor at my old college. His entire job consisted of walking from computer lab to computer lab and counting the number of computers, mice, keyboards, and people using the lab at that time. I tagged a long with Big Matt a few times, and on one of our last trips I came across a purple spiral notebook stuffed between two computers. The book look liked it had been there for a while, and it had apparently been part of an assignment which ended. The grade caught my interest because I recognized the instructor and her grading system. The student received a ten out of thirteen, which falls somewhere between grizzly death and being mauled by an angry Black Friday mob in a student’s mind.

If you can spell “colege” then there is a place for you at a university somewhere in this country. People like to tell me I’m wrong and suggest that students applying to college can at least spell the word college, but I believe with this wonderful purple alarm clock I think I have some evidence to support my claims. So when you’re sitting in class and the person next to you says something so stupid your brain says, “screw this I’m out of here” you can rest easy and know you’re not hallucinating, that person just might be that dumb.

The following are select entries from the notebook I found. I have removed the student’s name entirely, and the statements below are copied word for word from the original notebook. Let this be an important reminder as to why you should spell check and reread everything you do for class.

• “What botherss me is when I campus book store cald sell out of hooks.”
• “Some professors buggle my mind when it comes to the way in which they teach.”
• “Some of the professors teach us stuff that we are hever going to have to use. Math is a good example.”
• “What is wrong with illegal drug?”
• “Why is it that make people believe that being H makes it ok.”
• “If you are good at metal working, you might be a machinist.”
• “My favorite mose is Dumb and Dumber. Ever time I see that movie I just can’t help but to resite the words.”
• “Jim Carey and Jeff Daniels are the best pair ever put together.”
• “I wonder if Amish girls wonder what it is like to have amish guys who are not Amish.”
• “I think that by putting of video games like James Bond teaching the children of today to be good and ingeligent shippers and shooters.”
• “It tooke me a minute or two to put together that the W.T.C. was the Twin Towers.”
• “Where do people get there anger from when they play heavy metal music?’
• “I would hate to be the first person to have brain surgery.”
• “I wonder how how the first guy created the animal cracker. The guy must of ben at the zoo eating a cracker while looking at the animals.”
• “I for the life of me can not understand why a man would want to wear spandex.”
• “I understand its illegal but why sensor it?”
• “I was watching the news and this guy was standing there in nothing but spandex. He must have other clothes, we don’t need to see that while watching the news.”
• “Even when I’m sitting in class I get cravings for chicek salad from Friendlys.”
• “Why is it that people have to follow rules within the community?”
• “The democrats usually get in a circle and shoot at each other all day.”

-Brandon J. Mendelson
Your daily home for college survival, humor, and entertainment:
http://www.yourcollegesurvivalguide.com

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Once Upon a Time… A Gardener’s Daydream The Gardener, the
Salsa, and a Day at the Ranch Article by Rich Showalter
Copyright © 2003 by ProGardenBiz ProGardenBiz, an online
magazine http://www.progardenbiz.com

This is a tale of a landscape contractor and his quiet getaway
in the mountains. Now, I’m no gardener myself, but I swear that
this is the true tale as related to me as we relaxed on the
front porch on one of those long, summer days spent with a cool
one and watching our neighbors mow their lawns.

Rachel Louise Carson authored the book “Silent Spring” alerting
mankind (which includes you gardeners and landscapers) to the
long term destructive results of certain pesticides and toxic
chemicals. From my own personnel experience and observation, I
wish to add one more insidious ingredient to the expanding list
of dangerous substances polluting our gardens. It is called
“salsa picante” or “salsa muy caliente” (Hot sauce to you
gringos).

Long, one of the favorite lunch choices of many a landscape
contractor and gardener, you may want to read on… there is
more to that salsa then you’ve been told.

An obscure legend suggests that the Aztec God of Fire captured
the essence of salsa from the bowels of a raging volcano when a
high priest prayed for a cure to cleanse the Aztec people of
plague sweeping the land. The priest placed a single drop of
salsa in the food bowl of every inhabitant. The plague vanished
from the land and so did the Aztecs!

>From personal experience, I know better than to touch the stuff
(as you will soon see), but my landscape crew often indulges.
I’ve related this story to them on many a landscape job, but
they laugh it off, much like Boy Scouts around the campfire
hearing the scary tall tales. Unfortunately, this tale is true…

One Friday night not long ago found us rolling toward the family
diggins in the mountains near Julian, CA. After a hard week of
building, planting gardens, and irrigating lawns, I was ready
for a relaxing weekend at the ranch… building, planting
gardens, and irrigating lawns. After two years the house and
surrounding landscaping were nearly half done.

We were almost there when my wife Gerry, the blanket burglar,
wanted some Mexican food. She should have married a Mexican chef
(or gardener in my case) because her craving for the stuff is
almost insatiable.

I said, “No.”

She replied, “I will invite mother to spend another month.”

I said, “Oh.”

“Screeeech.”

Poor old Cricket, our midget female drip-dry dachshund, was darn
near catapulted through the window by a 90 degree turn into
“Pancho’s Taco Y Salsa” stand.

Pancho asked me, in broken English, how much hot sauce I wanted
for the beef and bean burrito. I told him a half dozen of those
little plastic tubs would be fine. They look like miniature
“maintenance free” batteries made of the same materials.

The expression on his face can only be compared to a war movie
where the pilot of an enemy plane dives out of the sun on the
helpless victim. He put on a pair of heavy leather gauntlets,
welder’s helmet, and reached for a pair of long, steel tongs. A
lead lined steel box was set in the concrete floor with a
radiation alert label on the lid. He reached in with the tongs
and removed six tubs; neatly dropping them into my bucket, as I
jumped back to avoid flying sparks.

On the way out, I glanced over my shoulder at Pancho who was
stenciling a new miniature American Flag on a board hanging from
the wall. This guy was an ace many times over, judging from the
number of flags that covered the board.

I pointed the old Chevy pick-up for the mountains again with my
window rolled all the way down, as Gerry, the masochist, tears
streaming from the cherry red eyes, happily munched on her
burrito. Cricket had buried herself in a pink asbestos blanket,
knowing that a careless spark striking her fur coat could
transform her into a crispy critter in a flash.

What happened next was my fault. Normally, after arriving at the
ranch, I bury any unused salsa tubs in the open field, six feet
under and 100 yards from any living plant or critter. It’s the
closest thing to a toxic waste dump in these here parts. I
should have known better because despite many years as a
landscape contractor I have never been able to get a lawn, a
tree, or any kind of plant or flower to grow on that spot. I
hope the critters who make their home here will forgive me
someday.

When I first saw Snuffy and Stumpy together they reminded me of
Laurel and Hardy. They are a pair of grey field mice who are
roommates sharing the bottom file drawer located in the garden
shed. Snuffy was so named because he has hay fever all year
long; and Stumpy for obvious reasons – lost his tail in a
hunting accident. He was being hunted by Russell the rattler at
the time, who misjudged the opening that Stumpy was squeezing
through. Old Russ was pretty sore, having broken his nose and
fracturing a tooth with nothing to show for it except an inch of
Stumpy’s fat tail.

After we settled in and before the pick-up was cold, Snuffy, led
by Stumpy, made a thorough inspection of the cab looking for
tidbits and scraps of food.

Stumpy was the first to spot the eerie pulsating light emanating
from the glovebox. Upon inspection, he came across a single tub
of salsa that I had forgotten to bury. Being somewhat of a
selfish glutton, he tore open a corner of the tub and gulped
down the whole thing.

Too late, he realized he must have gotten into what the humans
call “a stash.” Gasping for air, he could not imagine human or
beast snorting and shooting this stuff into their bodies. By
now, Stumpy was deaf and blind. Little Snuffy took his friend by
the whiskers leading him toward the garden shed. With only 25
feet to go, Stumpy gave up the ghost, rolling on his back with
his little fat feet pointing toward the moon, that great orb of
cheese where he would rest for eternity.

Snuffy dashed for safety when he heard Russell, who had been
attracted by all the noise, coming out from under our old riding
lawn mower. He rattled to himself with unexpected pleasure as he
realized his good fortune. Dessert and settling an old score in
one gulp!

Russell would be missed around the ranch. He had just entered
his ninth season, helping us to keep the varmit population in
check and scaring the wits out of trespassers by hissing and
shaking his tail at them.

Over the years he survived a blizzard of caliber .223, .38,
.308, 11 buck, .45, rocks, bottles, bulldozers, lawnmowers,
dunebuggies, and dirt bikes, but it was the sauce, disguised in
a FAT MOUSE BURRITO, that finally got him! He was the best
security snake I ever had.

Elmer, the golden eagle, couldn’t believe his good fortune
either when he spied Russell from 2,000 feet. They had grown up
together, but were mortal enemies knowing that someday one or
the other would eventually succumb to fangs or talons.

Elmer was suspicious because by this time of the morning Russell
should be resting under a rock or in the wood pile at the back
of the garden. Elmer, who fancied himself as a hot shot flyer,
cut power and lowered his flaps as he circled above the cold,
hard body of Russell who was stretched out stiff and rigid on
the lawn, looking like a three foot long rolled taco.

Elmer wasn’t as sharp or as aggressive since he lost the
territorial dispute with the Sheriff’s ASTREA helicopter last
spring. Most of his feathers have grown back, but he still has
dizzy spells from time to time. Ah, but that is a story in
itself for another time.

Elmer suddenly swooped, throwing caution to the wind, making a
fast snatch and grab on the rolled taco that once was a very
handsome red Diamondback buzz tail.

Twenty minutes later, while cruising at 5,000 feet, Elmer’s eyes
began to cross and a fire suddenly erupted in his tail section
when he began to feel the full effects of the combination plate
lace salsa.

The end came swiftly, as he spun into the lawn near the garden
shed. At the last possible second he managed to spread his wings
enabling him to crash land near the riding lawn mower. He tore
up 30 yards of grass, leaves, and mud before coming to a halt
upside down.

The impact saved Elmer’s life. The force of it knocked the air,
Stumpy, Russell, and salsa right out of him.

When Elmer regained consciousness, he managed to hobble over to
the pond, with the aid of a broken tree branch under one wing,
to put out the fire in his beak.

Coy, the coyote, at first thought he had seen a meteorite
because he had never seen an eagle up close before. He could eat
anything, and often did just to survive, but this bird looked
and smelled bad. “Yucka!”

Elmer threatened to brain him with his tree branch crutch if he
came one paw closer. Coy decided he wasn’t THAT hungry anyway.
He did an about face, scratching dirt and grass from the lawn
all over Elmer like any sensible animal covering up a mess,
before trotting off across the lawn.

Elmer eventually recovered to become a reborn vegetarian and
anti-helicopter activist.

Mother nature (aided by my gardening skills) required a full
season to purge the lawn and garden of the awful evidence that
claimed two critters and nearly a third. Gerry wanted to move
the half-completed house to another site, to avoid the large,
blackened and charred area of dead ground that was now part of
our front lawn. I stood firm, though. Two years of construction
workers tramping back and forth over our landscaping was enough.
Besides, the half-life on salsa is fairly short.

Meanwhile, yup, back at the ranch, Snuffy adopted a new
roommate, Augie and they moved into the newly completed
greenhouse. Gerry insisted that the dead area be covered over
and the greenhouse was just the thing to bring life back to that
part of the landscape. Augie’s sort of a clutze so they
compliment each other. Rastus, Russell’s cousin, moved into the
garden to take over Russell’s old job; and Pancho’s was closed.

The Fire Chief told Pancho they would let the old stand burn to
the ground next time, after putting down the sixth incendiary
fire in as many months. On top of that, the insurance company
tore up Pancho’s policy; and the Environmental Protection Agency
launched an investigation. It was too much for Pancho who
returned to the land of his ancestors, the Aztecs.

And our house? Well, even though we managed to cover up the
damage of the salsa environmental attack with a brand new
greenhouse and refurbished lawn (ain’t sod great!), the house is
still unfinished. Not to worry, though, our ranch is a work in
progress that takes me away from the hubbub of my landscape
business… so I can get involved in the hubbub of doing the
same landscape and construction work for myself that I do for
others all week long.

Well, that’s the tale. My neighbor is indeed a real landscape
contractor with a large grounds maintenance company. I’ve been
to his ranch a few times and can confirm that the place exists
as described, greenhouse, lawn, grounds, unfinished house and
all. But as he related this story to me, on that hot, summer
day, he had a strange twinkle in his eye. So, is it true? I
can’t say for sure, but after a chance meeting with Rastus by
the riding lawn mower, I’m willing to believe it.

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At last the authorities have signed the necessary papers and the design firm of Feng Fu-Kung Shui can move forward with its monumental effort to bring Kung Fu to its room arrangements and Feng Shui to its sweaty mats at the dojo. The new art will be known formally as Feng Fu-Kung Shui-do.

Even The Great Mudge Poobah has approved, which is rather incidental since he is not Chinese. But he is welcome anyway as long as he comes alone.

There will be no IPO for at least seven years but private investors who have mastered either art are encouraged to discuss business.

Features of the new system include the Chrysanthemum Punch, the South-East Facing Pussy-Willow Slap and the Flip-Over-Toe-Hold Weisenheimer Gelatin Surprise. Mats, as you might well expect, will all be placed diagonally with an easy view of the doorway.

Uniforms and headbands will feature an indecipherable symbol created by Von Dutch in his next incarnation after a successful lifetime striping hogs. The silk-screening will be done individually by eleven virgins of the Eternal Realm of the Elegant Moonpie. In silence, of course. With nunchucks holstered.

All corners and angles of the dojo will be swept of gremlins, dragons and dust-bunnies. Opening night will take place on the inverted solstice of the eleventh moon of the nocturnal transmission of The August Fire Dog. Guests will be asked to remove their shoes and garters at the door.

Wood, fire, earth, metal and water will be served at 7 p.m. followed by an impromptu dragon wiggle. Children and dogs permitted, but no Irish. If you would like to receive our weekly newsletter, please sign up at the door. Donations welcome.

Peace.

Jack Wilson is a writer and artist from Los Angeles and Phoenix. http://www.geocities.com/galimatio/jackwilson.html

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