Kwik Goblin Humor Blog

TO: The Executive Producers of C-Span
FROM:  John Q. Public
SUBJECT: Uniforms for Congress

How do you expect to attract viewers to your boring political programming when all of the players look and sound the same? In an effort to boost your cable ratings, I propose some changes to assist ordinary concerned citizens in understanding the United States Congress. UNIFORMS.

That is correct. I propose that all legislators be required to wear the coveralls similar to NASCAR drivers decorated with the patches, logos and symbols that reflect their funding sources. Senators and representatives should wear red and blue coveralls representing their states’ majority political affiliation. The coveralls would then be adorned with brightly colored, glow in the dark decals so viewers could see not only who pays which lawmakers to push their agenda, but lets us ordinary, Bill of Rights toting citizens see exactly what the hell their agenda is.

Just think of the visual created for TV audiences. We can easily identify the energy conglomerates, like Big H. And the big box retail giants, as in Big W. And of course the Saudi Royal family, as in Big Oil.

Let me offer some fashion examples for your consideration. Those congress men and women funded by Greenpeace, already easily identified by their Birkenstocks, would have hippie hand made embroidered patches displaying spotted owls, whales, dolphins, frogs and obscure birds. This group could wear Smokey the Bear hats with little tree hugger decals. The little Darwin fish symbol might add a nice touch.

The pharmaceutical companies could provide their representatives with big baggy overalls with tag lines such as “We are the legal drug pushers selling you American made Zoloft and Prozac. Not those street punks selling marijuana.” I can’t wait to see which fat old men push more boner drugs through the bureaucratic maze constructed by the FDA while other drugs for cancer and other real catastrophic illness die in unread reports.

The gun lobby could supply their representatives with camouflage coveralls with decals of shotguns, rifles and semi automatic weapons. Those neon orange vests could be decorated with colorful iron on patches of Bubba shooting Smoke the Bear. These legislators could then pass legislation to mix weaponry and boner drugs.

The emblem of the tobacco companies could be the smoking gun. Of course only the Kool legislators and those who have come a long way get to wear these decals. The designs could be similar to the drug companies only shaped like little coffins.

The Christian Coalition, those representatives who remind you of your Louisiana relatives who can make shit into a three syllable word, might have a cross shaped patch stating, “One nation under my specifically defined God.” Perhaps another might be a little red school house with “Stay out of our Christian schools, you monkey-relative believing blasphemer.”

Probably the most glamorous uniforms or coveralls would be worn by the Hollywood supporters. Those Jewish, homosexual limousine liberals who influence the minds and corrupt the minds of our youth. Those who are determined to put a Baldwin in the White House. I cannot even begin to imagine the Bob Macke designs for this group.

Let us not forget the retired people. Also known as the old people. They are easily identified by their wrinkled uniforms as they promote their agenda of preserving the dignity of the elderly. Especially those who were able to retire with hefty benefits and make major campaign contributions. Their real agenda is to find the damn cocoon before the opposing party does.

These are just a few thoughts that I think will make easier for us commoners to identify who is buying our congress and for what. Thank you for your consideration.

“Mommmmmmyyyyy! WAIT!” my 3 year old daughter’s voice rang from the hall as she raced into the laundry room, snatching her jeans out of my hands and reaching deep into the pocket she pulled out two smashed, tattered dandelions which now more resembled compost than flowers. Their brown-yellow color brightened though when she shoved them up at me with a wide grin. “These are for you.”  
Standing jeans and dandelions in hand I thought back to just a few hours earlier, the familiar mommy guilt that seems to plague the best of us these days washing over me. We had been 15 minutes late as it was, finally getting out of the house for an appointment. I had ushered her out onto the porch pulling the front door shut I stepped around her making my way, little sister and diaper bag in hand, to the car.

I had hollered back at her “Hurry up, we’re late.” And with all her preschool might she had wanted to obey, I am sure of that, but you see an ant, tiny and black, had crossed her path on the short walk from house to driveway and curiosity had gotten the best of her. She dropped to her knees crawling behind the ant examining him with great interest, at this point I imagine the ant was running for all he was worth for the sheltered safety of the nearby grass fearing death by chubby preschool finger. As his luck would have it though, with just centimeters to spare, a butterfly had caught her attention sending her scrambling to her feet and running around the house to the back yard jumping, diving, and swooping all the way in her best attempts to catch the poor unsuspecting creature.

Luck would once again intervene on the behalf of the insects that call our yard home, greeted by a generous lick to the face and a paw planted lovingly and oh-so squarely in the middle of her white shirt her attention would turn to the family mutt, Toby, who just happens to be her favorite sand box buddy in the world. She had once told me that no one can dig better holes than Toby.  At the time my flower beds had experienced his expertise that very day which lead to the sarcastic “uh, huh.” That she received as a response. Apparently recognition was all she was out for in her informative conversation so it had luckily done the trick without my having to delve into the unfortunate things that would happen to our beloved Toby if he chose to use mommy’s flower beds as his digging grounds again. With their history I can be almost 100% sure that they headed straight for the sand box.

How they ended up in the middle of a patch of bright yellow dandelions, my daughter kneeling picking as many as she could reach, Toby watching contentedly probably plotting the angle in which he was about to pounce to ensure the entirety of the bouquet she had collected would end up in his mouth, remains a mystery but this is where I found her.

Exasperated, I had yelled at her, “I said to get into the car! We’re late! What are you doing?” I remembered seeing her stuff the flowers into her pocket as she ran towards me, but had been so preoccupied with the now filthy clothes that I had just dressed her in an hour before the memory was vague and at the time had probably been over run with my anger at the state I had found her in. Didn’t she know we had to be at the doctor’s office now?

It had taken the slimy brown flowers and that big grin, hours later to make me realize, she did. She knew we had to be at the doctor’s office. She knew we were late. And she knew something that I didn’t. She knew that stopping to smell the dandelions was more important than anything our day had in store. Even if it only lasted the 2 minutes it had taken me to buckle her little sister into the car who, thank goodness, has no interest in ants - yet!

All I wanted was a new pair of jeans to reward my dieting diligence. Besides without belted support, the crotch of my old pants hung to my knees. Trust me. A fifty-five year old, gray-haired woman in hip-hop attire is not attractive.

I love wearing jeans. As a child, my mother took me to Uncle Cecil’s commissary every September to purchase a new pair. Uncle Cecil’s store was an old-fashioned country store that sold everything from food and dry goods to livestock feed and caskets. Wrangler cowboy jeans were the only brand Uncle Cecil sold. If one wanted to wear Levis, it meant a 25-mile drive to the closest town - something my Mother refused to do. Why drive to the next town when you could purchase a perfectly good pair down the street?

I switched to Levis for my college years proudly displaying “W 34, L 34″on the waist’s brown and red label. As my girth increased over the years I was embarrassed for the size to be viewed by the world. I switched to large, baggy, unflattering jeans and continued to wear off brands until my recent body shrink.

Entering the store, I confidently walked to the women’s section only to be overwhelmed by a ten-foot wall of jeans that seemed to stretch the length of the store. Turning around I was overcome by acres of oblong and circular racks with enough jeans to outfit a third-world country. I remained calm and sought sales help. A Britney Spears look alike with a cartoon character voice and a nametag that read “Tiffany” asked, “May I help you?”

A surge of confidence returned as I said, “I would like to buy a new pair of jeans.”  Before I could reveal my new size, Tiffany asked, “What kind of jeans would you like?”
Kind? Blue jeans. What did she mean, “kind?”

Tiffany recognized my dazed look and helpfully offered, “First, we’ll decide what kind of jean you want. Then we’ll decide what style. This rack,” she said pointing to an oblong frame, “is Calvin Klein. That stand is Liz Claiborne; that one is Gloria Vanderbilt…” On she went, twirling and pointing to racks of Rocky Mountain, Curly Girl, Ralph Lauren and names I’ve never heard of. My head was pounding, “I just want a pair of Wranglers or Levis,” I sputtered.

“We don’t sell Wranglers. But the Levis are over here.”

We sauntered to the wall with the red Levis sign. “What style do you want? Bell bottoms like the ones I am wearing are in style.” As she modeled her size four frame, I realized my bells bottomed out years ago. Adding injury to insult, Tiffany asked, “Did you want to try some hip huggers?” I decided to spare her my oxymoronic hip hugger theory that only bodies with no hips looked good in hip huggers. Assuming no, Tiffany continued, “What leg style would you like?” Leg style? I just wanted the leg to hit the top of my shoes.

“Straight leg? Tapered leg? Boot cut? Or flair, which is not as large as a bell bottom.”  I could feel an anxiety attack coming on. “Straight, I guess.” I mumbled.  “Great. What kind of fit?” I stared at her clueless. Sensing my confusion she continued. “We have relaxed fit, classic fit, regular and slim.”

“Uh, classic, I guess,” I replied with wilting enthusiasm.

“This bin is classic fit. What length do you wear? Short, medium or long?”  My face was turning red. A menopausal stress induced hot flash was seconds away. I had no idea buying jeans would require the decision making skills of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

“What type of fabric?” Tiffany persisted. “Soft denim? Regular denim? Stonewashed? Acid washed? Stretch? Rivets on the pockets? Plain pockets?”

I was near tears. Suddenly an attractive forty-age woman appeared. “Try these on,” she smiled. “My name is Karen and if that pair doesn’t fit, I’ll bring you another.”
A perfect fit. Arriving home, I placed an index card with “Levis, size 14, classic” in the important stuff file. Next time I will not drown in the jean pool.

In this wide world of vast variety and deep diversity where so many opposites attract and too many birds of the same feather repel (and often times repulse!), two absolutes remain consistently constant.  Item Number One is not a case in point and seemingly has never changed, but is still important.  Put simply, it is: the more things change, the more they stay the same.  Item Number Two is a little more complicated but just as contradictory: the more special and indispensable a thing is, the less chance for its survival and being around for very long.

Superman is a good example of this.  So are Bruce Lee, John Wayne, Mother Teresa, Princess Diana, Frank Sinatra and Bob Hope, to name only a few.  At one time or another they all seemed invulnerable, invincible and too unique to ever vanish from our world.  But evidently, not only are their kind each an vanishing species, but are now extinct.

Not so ants.  In fact, as far back as 1999 scientists estimated that there are over one quadrillion (1 million billion) ants in the world–a number so gigantic that I’d rather ponder the inner workings of corporate America.  And yet, every year whole species of ants and other insects are driven to extinction by rain forest destruction, which entomologists and other ant and termite lovers don’t find too appealing.  What’s really sad are all the rare species of ants never even discovered that keep dropping off like flies (okay, perhaps flies was a bad choice of words!).  Still, as vanishing species go, perhaps we shouldn’t be too upset over the demise of ants…or flies.

The damsel in distress is a far more endangered species and almost completely vanished from the human landscape.  She is so scarce and few in number that I had to order a special DVD edition of Hitchcock’s 1940’s film “Rebecca” to locate her.  Unfortunately, my order was confused with someone else’s and I was sent “Lara Croft: Tomb Raider” instead–a movie wherein the damsel is about as distressed as I am over the demise of ants.  Still, I persisted.  And one day actually found myself opening a car door for an actual lady, and actually helping her carry groceries to her hotel suite.  To this day I contend she was an actual damsel in distress (although she thought I was the valet, then ventured to tip me).

Equally endangered and probably even harder to locate is The Perfect Gentleman.  The reason I was able to service the aforementioned damsel in distress is because no other member of the male species would.  Tall men, short men, well dressed men and even good looking men, all just sauntered by without so much as a “Can I help you, Miss” concern.  Well, their imperfection was my gain.  At least until the grim gratuity was thrust into my hand!

And though I still do open doors for imaginary damsels in distress, I must confess that I am no one’s perfect gentleman.  Just the other day (okay, it was last year and not the other day) an elderly lady was attempting to transverse a very deep, dank sidewalk curb during an unobliging downpour.  Yes, I had my trusty rain-resistent overcoat on.  And could have come to her rescue.  But I was out for pretty, young damsels in distress.  And wasn’t about to remove my twenty-four carat raincoat, drape it over the obstructing puddle, and catch my death of cold.  Unless, as in past rescues, the gratuity had been offered in advance.

On a more serious note, I read recently that over the next 100 years one in eight of the world’s bird species are seriously endangered and have a risk of becoming extinct.  Equally disturbing and potentially vanishing are hundreds and even thousands of other species sharing terra firma with us often unmindful humans.  They include fish, reptiles, amphibians, mammals and insects (ants again) as well as plants, flowers, trees and shrubbery.  Should all of us be alarmed?  I would answered with a resounding YES!

The necessity and benefits of plants and animals are immense, and certainly essential to a healthy terra firma.  And I’m not just talking about the Ozone Layer and the ever-debated Greenhouse Effect.  Plants and animals of every category — singularly and in unison — provide tremendous agricultural, medicinal, ecological, recreational, aesthetical and commercial value to humanity.  And every endangered species sorely needs protection so that future generations of humanity can enjoy and benefit from their intrinsic value.

Ecologically speaking, plant and animal species are what keep the Earth from spinning off its axis and becoming a dead, uninhabited moon.  Our planet consists of ecosystems.  And healthy ecosystems — which consist of primordial and remote forests, prairies, grasslands and coastal estuaries –are critical to humankind’s survival.  They provide us with food, clean water and purified air.  So every time another endangered species becomes vanishes, the whole lot of us become more endangered and closer to our own vanishing act.

The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service has estimated losing one plant species can trigger the loss of up to 30 other insect, plant and higher animal species.  So when another Floridian coral reef, British countryside, or Brazilian rain forest erodes, is fragmatized or bull-dozed away, the loss of other crucial life forms are obliterated and Planet Earth draws a few steps more near its own obliteration.

Not even Superman will be able to save us if this should occur during our generation, or possibly the next.  And other vanishing species, like honest politicians, environmentally-conscious capitalists, gallant scientists and enterprising industrialists, may all as well chuck their good intentions and noble endeavors, and head for the hills.  Though where they and we might find hills of pasture and green, will be anyone’s guess.

On a lighter side, for me, I at least hope to find one bone fide damsel in distress to rescue and serve, before Mother Nature “Shakes out her rain-drenched hair” and relegates all of us to our own unwitting, expedient demise.

“The first of April is the day we remember what we are the other 364 days of the year.” - Mark Twain

Modern man at times, seems to think he invented humour. We had vaudeville, stand-up comedians, sitcoms, cartoon strips, ad finitum ad snickeringum. But the fun started long before the twentieth century

A Year By Any Other Name

In France, people used to get out the party hats and later in the evening the lampshades, on April 1, to celebrate the New Year. Then Pope Gregory had a brainstorm, putting together 12 sheets of paper with blocks too small to write in, and cute pictures of puppies and kittens, and called it the Gregorian calendar. And the Pope said it would begin on January 1. And it was good. Except to those who had not heard his edict, or simply didn’t believe it. Consequently, when they continued to party as usual, others would call them “April Fools”. Not believing it in the first place, led to the tradition of telling people things that weren’t true, so they too could be April Fools. You believe this?

Faked Fossils For Fractious Fellow

Johan Beringer, (1667-1740) may have been the first teacher, foxed by his students. In 1725, after he had hired some local boys to dig on a nearby mountain, he was outbid by some junior faculty members of the University. They paid the boys to provide Beringer with some amazing, three dimensional fossils on rock slabs. Beringer, in raptures at this historic find, began writing a long treatise on their significance. He was still at it a year later, when the guys finally decided to “rock” his theories. They sent him a fossil with a 3-D image of his name. He sued his colleagues, and while the case aged gracefully in court, he ran around buying up all the copies of his book, “Lithographiae Wirceburgensis.”

A Town By Any Other Color

It was April 6, 1837 and the end of season races left the fox hunting fellows with time, and paint on their hands. The eccentric Marquis of Waterford and a few of his cronies, decided the town should match their hunting “pinks”, which are actually red melton cloth. Thus was born “painting the town red”.

Coals to Fire the Funny Bone

In 1905, coal tar product salesman, Soren Sorenson Adams, (Sammy to his friends) noticed that the leavings of his goods, black dust, had the power to invoke earth shattering sneezes. He began to investigate it’s giggle potential, sprinkling it through hotel keyholes, outdoors where bands played, and once, at a trapshooting competition. When he put it on the market under the name of Cachoo, one Philadelphia buyer purchased 70,000 bottles in the first three months. Cachooooooooooo! Bless you.

He Was A Real Card

After acing the sneeze powder, S. S. Adams became a real life joker, inventing over 700 of the most popular practical jokes, including squirting flowers, snakes in jars, and the famous dribble glass. For which, the joke would be outta this world. Dribble glasses do not work in space. Why? Surface tension, and no gravity. Water tends to cling to things (like dog’s feet crossing your kitchen floor). This is why water dribbles down a victim’s chin instead of falling in drops. In space it would likely run up your nose.

He Was Real…No He Wasn’t…He Was…No He Wasn’t..

German folklore is rich in the stories of one Till Eulenspiegel, major prankster, said to have lived in the 14th century. “Eulenspiegel” literally means “owl mirror”, and people theorised that in his stories, Till was wisely holding a mirror up, so people could see themselves in the tales.  It was also a fairly common name at the time. It was also suspected of being the vulgar expression “Ul’n speghel” or to wipe one’s arse; an interpretation that would have fit right in with his humorous stories of practical jokes. A 1500 A.D. book about his life, contains a preface written by “N”, someone who claims to know little of Latin or high learning, but who appears to know more than a latter day historian could, about Till’s day to day life of laughter, lived from 1290-1350. Bringing people to wonder, if the real joke, was not the forging of the stories.

Real or not, the character of Eulenspiegel had the engaging habit, whenever he had pulled some particularly good piece of foolery, to write with chalk or coal over the door: “Hic fuit (He was here).  So at least now we know where “Kilroy” (was here) was born.