Dazed and confused? Not me. I’m just Lost in the Cheese Aisle.

Wednesday, September 21, 2016


Dee uses the above phrase to refer to a cemetery. “It’s where the dead people live,” she’d say as we would drive past one. (That pun, I found out some time ago, only works in English.)

But we have several “bury patches” in our house: They’re the kitty litter boxes, and they illustrate the fact that cats, like humans, are very individualistic in their personal habits.

Edith in her former home.
Stella, for example, will leave a pee-muffin in the box (we use clumping litter) and make no attempt to cover it. On other occasions, she will deposit a fragrant load of Kitty-Dookie atop the bed of litter, whereupon she will scratch uselessly on the side of the box. It’s as if to say, “I know I’m supposed to be scratching something after I pinch a loaf, but I have no idea why.”

Edith, on the other hand, is quite fastidious. Her box is fitted with both a cover and a door for maximum privacy. And she buries her by-products as deep as the ancient Egyptians buried their Pharaohs. (One time, in Pharaonic fashion, she even brought a toy into the box as a sacrifice to the Afterworld of Cat-Poop.) Cleaning her box is not unlike a piratical treasure hunt.

Just call me Captain Jack Spoorow.

Tuesday, September 20, 2016


The kids at Junior Einsteins Preschool were not your average rugrats.

The privileged and wealthy of New York endured a waitlist so lengthy, they would rush to apply for a slot before a fertilized ovum was fully implanted. That merely entitled you to submit an application. Acceptance of your special little Bitsy or Geoffrey was far from guaranteed.

And once your child was admitted, it wasn’t all finger paints, glue, and construction paper. That’s not how you trained future Captains of Industry.

The only problem was the homework. It was a bitch trying to help your kid with his Blockulus.

Monday, September 19, 2016


... thud ... thud ...thud ... thud ... thud ... thud ... thud ... thud ... thud ... thud ... thud ... thud ... thud ... thud ... thud ... thud ... thud ... thud ... thud ... thud ... thud ... thud ... thud ... thud ... thud ... thud ... thud ... thud ... thud ... thud ... thud ... thud ... thud ... thud ... thud ...

(Arrrh. This joke be stupid.)


Way out West, Deadwood was a rip-roaring lawless mess of a place. There was only one person who could stand up to Al Swearingen, the corrupt owner of the local hostelry.

It should be noted that “hostelry” included more than simply lodging: whores and alcohol were also freely available. Swearingen was an evil bastard, but he ran a straightforward business provided you didn’t get in his way. Bad things could befall you otherwise.

Whenever Al got too far out of line, Jane would pepper him with olive pits until he’d beg for mercy.

Of course you’ve heard of Calamata Jane.


As a child, Perry had grown up wanting to wield the peppermill in the local Italian restaurant.

It was no easy career choice. The Guild of Peppermillers insisted on lengthy study and a lengthier apprenticeship. You had to know everything about the many types of pepper and the various milling techniques to be employed to achieve the proper fineness. Perry nevertheless aced his exams, landing a job immediately.

Unfortunately, Perry hated it. Carpal tunnel syndrome drove him nuts.

“How’s the job?” friends asked.

“A real grind.”

Alas, the Parmesan cheese gig was just as bad. It grated... on his nerves.

Thursday, September 15, 2016


In the process of cleaning out our Basemental Archive of excess inventory, I try to keep in mind that old maxim: “One man’s detritus is another man’s delightus.”

It makes sense, in a certain way. After all, I can’t be the only one to amass huge collections of useless ephemera. Matchbooks. Hotel soap. Shoe mitts. Shoe horns. Airline first-class meal menus. Airline toiletry kits. Hotel stationery. Other people probably pack-rat this stuff too, although I cannot imagine a secondary market for it. Nevertheless, we humans like to collect stuff, a practice that distinguishes us from a handful of animals.

Most of this crap has been given the old heave-ho, but I still have a pile of old TV Guide magazines. I suspect eBay is the best route to get rid of these, but we shall see. For there are little treasures amongst the dross.

F’r instance, the TV Guide pictured in this post? I has it.

And there’s this one:

You’re looking at the TV Guide Fall Preview issue for the 1966-67 television season... an issue that is fifty years old this week. Back then, most shows would premiere in September and would run until May or June, when summer re-runs would take over until the next season began. The Fall Preview Issue was where you could learn about all the New Crap that was going to be on the tube (that’d be a cathode-ray tube, the kind of teevee we all had until flatscreens came along) that year. And the 1966-67 season was kinda sorta historic. Take a look at some of the shows that got their start that season:

Family Affair - with Brian Keith as the footloose bachelor saddled with three orphans, and Sebastian Cabot as the English manservant who actually does the heavy lifting.

The Monkees - Mike Nesmith, Peter Tork, David Jones, and Mickey Dolenz star in the adventures of the eponymous band, a half-assed knockoff of The Beatles that somehow manages to come up with some half-decent music.

Star Trek - Perhaps you may have heard of this one. Interestingly, the preview in TV Guide refers to Mr. Spock as a Vulcanian from the planet Vulcanis. At least they got the half-Earthling part right. Today, incidentally, is the fiftieth anniversary of the show’s official premiere: The episode broadcast on September 8, 1966 was a “sneak preview.”

The Jean Arthur Show - Cancelled after only four weeks.

Rat Patrol - based on the adventures of a pack of desert commandos during the WWII North Africa campaign.

Mission Impossible - Before it was a movie starring Tom Cruise, it was this.

It’s About Time - take two dopey astronauts and time-travel their asses to the Stone Age. Hilarity ensues. Starring Joe E. Ross (the “Ooh-ooh” guy from Car 54, Where Are You?) and Imogene Coca, from Your Show of Shows.

That Girl - with Marlo Thomas as an early incarnation of a character that would later resurface on The Mary Tyler Moore Show and Ally McBeal years later.

The Green Hornet - a show that suffered from a lack of good buzz.

Time Tunnel - I had high hopes for this show, which featured a time-travel plot device. But the producer was Irwin Allen, thus guaranteeing suckage on an epic scale.

The Girl from U.N.C.L.E. - a poor knockoff of The Man from U.N.C.L.E., this time with (duh) a female lead.

The Pruitts of Southampton - with Phyllis Diller. Great show, provided you could tolerate more than five minutes of Phyllis Diller.

If you’re old enough to have heard of all these shows, then you’re pretty damned old. What surprises me is how many of them became enduringly embedded in our popular culture (some more enduringly than others). And looking at the listings, you could see all kinds of shows that were still in their first runs. The Munsters! Bonanza!

Now, in the age of 2,000 channels, streaming video, and play-on-demand, the notion of an actual weekly print magazine that told you everything you needed to know about the week’s programs seems rather quaint. If you wanted to watch a show then, you had to park your butt in front of the set when the show was being broadcast... no home recording. No whipping out your smartphone and telling your DVR to snag the latest episode of “Cute Cooks Wearing Cutoffs, Cooking Cookies in a Cookoff” from the Food Network.

Sometimes I miss those days.

Tuesday, September 13, 2016


In the process of deinventorying and cleaning out the Elisson Basemental Archive ’n’ Miscellaneous Debris Storage Facility, Dee came upon an item I had not seen for almost two decades. I knew it was somewhere, but the “where” had escaped me.

It was a Brumberger 3-D slide viewer, a little contraption that was designed for looking at 3-D transparencies. Made sometime in the early 1950’s, my parents had purchased it some 63-plus years ago.

In the box with the viewer were a handful of cardboard slide mounts, each one containing a matched set of two Kodachrome transparencies. You would stick a mount in the viewer, look through the binocular eyepiece, and push a button to illuminate the photo in all its three-dimensional glory.

Imagine the wonderful things you could see in realistic stereovision! The Matterhorn. The Eiffel Tower. The Empire State Building. Pike’s Peak. But no, my parents had bought the device for a much more prosaic application: to look at photos of their baby.

How they got the damned kid to sit still for the photographer, I have no idea. Probably they drugged him. There seem to be two different sets of photos, one earlier, the other taken some months later. In the first set, the kid clutches a blanket while parked on a bed fitted with white sheets.  He does not look happy in many of these pictures, unless you stretch the definition of “happy” to include “mildly bilious.” In the later session, clothed in a fashionable little set of plaid overalls, the little guy looks like he has put on a few ounces and displays a more positive demeanor. Possibly this is because of the various vinyl toys with which he is playing. A giraffe! A fish! A lamb! Look there, is that a smile? Or is he just squeezing out a deuce?

The viewer needed a little reconditioning. The D-size batteries that had once powered it had unleashed a flood of corrosion that had to be cleaned up. Happily, a little work with Mr. Dremel and a pair of needle-nosed pliers and the old Brumberger was right as rain.

As for the pictures, it had been a long time since I had been able to look at them... but there they were, with their familiar stereovision charm. They had held up pretty well for having been about sixty-three years old... better, perhaps, than their subject. And I cannot exactly describe the sensation of looking at little old me in three dimensions. It is a peculiar feeling.

Of course, you’ve already figured out that the photos were of Yours Truly... probably around the time you reached the word “bilious.”

Thursday, September 8, 2016


...to boldly go where no man has gone before.

By the time this issue of TV Guide came out, Star Trek had already established itself as a hit... and Leonard Nimoy’s Mister Spock as an unlikely sex symbol.
Yes, I watched that very first “preview week” episode on September 8, 1966 on our dinky little black-and-white television set. “The Man Trap,” it was titled, cleverly playing on both the allure of old girlfriends and the lethal salt-sucking alien featured in the episode.

I can remember the first time I saw that iconic image of the USS Enterprise swooshing across the screen (never mind that space is silent). The introduction! The theme music, high-pitched and eerie (to be toned down in later episodes)! This was gonna be great!

Star Trek, as it turned out, was great - very different from its space-oriented predecessor, the disappointing and hokey Lost in Space. It actually had SF elements in it, leavened by short-skirted female officers and romantic subplots. Star Trek was something new. Something special.

Of course, we hadn’t yet heard about Gene Roddenberry’s one-line network pitch: “Wagon Train to the Stars.” Nevertheless, the suits bought it... and despite the cheap sets and special effects, there was enough of that something special to keep us watching it, even though the first season was the only really good one. Transporters! Velour uniforms!

William Shatner, the irrepressible, scene-chewing, and ever-horny Captain James Tiberius Kirk, was no doubt shocked to see that Leonard Nimoy’s mysterious, emotionless Mister Spock was the character that had all the teenage girls in a lather. Must’ve been those pointy ears.   

Half a century later, it’s a huge franchise. Multiple television series, multiple film series, and yet it is still going strong, thanks to a mysterious chemistry between the characters that, even when seen for the first time through the eyes of a (not quite) fourteen-year-old kid, was instantly recognizable as a hopeful vision of the future.

Star Trek... may you and your spawn live long and prosper!

Wednesday, September 7, 2016


Some of us believe in reincarnation. It’s an attractive enough idea, that of eternal souls transmigrating - being born over and over into this vale of tears and joy - ostensibly for some sort of Higher Purpose.

In early 1997, reincarnation was a critical element of Martin Scorsese’s film Kundun, a biography of sorts of the Dalai Lama. The film’s story begins in 1937, at which time the thirteenth Dalai Lama has been deceased for four years. A group of monks visits a family in a remote part of Tibet. [Is there any part of Tibet that isn’t remote? - E.] After exchanging a few pleasantries, the monks get down to business, taking out an assortment of trivial personal objects and placing them on a mat in front of the family’s two-year-old child, who proceeds to select several of the items and claim them as his own (“Mine!”). They are objects without a scintilla of use to a typical two-year-old, but the child is insistent and, apparently, unerring, for after the final object is identified the monks all bow low and, in complete awe, intone the word Kundun - the Presence. The boy is the fourteenth reincarnation of the Dalai Lama.

I’m not entirely sure about whether reincarnation is something that actually happens, or whether it represents the kind of wishful thinking we humans are all to prone to indulge in, the hope that somehow, some way, our souls are immortal and can outlive us. But I do believe that we can have strong connections to those who no longer walk this earth with us... and by way of evidence, I can offer a story.

The story concerns our friend Houston Steve, his wife Debby (who, alas, passed away last year), and their granddaughter Isla, who, at nearly two years of age, is comparable to the young Dalai Lama in the tale above. Debby spent as much time as possible with her granddaughter while she could, and they developed a considerable bond. But then Debby was gone, with only some photo albums to serve as a direct reminder - aside, of course, from frequent visits with Grandpa.

Then comes this weekend, the weekend immediately before Debby’s Yahrzeit - the anniversary of her passing according to the Hebrew calendar. Isla and her parents are here in town, and, along with Houston Steve, they head to the synagogue.

Isla has never been to synagogue, yet enroute she repeats, “Gamma, gamma” several times. Upon arriving, as she walks through the corridor adjacent to the Holocaust memorial garden, she is inexplicably drawn to it, crying out, “Gamma, gamma!” Daddy opens the door to the garden and the child rushes out, making a beeline directly to the memorial brick inscribed with her Grandma’s name. In her hand she clutches a pebble, and when she reaches the brick, she repeatedly taps the pebble against it.

There are times when, looking at Isla, we all see her genetic heritage: We know exactly whose granddaughter she is. She is almost a Debby in miniature, all the way down to her feisty, unsinkable attitude. She is obviously no revenant, no reincarnation of her beloved Grandma, having been born almost a year too soon. But, short of reincarnation, can there be some sort of mysterious connection between those of use on either side of the Great Divide? An entwining of souls, perhaps? You tell me... but I think I have all the evidence I need.

[Photo: Neil Caron]

Postscript: Kevin Kim offers a thoughtful examination of transmigration and reincarnation from the perspective of Asian religion, notably Buddhism and Hinduism.

Friday, September 2, 2016


Look at me
I’m a kitty with pantaloons
I live in a great big house
A kitty with pantaloons
If I should make a poop
It might stick to my pantaloons
And then my Daddy comes
With scissors and brush

[sung to the tune of “Stranger in Paradise”]

Wednesday, August 31, 2016


Forty-two years’ worth of matches in one sulfurous pile. Do you recognize any of them?

Whenever the Mistress of Sarcasm comes home, inevitably there will be some time spent in a frenzy of organization and Superfluous Inventory Reduction. There’s plenty of material to work with at Chez Elisson, after all. And people of the Mistress’s generation tend to look at possessions differently than do we. In a nutshell, our generation purchased stuff while hers tends to rent it. As an example, we bought our music in hardcopy - LP’s, CD’s, cassettes - while they rent theirs by subscribing to Spotify and Pandora.

As for me, it’s not that I am a hoarder, per se. It’s just that I tend to, errr, accumulate stuff... much of which has little, if any, utility. And while there may be sentimental value attached to some of it, and actual value contained in some of it, a lot of it is just plain crap. If I had had to pay to move it around from place to place over the years, I probably would have looked at much more of it with a jaundiced eye. But that was never the case: Working for the Great Corporate Salt Mine had the benefit of household relocations at corporate expense.

I’ve already confessed to my irrational attachment to hotel soap, of which we conducted a massive deinventorying about eight years ago. Well, most of what remained after that clear-out is gone now... along with 99% of my huge (and hugely flammable) match collection.

Collecting matches is a mostly useless endeavor these days. Fewer restaurants permit smoking, and fewer people smoke, so the souvenir matchbook is getting thinner on the ground. But as I went through the enormous pile of Fire-Sticks I had gathered over the past forty-two or so years, there were a few that triggered some old memories.

There were a handful from my post-university cross-country trip in mid-1974. There were plenty from our sojourns in Houston, including one from the (now defunct) restaurant where I proposed to Dee back in 1977. There were some from our honeymoon. There were several from the various foreign outposts I used to visit back in the Salt Mine days. And there were some that recalled memorable dinners that Dee and I had shared, including a magical evening at Greycliff in Nassau.

With only a very few exceptions, they all went out. The memories, you see... the memories are still with us. And now there will be that much less stuff to tote around with us, wherever our travels take us.

This, by the way, was just the tip of the Deinventorying Iceberg. But it was important.

Attachment to stuff is not the path to serenity, sayeth the Buddha. Better we should be attached to people.

Good advice: I think I’ll try to follow it. But I’m not getting rid of my old Mad magazines just yet.

Tuesday, August 30, 2016


Albert Amoeba was feeling a bit out of sorts.

It wasn’t that he was hungry. He engulfed pretty much everything he encountered, and so far nothing had killed him. His vacuoles worked fine, with nary a clog.

It wasn’t that he was horny. As a one-celled organism, Albie didn’t have to deal with any of the angst of relationships with the opposite sex. For him, there was no opposite sex. It simplified life immensely.

No, he was just out of sorts. It hurt whenever he tried to move.

Damn, thought Albie. Maybe it was time to go see the pseudopodiatrist.

Monday, August 29, 2016


Gene Wilder, né Jerome Silberman (1933-2016). Barukh Dayan Emet.

Poor Wonka’s dead
Poor Willy Wonka’s dead
All gather round his coffin now and cry
He had tickets made of gold
And he wasn’t all that old
Oh, why did such a feller have to die?

Poor Wonka’s dead
Poor Willy Wonka’s dead
About to face the awesome, mighty Judge (mighty Judge)
Like a choc’late - in a box
He will sleep ’midst dirt and rocks
But in Heaven he can eat his fill of fudge.

(Apologies to Rodgers and Hammerstein)

Another thread of our pop culture tapestry has come unravelled: Variety reports that actor Gene Wilder passed away today at the age of 83 from complications related to Alzhemer’s disease.

Wilder was a comic genius, with movies such as The Producers, Blazing Saddles, Young Frankenstein, and Stir Crazy to his credit. What stands out in three of these four films is that Wilder is more of a co-star than star, with Zero Mostel, Cleavon Little, and Richard Pryor seemingly taking up most of the screen time... yet without Wilder, those films would have fallen flat. In the fourth - the outstanding Young Frankenstein - Wilder is truly the star, burning with manic energy.

For me - and I suspect, many of my Esteemed Readers as well - Gene Wilder’s defining role was that of Willy Wonka, the mysterious, eponymous candy-producing entrepreneur of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Mischievous, impish, sweet, and at times sadistic and even scary, Wilder’s version of Wonka defined the role so thoroughly that even the talents of Johnny Depp couldn’t make a dent in it. I still get a lump in my throat at the end of that movie, despite having seen it at least a dozen times.

As one of my friends has pointed out, a measure of the man is that nobody ever seems to have ever said one bad thing about him... a most unusual and impressive legacy, especially in the acting business.

Perhaps in the next world he will be reunited with one-time wife Gilda Radner, whom he loved deeply. Together, they could make the firmament ring with laughter. But here on Earth, we must shed our tears.

Ave atque vale, Gene! You will be missed.

Sunday, August 28, 2016


Fred. Requiescat in pace.

I was saddened to hear that Fred, one of the resident kitties at Eric’s fabled Compound, has gone on to his forever home on the other side of the Rainbow Bridge.

We’ve known Fred for ten years, during which time he has quietly terrorized the local Small Animals and Birds and kept us entertained at Eric’s annual bloggy birthday bashes. We’ve watched him sun himself on the back porch, cuddle with us in the Garage and Billiard Room, and act companionable with fellow kitties Ginger and, later, Bob.

It’s never easy to say goodbye to our feline friends. They stay with us long enough for us to love them, short enough to break our hearts when they take their inevitable leave.

Ave atque vale, Fred! May you find good hunting on the other side of the Bridge. Perhaps you will meet Ginger, Hakuna, Matata, Neighbor, and Bernadette there, and you can entertain them with fanciful stories... punctuated, no doubt, with plenty of ellipses.

Wednesday, August 24, 2016


Half-sour pickles. Image: Pickle Licious.

Today I was breakfasting at the Local Bagel and Smoked Fish Emporium (as is my occasional practice) with Dee and the Mistress of Sarcasm (a less occasional practice, but much more delightful).

As the servitor took our order, I asked her, “Does that come with a pickle?” She assured me that it did, and I asked her, in turn, to deliver unto me a nice, crisp, bright green half-sour pickle.

For I am a fan of the half-sour pickle. If you are fortunate, you may live in an area where this style of pickle is available - sometimes in jars, sometimes in vats, always refrigerated. The ideal half-sour pickle is bright green, with a pronounced crunch. As half-sours age, their green becomes dull as they soften into the garlicky kosher sour pickles many folks love. But I likes ’em young and crisp.

But this post was not intended to be a disquisition on the half-sour pickle. It’s more an observation on my twisted mind...

...because no sooner had the servitor walked away than I suddenly had an image in my head, a picture of Ebenezer Scrooge from the conclusion of A Christmas Carol, the scene where our repentant and newly Christmas-observant protagonist looks out the window and, seeing a boy on the street below, promptly sends him on an errand to procure an enormous prize-winning turkey, the which to send to miserable, humble Bob Cratchit as an unexpected Christmas gift. Only in my head, it was no turkey. It was an enormous half-sour pickle.

I related this vision to Dee and my daughter, who - almost simultaneously - began to hum the familiar strains to “Entrance of the Gladiators,” a bit of music that you may know as “that dopey circus music you usually hear played on a steam calliope when the clowns rush in.”

Yeah, I know. I’m more than just a little nutty sometimes. (OK, most times.) The Mistress said it best several months ago. During an earlier visit this year, as the three of us were taking a lengthy walk along one of the thoroughfares near the neighborhood, I asked Dee to pose in front of the T-Mobile store.

“Why do you want a picture of me in front of the T-Mobile store?” she asked... a perfectly reasonable question.

“Because I want to caption it “La Donna è T-Mobile.”

Of course Dee refused, but when the Mistress overheard this little exchange, her comment was, “What’s it like in there?” She was referring, of course, to my noggin.

Well, now we know what it looks like in there... but it’s still a bit hard to explain what’s going on in there.

As for that Christmas Carol story - the very thought of which so bemused my wife and daughter - I am happy to present it below. I call it...

A Shabbes Carol

“What’s to-day?” cried Scrooge, calling downward to a boy in school clothes, who perhaps had loitered in to look about him.

“Eh?” returned the boy, with all his might of wonder.

“What’s to-day, my fine fellow?” said Scrooge.

“To-day?” replied the boy. “Why, Friday.”

“It’s Friday - Erev Shabbes!” said Scrooge to himself. “I haven’t missed it. The Dybbuks have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like. Of course they can. Of course they can. Hallo, my fine fellow!”

“Hallo!” returned the boy.

“Do you know the Delicatessen, in the next street but one, at the corner?” Scrooge inquired.

“I should hope I did,” replied the lad.

“An intelligent boy!” said Scrooge. “A remarkable boy! Do you know whether they’ve sold the huge half-sour pickle that was in the barrel there - Not those little dill pickles: the big crisp green half-sour?”

“What, the one as big as a certain part of Ron Jeremy?” returned the boy.

“What a delightful boy!” said Scrooge. “It’s a pleasure to talk to him. Yes, my buck.”

“It’s floating there now,” replied the boy.

“Is it?” said Scrooge. “Go and buy it.”

“Gevalt!” exclaimed the boy.

“No, no,” said Scrooge, “I am in earnest. Go and buy it, and tell them to bring it here, that I may give them the direction where to take it. Come back with that great green warty bastard, and I’ll give you a shilling. Come back with it in less than five minutes and I’ll give you half-a-crown.”

The boy was off like a shot. He must have had a steady hand at a trigger who could have got a shot off half so fast.

“I’ll send it to Bob Cratchit’s!” whispered Scrooge, rubbing his hands, and splitting with a laugh. “He shan’t know who sends it. It’s twice the size of Tiny Tim...”

Monday, August 22, 2016


Nowadays, as chip cards become more commonplace, we find ourselves having to shove our money cards into the readers rather than performing the more familiar swiping of the magnetic strip. To help keep things straight, I propose the two alternatives be labeled “stick it” (for the chip cards) or “flick it” for non-chip-enabled cards and/or readers. Stick it or flick it!

And because I am a helpful soul, I have composed this catchy little piece of doggerel to help you remember... 

In stores, when you pay with your Credit Card,
How do you do it? It’s not too hard –
If you have a chip, then you must stick it
If you don’t have a chip, then you must flick it
Stick it or flick it – the choice ain’t hard
That’s how you handle your Credit Card!

Stick it or flick it – the choice ain’t hard
That’s how you handle your Credit Card!

[Apologies to Isaac Bromley, Noah Brooks, W. C. Wyckoff, Moses W. Handy, and (more familiarly) Mark Twain (“A Literary Nightmare,” q.v.), and the Punch Brothers.]


Practitioners of yoga are familiar with shavasana, also known as the corpse pose. It is a posture that involves 20-30 minutes of relaxation in supine position, arms splayed at a 45° angle.

Guru Yogi Bare-Chinmoy takes it one step further with his unique burmashavasana, a pose in which the practitioner lies supine and gets a nice smooth shave while releasing all muscular tension. His school has become extremely popular in part due to word-of-mouth publicity, but also because of his unique advertisements posted on local highways:

The Downward Dog
Is one cool move
But yogis like
Their faces smooth

[inspired by a comment on Facebook]


Just because McSweeney’s didn’t go for it doesn’t mean I can’t make you suffer, Esteemed Readers. And thus, herewith I present my latest Lists Column rejection...


1. Horse. Feathers.
2. Cannon. Ball.
3. Peanut. Butter.
4. Buffalo. Wings.
5. Bubble. Bath.
6. Ma. Michelle.
7. Bung. Hole.
8. Scary. Clown.
9. Elmer. Fudd.