I have been trying for a while to develop a weekly blog routine to make thinking up something new and creative for a daily post easier… even simple. Tuesday is novel-work where I share a freshly made chapter of a work in progress.
Saturday is art day where I am supposed to share artwork I have done in a new and interesting way.
Sunday is devotional day… which is weird for an atheist who believes in God. I have a tendency to share things I am devoted to, which is far more than just religion. I have included on this blog day such things I keep sacred as Disney movies, Dr. Seuss, and being a nudist.
And Friday is supposed to be the day to be funny. Cartoons and jokes and satire and things to make you laugh.
The thing is, though I am a cartoonist, I am not that kind of cartoonist. I don’t do gag cartoons. I am more of an ironic twister of tales and tails and puns. My cartoon shared at the start here is not funny at all. Sometimes my humor novels get downright maudlin and sad. I doubt I have ever yet busted someone’s gut with laughter. I would not want to be guilty of murder by cartoon. What do you legally call that? Gag-a-cide? I put in the hyphens to make sure you didn’t think I was talking about killing Lady Gaga.
I have pretty much mastered the art of drawing cartoons. I can do eyes like Walt Kelly (the creator of Pogo) and Harvey Comics‘ noses (like the one in the Hot Stuff Devil picture) and women with huge jugs… of moonshine like Al Capp (the creator of Lil’ Abner… and you knew I meant jugs of Kickapoo Joy Juice, right? Surely you did think…)
Ah, but telling funny jokes is not what I do. Still, I believe I can lay claim to being a humorist based on this blog. I make people smirk a lot when I talk, which I take as visual confirmation that I am funny. Unless people are smirking at me for other reasons? Do I have another daddy longlegs spider dancing on my head because at least two of his long legs are tangled in my hair? Really? For the third time already?
But, regardless, I have reason to believe this post and others like it on Friday qualify for the notion of Friday Funnies. I can make myself smirk, guffaw, and sometimes giggle without looking in a mirror to see the spider. But you are welcome to dispute my funniness in the comments if you prefer it to admitting that I can sometimes make you laugh. If you do, then you will be supporting the arguments of the book reviewer who reviewed my book Mickey’s Rememberries and said, “He could be a great writer if only he were more serious/” I took that as a compliment. Irony, don’t ya know.
I am diabetic. I am not supposed to have donuts for breakfast any more. Hence the obsession with donuts. I am only guessing here, but I think it may have something to do with the fact that the very name of donuts tells you what to do.
“What?!” you say. “What goofiness are you talking about now, Mickey?”
Well, I’ll tell you. I had a donut for breakfast this morning… with nuts.
The name “donuts” is literally a command. It tells you to “Do nuts”. So I had nuts with my donut this morning. Peanuts to be precise. Of course that’s what is wrong with the whole scenario. It doesn’t mean “peanuts”. It is commanding you to do something nutty. Maybe more like eating a donut when you have diabetes. No matter how good that particular donut tastes when you eat it, an hour later you are going to suffer.
So here’s the result of my being nuts this morning. I have come to the conclusion that the root of all evils in the modern world is “donuts”. Especially when it is pronounced “doo nutz”. Yes, eating a donut subjects you to the command, “Do nuts!”
And we all know how bad Trump’s diet is. Could he be imbibing donuts? Horrors! That explains Twitter, cabinet firings, tariffs for the fun of it, random protestations of “No collusion!”, and even “Covfefe”. Although Betsy DeVos as Education Secretary is an evil beyond even the power of donuts.
And how did Trump even get elected? Do people in Pennsylvania, Wisconsin, and Michigan glory in eating donuts before voting? How about disgruntled Bernie Bros? And one also suspects that middle-aged white women can’t resist a good donut… or an evil one either.
Could it be that I am down on donuts because I ate one and now I am writing this with a pounding high-blood-sugar headache? Well, yes. Eating one inspired this post. It was a chocolate donut with green, mint-flavored frosting. And it was evil. It is taking out its evil revenge on the blood vessels in my brain.
So, I implore you if you are reading this… no, I’m not going to tell you not to “Do nuts”… I am going to tell you, “Please, for the love of God, keep donuts away from me! Eat them yourself if you have to. But be warned! They have a secret meaning.”
Tax time has always been about worry, raising money at the last moment, and horror when I finally see the bottom line and how much I owe to the IRS. (I have to withhold more money each month with each new tax year because the taxable percentages keep going up on my pension, apparently not stopping until I run out of pension or die, whichever comes first. And the Texas Teacher Retirement System has told me they can’t interpret the tax tables correctly, so I have to guess on withholding amounts.)
Last year I owed $750. Trump’s 2017 Tax Bill, the gift that keeps on giving… like a reverse Robin Hood, taking money away from retired pensioners like me to give away to wealthy fire-truckers (pardon my almost-French) in large tax cuts.
Fortunately, after borrowing money to pay off the tax bill, rather than having to beg the government for a payoff plan like I did the previous two years, we got a stimulus check from the government. It covered my debt, and I had enough left over to pay off my $580 tax bill for this year.
So, today, my daughter came to me and told me the new stimulus checks have come. $1,400 dollars! And I don’t owe any of it over tax bills this time. That, of course, explains the title for today. Yes, I give hugs when I’m happy.
But, to be honest, I haven’t always been huggable.
I was traumatized for years by the sexual assault I endured and kept secret from the age of ten. I underwent PTSD-like panics whenever someone tried to hug me. It interfered with my first three girlfriends, and even, at times, my parents and grandparents.
How, then, did I ever achieve huggableness? Well, it was a long road.
It began with my little second cousin, I won’t name him here because he may read this blog, and I have no intention to ever embarrass him. I did, however, name one of the characters in The Baby Werewolf after him. He was an essential part of my life when he was in the third grade and I was in my Senior year of high school, twice his age. I befriended him one Fall morning while waiting for the school bus. He was being picked on by one of the older boys, driven to tears, actually. I bullied the bully who was only in Jr. High and much smaller than me. He had run off behind the firehouse and was apparently planning to miss the bus and run home after it left. I talked him into getting on the bus, and I let him sit with me to keep the bully from retaliating.
After that, I had made a friend. He was constantly seeking me out and talking to me after that. He was a real cuddle-bug too. He would sit in my lap or ask me to carry him around on my back. And to my surprise, the touching I couldn’t stand from anybody else did not bother me a bit with him. He would play Monopoly with me and his brother and some other kids. And he would cheat. But he told me not to tell on him, so I didn’t. He laughed at my jokes. He told me who his secret crush was in school. He told me what he knew about sex from watching animals on the farm. (And he probably knew way more than I did.) And he was the first person I was able to hug in eight long years.
Of course, I would eventually figure out that because he was smaller than me, and a boy… there was no sexual tension between us to trigger my PTSD-like reaction.
So, the healing really began with him in 1974. He’s grown now. Wife and family… boys of his own. I’ve seen him briefly, but repeatedly at family reunions. But, unless he’s reading this now, he probably never knew how important his friendship was to me. I can hug my daughter now, totally huggable, because of him.
Spring Break, a year ago, was the start of the pandemic for me and proved to be the end of my limited time as a substitute teacher. We went into lockdown and my bedroom became my bunker for the duration of the Covid War.
My family went on a jaunt to Colorado for part of that week, as Texas was not yet a seriously infected land. But knowing how much my health issues made me a risk of contracting death by the disease, I stayed home with the dog and number two son. In 2021, my family went for three days to visit relatives in San Antonio. I was alone at home with the dog once again. There are odd parallels between that Spring Break and this one.
I hadn’t used the gingerbread house kit that I had bought for Christmas 2019. So, we broke that out, put it together (my daughter and I after she got back from Colorado) and ate it.
It so happens I now have a gingerbread castle that wasn’t used during Christmas 2020, so I have vowed it will get made, photographed, and eaten this coming weekend.
I had finished a manuscript for a new novel in February, and I edited it during the Spring Break 2020.
It was my novel about a nudist family called A Field Guide to Fauns. It was published in March of 2020.
I don’t have another novel ready to be published this Spring Break, but I will do a free promotion of the Field Guide this coming weekend.
The pandemic brought an end to my teaching career as I will never again have the physical strength or freedom from arthritis pain that it takes to stand in front of a classroom all day. Being confined to the bunker all day every day has worsened all my health conditions.
All my plans for visiting nudist parks went pretty much the same way. My psoriasis has worsened and made me more susceptible to the ravages of hot sunlight. Even though I know more nudists now than I ever had before, most of the ones I know live in England, France, and California. So, no one will be able to go with me to a nudist camp as my family won’t even contemplate the idea. I have relatives who are quite happy that the pandemic probably ended that part of my life as well. No more Mickey the Nudist.
But the big difference between last Spring Break and this one is the fact that I am now on the waiting list for a vaccination. It is just possible that the whole horrible ordeal will both begin and end with Spring Break.
Tom Sawyer without the straw hat, as created by Lois Beyer
You may already know about my doll-collecting mania. You may have already called the mental health people to come take care of the problem, and they just haven’t arrived at my door yet with the white coat that has the extra long sleeves. But you may not know that my mother is a doll-maker and has something to do with my doll-collecting hoarding disorder.
In the early 1990’s my mother and I put our money together and bought a kiln while we were visiting my sister’s family out in California. It wasn’t the most expensive model, but it wasn’t the cheapest, either. We both had enough experience with ceramics that we didn’t want to buy a burning box that was merely going to blow our porcelain projects to kingdom come. Mother had doll-making friends in Texas who taught her about firing greenware and glazing and porcelain paint and all the other arcane stuff you have to know to make expensive hand-made dolls. Now, honestly, at the start we could’ve made some money at it selling to seriously ill doll collectors and other kooks, but we were not willing to part with our early art, and by the time we were ready to do more than just have an expensive hobby, everyone who would’ve paid money for the product was making their own. So dreams of commercial success were supplanted by the hobbyist’s mania that made more and more charming little things to occasionally display at the county fair.
The two dolls I have left to share on my blog from that era were both crafted by my mother. She lovingly fired the porcelain body parts, painted the faces by hand, and created the wardrobe on her Singer sewing machine. I made some dolls too, but never with the wondrous craft and care that made my mother’s dolls beyond compare.
Tom Sawyer was originally a boy doll who was supposed to be able to hold a model train in his hands. My mother had the pattern for the little engineer’s uniform and hat that she would use on another doll instead. He is named after the Tom Sawyer clothing pattern that my mother bought and sewed together to dress him in. He has a cloth and stuffing body underneath his clothes together with porcelain head, hands, and bare feet.
The other doll I have left to brag unctuously about is a doll named Nicole after the niece my wife and I have whom this doll bares a striking resemblance to. She displays a beautiful little girl’s sun dress with quilted accent colors that my mother sewed from scratch with the help of a pattern she was truly fond of and used more than once.
These dolls were gifts to my wife and I, presented shortly after my mother bought out my share of the kiln when she retired and moved back to the frosty land of the Iowegians. I haven’t kept them as thoroughly dusted and cobweb-free as they deserve because I have been a somewhat lazy and slovenly son… but I do love them almost as much as (and sometimes more depending on recent behavior) my own children. (After all, porcelain kids rarely make a mess, overspend allowances, or hog the television too much.)
Phoenix dissipated his fire-sword and turned towards the Black Spider leaders and their fire-fighting crew. There was an ironic smile on his face.
“You may have noticed that this entire place is now on fire. We, the three of us have decimated your ranks already. And we did not come alone. We brought Jai Chang and the army of Shen Ming. Jai-sensei needed a chance to prove himself faithful to the White Spider.”
Instantly Jai Chaing swooped down from the rafters, shooting his arrows as he leapt. Fangwoman, still wearing the helmet, took the first one through the heart. Three more fell to his arrows before the other warriors took their first shots.
Reacting as quickly as he could, the Green Phantom dropped himself through a trap door in the stage floor.
“Now you must kill me. I was your sensei, and I deserve an honorable death at your hands. Let the student now become the master.” Bone Daddy lowered his head, ready for the final blow.
“What is that? Some kind of old movie reference? You may not like it, but I choose to honor you with love and forgiveness. We will take you as our guest in a lead-lined cell. We will heal you, and give you the chance to redeem yourself among the White Spiders.”
“Phoenix, no. You dishonor me.”
“I do not. You just don’t understand… yet.”
Bone Daddy slumped unconscious to the floor. Fortunately, a wraith cannot phase while unconscious.
“I have the boy Freddy,” said Jai Chang, holding the unconscious child in his arms. Of the three White Spider commandoes, he was the only one that needed attention from a healer.
Rocket, Jackie, and Alec were all roused and led safely out of the burning building. Two soldiers carried the limp form of Bone Daddy out too.
Shen Ming himself retrieved the Avenger Helmet.
“Ah, I must be careful with this thing now.”
“Am I right in thinking you are the reason the Avenger helmet turned up on Jai Chang’s head, Shen Ming-sensei?” Phoenix asked.
“What? Me, guilty? Although I am admitting that it all worked out rather nicely for our worst enemies. Fangwoman is discovering new dimensions. Bone Daddy is now our permanent guest. And Green Phantom is now in hiding, needing to recruit many new evil ninjas to his stupid way of thinking.
“And, ah, so… we have cleaned out the Black Spider Organization in Kiro pretty well.” Shen Ming’s crooked smirk told Phoenix it was all true, but he was not unhappy about it.
Ludwig Von Drake, the narrator filled with what are probably facts.
Here are some things that are probably true. Although, I know, most of you don’t want to hear them and probably don’t want to believe them if you are forced to read further by what is probably a foolish compelling curiosity.
The word PROBABLY probably means;
adverb
1. almost certainly; as far as one knows or can tell: “she would probably never see him again”
2, The narrator probably wishes to leave you with the impression that there are probably doubts and scientifical uncertainties that any dire things predicted here have a chance to not come true… probably.
Here’s lie number one;
Human beings are in control of what happens on this planet and can prevent unforeseen factors from killing us all.
Here’s the reason that lie will probably kill us all;
Yes, our beloved Standard Oil of Ohio have committed to telling the lies, the whole lies, and nothing but the lies since 1977 when their senior scientist, James Black, told them the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth… about how burning fossil fuels would lead to too much carbon dioxide building up in the atmosphere. He warned that mankind had about a ten year window to get control of their carbon dioxide out-put to keep climate change from happening. That, of course, was 44 years ago. Exxon (formerly Standard Oil) has been lying to us ever since to keep us buying their product and keeping the stock price of their corporation high. My primary (but not only) source follows;
We are already seeing lethal effects from climate change, everything from devastating wild fires in California to the unprepared-for freezing of the Texas power grid in February 2021. Really, Governor Abbott, if the Texas wind-power and the Green New Deal (Which hasn’t yet been implemented anywhere, especially not in Texas) is totally to blame, why didn’t you weather-proof it after the freeze of 2011? Iowa’s windmills didn’t let them down even though they endured colder temperatures than Texas during that same week.
The biosphere of the planet is in grave danger because of the lies we have been believing in. Here again is a primary source;
So, what possible reason could our wonderful corporate-capitalistic system have for lying to us? Gee, that’s hard to answer. PROFITS!!!
Here, then, is lie number two;
If we just let the wealthy capitalist job-creators and business-creators do whatever they want to make themselves richer, they will boost the economy higher and make life better for everybody.
Here’s a breakdown of that lie quoted from Odyssey;
“Here are the most significant reasons why Reaganomics, a.k.a. “Trickle-down” economics and Trump’s go-to financial plan, is the worst possible solution:
1. It drives up national debt
During the years of Reagan’s presidency, the national deficit almost tripled due to the lack of incoming tax revenue and only partially-decreased spending. When he first entered into office, the debt was around 900 billion dollars. At the end of his terms, it was close to exceeding three trillion.
2. It cuts into funding for government programs
Social programs lose funding when defense programs take precedence and drain limited funds.
3. Most importantly: It DOESN’T trickle down
The wealth that began at the top never made it all the way down. Most of the wealth stayed with the top few percent; the income gap was the highest it had ever been since 1947. Over the ten years it was implemented, the top one percent of the population’s salaries/wages increased over eighty percent while the bottom ninety percent’s only increased three percent and the poorest twenty percent of the population’s family income actually decreased four percent over those ten years.
Ultimately, Reaganomics is NOT the policy to support if you want any benefit from the economic policies of your government. (Unless you are among the richest one percent of Americans… which ninety nine percent of Americans aren’t)”
Of course I will be told that I am a loony liberal and I am obviously wrong because my facts are not believed in by anybody who counts, mainly conservative politicians and their corporate donors, and besides, why do I want to hurt the feelings of conservatives who believe in their version of the truth so hard that it has to be correct?
Okay, I did say these things will probably kill us. That leaves some wiggle-room, right? But I can also say that if you heat the bottom of a propane tank with a blowtorch, it will probably blow up and kill you. It is about the same degree of probably.
To be a writer, you always have to have something to say.
That’s what being a writer is.
And when you have something to say, you have to say it. And you have to use your best skills to say it well.
I took years and years to collect and organize what I wanted to say. I gathered thoughts and ideas by being a public school teacher. Not just talking to and learning from a select few kids, but every kid and any kid that God saw fit to throw in front of me. Even the crazy ones and the evil ones.
And then, I had to decide how to say what I was going to say.
Would I write an autobiography? Like retired teacher Frank McCourt did with Angela’s Ashes?
Or would I try to fight against my prosaic inclinations and write poetry like Walt Whitman did with Leaves of Grass?
Or maybe essays like Henry David Thoreau in Walden?
Or would I try to explain my world view and the wisdom it contained through fiction like Harper Lee did with To Kill a Mockingbird?
Obviously, I lean heavily towards fiction. Of my 19 published books, only two of them are not fiction. The ones that are not, Laughing Blue (barely visible in the terrible photo,) and Mickey’s Rememberries are both made up of the best essays from this blog.
And since I am now published, both through publishing companies and as a self-published author through Amazon KDP, I can examine my work and it’s public impact to try to determine what kind of a writer I really am.
Looking at this totally scientific graphic shamelessly borrowed from someone else who borrowed it shamelessly on Twitter, I can safely say I am not The Greasy Palm (I am a terrible salesman, proven by my book sales numbers every single month since I learned how to read that,) The Ray of Sunshine (My books only fly off the shelves during tornados and earthquakes,) or The Bitter Failure (because I am too ignorantly happy with myself most of the time to be that.)
So, hmm… that leaves….
Well, I confess to Space Cadet. That is what helps me be happy. And I do get enraged by some of the things that I am moved to write about, but I am definitely not a journalist. I prefer fiction.
But that last one is the most likely. Assuming I am actually Creative and Talented, and not just deluded. I definitely don’t have anyone advocating my literary genius. And my house does not have a basement. My bedroom prison during the pandemic is on the second floor.
So, what would I be if I were not a writer?
I would make a good time traveler.
It seems I always know exactly what I would change if I had a time machine disguised as a soda-vending dispenser that, for a quarter, could take me back in time to do-over points in my life.
I would ask her to dance with me in Miss Malkin’s Music Class instead of chickening out.
I would have told him that he saved my life when he answered my phone call that Saturday afternoon. I never actually told him I was thinking about killing myself, and probably would have done it if he hadn’t been there to prove to me that I had friends who cared enough…
I would tell my much younger self that I would not regret deciding to be a teacher instead of a cartoonist.
I might have made a good nudist. I like being dressed only in sunlight and good nature. I wrote a book about being a nudist. You can see it in the picture where I am trying to make you believe I am nude while holding it. Actually I had pants on. But that is not nearly as funny. I gave up notions of naturism in order not to have parents look at me funny while telling them about their “wonderful kids” during parent/teacher conferences.
What would I actually be if I couldn’t be a writer? I really have no non-joke ideas. I need to be a writer, even if nobody wants to read it.
There is no such thing as a perfect face. You know that human beings tend to perceive bilateral symmetry as beauty. That means, the more the left half of the face mirrors the right half. the more beautiful the face is.
But why do we think that? No real person’s face is actually like that. Look at the girl on your right. Her eyes don’t match. The googly-eyed expression on her face may indicate that eating pencils can cause brain damage. Can you get lead poisoning from graphite pencils? Or is it just that her cartoon great grandfather was Barney Google?
And the girl on the left has a weird blush pattern on her cheeks. Perhaps it isn’t a blush. Probably she’s been biting into exploding tomatoes.
How about this face? If you put a line directly down the middle of the face, you can see that each side nearly mirrors the other. People think of that as handsome or, possibly, cute. A nearly perfect face. Me, I prefer the face of the boy. The Muppety puppet, despite it’s perfection, seems almost ugly to me.
Intelligence is revealed by the eyes. The girl on your left is looking directly at you. It makes her seem smarter. And we all know she is anyway, even without giving her a test.
Emotion is also conveyed mostly through the eyes. It is obvious that these lion eyes (or is that spelled LYIN’ EYES?) are looking at you with love. Yes, love. And he would love you even more with ketchup.
A face can tell you more about a character than thousands of words of mere description can. Do you know what Vladimir will be drawing in your art class on his first day in your classroom? I think you do. Strawberry Shortcake and Disney Princesses. What else? Oh, geez… you’ve grown a bit jaded over the years.
Teachers, well, the good ones, will need a welcoming, calm face, no matter how bad of a hair day they are having.
And would you welcome a face to face with this face? Especially on the very day you sacrificed a black cat and two chickens to create a black magic spell to punish your ex-wife? After her lawyer left you with nothing even though you were not the one who spent all the money in your joint checking account on a face-lift? And she didn’t even try to make her danged face more symmetrical!
But enough about faces for today. Everyone who is anyone has one, you know. It’s the style going around. Even though it’s been a year since you’ve seen them without a mask on.
Along about 1965, Bobby and me skinny-dipping in Avery’s Creek.
Yes, it is just not possible to write an exemplary daily essay every single day. Some days you just have to be ordinary. Today is probably gonna be one of those days.
You see, in my head I have always been Michael. My parents, grandparents, and siblings always called me that.
When I was drawing and telling stories, well, that part of me I always knew was Mickey. I was the only one who ever called me that.
But my Uncles and cousins and classmates and teachers, usually called me Mike. And that was confusing because when I first started school, there were three Mikes in my class of nine kids. Mike S. and Mike M. and I was Mike B. And when I was nine, there was another Mike B. in the grade right ahead of me (he was ten when I was nine.) But Mike S. and Mike M. had moved to other schools in the county then. So I was Mike in the classroom, and he was “the Other Mike.” Miss M had both third and fourth grade in the same small-town school so she had to manage two Mikes in one room. But both of us were Ordinary Mikes.
An Ordinary Mike in the 1960s went skinny-dipping at least three times in their early childhood. (Well, that was me. I only actually saw the Other Mike naked at the Iowa River once, though his little brother Barry said they went to the river a few times.)
And an Ordinary Mike was shy around girls. Even tomboy girls who would say yes if you asked them to go skinny dipping because they felt they were just one of the guys. An Ordinary Mike never dared to ask that, though Joel and Randy said that Lulu Baerinfeld went skinny-dipping with them one time. But Ordinary Mikes were always just wise enough to realize they were lying.
Ordinary Mikes sometimes got a “C” on their report card in Math, not because they were dumb and didn’t get it, but because they didn’t do some of the homework because they didn’t want their dumb friends to think they were too Brainiac- smart (Brainiac was a villain in Superman comics.)
But both Ordinary Mikes, me and the Other Mike, were good at Science, getting “A’s” on their report cards. We both vowed to each other that one day we would both become astronauts and walk on the Moon, or maybe Mars. But, as far as I know, neither of us managed to make that dream come true.
So, a writer like me can’t always be extraordinary. In fact, I am often quite ordinary. As I have basically proven, I was and am… Ordinary Mike.
Catch a Falling Star 
Friday Funnies… um, Yeah?
I have been trying for a while to develop a weekly blog routine to make thinking up something new and creative for a daily post easier… even simple. Tuesday is novel-work where I share a freshly made chapter of a work in progress.
Saturday is art day where I am supposed to share artwork I have done in a new and interesting way.
Sunday is devotional day… which is weird for an atheist who believes in God. I have a tendency to share things I am devoted to, which is far more than just religion. I have included on this blog day such things I keep sacred as Disney movies, Dr. Seuss, and being a nudist.
And Friday is supposed to be the day to be funny. Cartoons and jokes and satire and things to make you laugh.
The thing is, though I am a cartoonist, I am not that kind of cartoonist. I don’t do gag cartoons. I am more of an ironic twister of tales and tails and puns. My cartoon shared at the start here is not funny at all. Sometimes my humor novels get downright maudlin and sad. I doubt I have ever yet busted someone’s gut with laughter. I would not want to be guilty of murder by cartoon. What do you legally call that? Gag-a-cide? I put in the hyphens to make sure you didn’t think I was talking about killing Lady Gaga.
I have pretty much mastered the art of drawing cartoons. I can do eyes like Walt Kelly (the creator of Pogo) and Harvey Comics‘ noses (like the one in the Hot Stuff Devil picture) and women with huge jugs… of moonshine like Al Capp (the creator of Lil’ Abner… and you knew I meant jugs of Kickapoo Joy Juice, right? Surely you did think…)
Ah, but telling funny jokes is not what I do. Still, I believe I can lay claim to being a humorist based on this blog. I make people smirk a lot when I talk, which I take as visual confirmation that I am funny. Unless people are smirking at me for other reasons? Do I have another daddy longlegs spider dancing on my head because at least two of his long legs are tangled in my hair? Really? For the third time already?
But, regardless, I have reason to believe this post and others like it on Friday qualify for the notion of Friday Funnies. I can make myself smirk, guffaw, and sometimes giggle without looking in a mirror to see the spider. But you are welcome to dispute my funniness in the comments if you prefer it to admitting that I can sometimes make you laugh. If you do, then you will be supporting the arguments of the book reviewer who reviewed my book Mickey’s Rememberries and said, “He could be a great writer if only he were more serious/” I took that as a compliment. Irony, don’t ya know.
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