THINGS THAT ARE DIFFICULT TO SAY WHEN YOU’RE DRUNK:
Indubitably
Innovative
Preliminary
Cinnamon

THINGS THAT ARE VERY DIFFICULT TO SAY WHEN YOU’RE DRUNK:
Specificity
British
Constitution
Passive-aggressive disorder
Loquacious
Transubstantiate

THINGS THAT ARE DOWNRIGHT IMPOSSIBLE TO SAY WHEN YOU’RE DRUNK:
Sorry, but you’re not really my type.
Nope, no more booze for me.
Good evening, officer, isn’t it lovely out tonight?
Oh, I just couldn’t. No one wants to hear me sing!

February birthdays: The candles on your cake provide the séance-like atmosphere that enables you to channel the spirits of Buddy Holly, Richie Valens, and the Big Bopper, who do a birthday tribute to you on The Day Your Youth Died.

ARIES (3/21-4/19): This February proves to be the perfect escape for you, the adventurous Arian. A comet breaks through the earth’s atmosphere, temporarily opening a portal to another world where reality TV shows do not exist.

TAURUS (4/20-5/20): Ask yourself a question during Dump Your Significant Jerk Week: “Out of all the jerks in my life, who is the most significant?” Don’t be surprised if it’s hard to pick just one.

GEMINI (5/21-6/21): You shouldn’t have any problems with Be Humble Day, as you are modest and unassuming by nature. However, be on guard on Charles Dickens Day, when your suppressed memories of slogging through “Great Expectations” in seventh grade come back to haunt you in the form of three ghosts.

CANCER (6/22-7/22): Let go of the past this Don’t Cry Over Spilled Milk Day. There is no whiteout to remove those pictures of you on the Internet. But look on the bright side—not many people will recognize you by that mole on your [censored].

LEO (7/23-8/22): You’ve always thought bigger than most would dare. So, this month, take the creative opportunity to reinvent yourself on Who Shall I Be Day. But, you might not want to try out your new Lambchop persona at your macho buddy’s Super Bowl party.

VIRGO (8/23-9/22): Open your heart this month on Make a Friend Day. Don’t be afraid to show and share your emotional vulnerability, although sobbing on the shoulder of the bagger at the grocery store over the price of kiwi might be going a bit far.

LIBRA (9/23-10/22): Never one to hurt your parents’ feelings, you’ve always shied away from your secret desire to celebrate Get a Different Name Day. But this month, put the niceties aside and meditate until your true name comes to you like a vision of madness, the one name that reflects your alter ego: Snotty Wafflechunks.

SCORPIO (10/23-11/21): Use your dislike of the establishment and convention to promote a little known but monumental cause: Move Hollywood (& Broadway) to Lebanon, Pennsylvania Day. Just imagine the endless opportunities for Amish extras and bologna and Wertz candy product placements!

SAGITTARIUS (11/22-12/21): This month, your optimism comes in handy on Do a Grouch a Favor Day. Do whatever it takes to make a grouch grin. One word of advice, which came to me last night after watching a certain DVD: watching a computer-animated Underdog rap may make a grouch groan.

CAPRICORN (12/22-1/19): This Valentine’s Day, fight your miserly tendencies by giving your sweetie two boxes of candy hearts instead of one. And no, they don’t make dollar-off coupons for a 59-cent box of candy.

AQUARIUS (1/20-2/18): This month, you will experience a disturbing spiritual awakening when Punxsutawney Phil awakens from his winter snooze, pops out of his den, and shares with you the ultimate meaning of life, which will cause you to seek psychological care for an unspecified duration of time.

PISCES (2/19-3/20): This month, allow your kindness to extend to your neighbors. I know you say you’ve celebrated it all along, but I’m afraid you’ve been getting it all wrong. The holiday is, technically, Wave ALL Your Fingers (as in, hello) At Your Neighbors Day…

The Affair
A man walked into a cafe, went to the bar, and ordered a beer. “Certainly, sir, that’ll be one cent.”
“One cent?” the man exclaimed. He glanced at the menu and asked, “How much for a nice, juicy steak and a bottle of wine?”
“A nickel,” the barman replied.
“A nickel?” exclaimed the man. “Where’s the guy who owns this place?”
The bartender replied, “Upstairs, with my wife.”
The man asked, “What’s he doing upstairs with your wife?”
The bartender replied, “The same thing I’m doing to his business down here.” Read the rest of this article »

Inauguration

We’ve voted ourselves a new Prez
and mostly we like what he sez
but what can he do
with a human zoo
of people who think in low-res?

The zoo is, of course, our Congress
unlikely to lose its fondness
for pork over beef
and the firm belief
that others created the mess

“Others,” of course, are all those
in the party which each must oppose
lest the rascals win
raid the money bin
and water their foul-smelling rose

But perhaps this time each will see
the culprit’s not “they,” but is “thee”
thy one-sided ways
instead of forays
onto paths where “they” become “we”

We do know that Spring, Winter, Fall
(and Summer, of course) never stall
for millions of years
they’ve synchronized gears
so that each has its part in the All

So maybe a seasonal way
can replace political fray
and then truly build
a four-season guild
that crafts good tomorrows each day
—Sir Henry de Tunahuna

THE NEW MILITARY

Military experts say that future wars will be fought completely different than any war we’ve ever been involved with in the past. Fighter jets will be unmanned. Cameras will be attached to the jets and people will fly them from the safety of a control station hundreds if not thousands of miles away from the actual battlefield. The “pilot” will navigate their sophisticated planes to the target area, and drop their lethal arsenal with one hand while the other hand is buried in a bag of microwave popcorn.
National defense will be protected the same way. Incoming missiles or aircraft will be blasted out of the sky from someone sitting in an ergonomically approved office chair with his hand on a laser controller that looks very similar to a video game controller. For all he knows, it is a video game. Perhaps the incentive for destroying incoming nuclear missiles is not the satisfaction of saving thousands of lives, but the fact that the “pilot” gets 10,000 bonus points and extra laser power.
Each day I walk into my living room and stare in disbelief at the red-eyed zombie renting out space in my son’s body, playing video games instead of doing his chores, or doing his homework. I used to think, “What a lazy, red-eyed zombie.” Now I look at him with patriotic pride and think, “Keep up the training son. Our country needs you.”

* * *
CHICK MAGNET DAD

A few days ago, my son and I were walking along a street lined with quaint shops and cute girls. I could not believe the looks these girls were giving me as they passed. Some would shoot me a quick glance and smile. Others would perform the equivalent of a full-body MRI on me. Their flirtatious expressions and comments confirmed that they liked what they saw.
And why shouldn’t they? Twenty years ago, their mothers would have given me the same appreciative stares. If their mothers had good taste, it stands to reason that they passed those good-taste genes on to their daughters. Sure, some of them were young enough to be my daughter, but who am I to deprive them of appreciating timeless good looks?
Once we reached the end of the shops, my 19-year-old son leaned over to me and said, “Have you seen the way these girls have been checking me out?” I almost busted my gut laughing, but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Not wanting to ground his soaring self-esteem, I decided to let him think these babes were looking him over instead of his middle-aged, balding, slightly overweight, out-of-style chick magnet of a father.
The sacrifices we make for our kids.

by Akasha Halsey

At a book signing last night, the author mentioned a man who died when he was bumped over the edge of a cliff by a cow. A couple of things came to mind: “Great opening sentence” was one and then I thought, “Now THERE’S a story…” Cliff, edge, man—okay, kinda gets my interest; but add that cow and my mind just starts reeling. Also, it occurred in England, and I admit I don’t always “get” our friends across the pond. Who knows what a man-cow relationship is over there?
I mean, was it a love tap gone wrong or a revenge-filled, I-wish-I-had-a-horn-to-go-with-this-bump kinda thing? Read the rest of this article »

A Brief Memoir by
David Ossman
Founding Member of The Firesign Theatre

Rick Shakespeare, balding and bearded, looking remarkably like his famous ancestor, William, waited for me at the top of the gangplank leading onto his yacht, “Tem-Pest II,” docked at the Monterey Marina. It was a “Da Vinci Code” moment for me, because, on the spanking clean, if inky black vessel there awaited a literary prize that, if genuine, could change the course of Shakespearian scholarship.
Over thirty years ago, while diving off the Bleak Islands, Rick claims to have stumbled over the remains of The Gilded Hind, an Elizabethan craft, lost in a Pacific storm around 1610. Going for the gold, Rick spent months uncovering the remains of the ship.
Read the rest of this article »

The Regift
By Aaron S. Birk

“Revenge (or Regift) is a dish best served cold.” —Edited Sicilian Proverb

Come on, admit it, you’ve done it, and you, dear reader, are guilty as charged. You have repackaged a gift you didn’t really want and given it to someone else! That sinful regifting of an item so hideously boring that you wouldn’t wish it on your worst enemy but yet would gladly repackage for your very best friend.
This is an age-old tradition. A tradition that earlier this past year was perfected into a literal art form by director and full-time math teacher Brant Wilkinson of Pacific Grove, California. In the annals of historical revenge it may not be possible to overcome the savage abuses done to a poor man, Mr. Corren Hileman, and his wife Ronna of Ashland, Oregon. That’s where I come in. Read the rest of this article »

Local Man Seeks Help
Dateline—Monterey, CA

We at Foolish Times interviewed, once again, the venerable local gadfly, Tom Burns. The interview took place outside East Village Coffee Shop. Mr. Burns was in a flower print kimono, making a sidewalk colored-chalk rendering of the Three Stooges. Read the rest of this article »

When I was a boy, I was also a scout. I don’t have a plethora of scout memories, but I do remember Pinewood Derbies.
For those of you who don’t have a clue what I’m referring to, a Pinewood Derby is a car race. The cars are approximately 8 inches in length and are made out of…you guessed it. Pinewood. The race is run on a straight track, and several cars compete at the same time.
Several weeks prior to the race, each scout is handed a bag with the following contents:
1 rectangle block of pinewood
4 plastic wheels
4 nails (wheel axels)
½ sheet of instructions
Each scout would take his trusty pocket knife (in those days, we called them pocket knives because we were actually allowed to carry knives in our pockets), and start whittling away at the block of pinewood.
There are probably thousands of rules and regulations you have to comply with if you want to enter a car in a NASCAR race. In a Pinewood Derby, there are only two rules and regulations you have to meet in order to race.
Rule #1: The racecar has to meet a specific weight limit.
Rule #2: This is a scout project—not a father-of-a-scout project.
By the time each scout removed all of the non-racecar pinewood from the racecar pinewood, there was always a few bloodstains in the wood where the pocketknife accidentally shaved off some non-racecar scout skin.
After the whittling came the sanding. The trick was to remove any obvious chips, nicks, and blemishes that could act as air pockets, that could act as speed inhibitors, that could act as excuses for coming in last place, that could act as reasons for all of the other scouts to ridicule you.
Like most other scouts, before putting blade to wood (and scout skin), I put pencil to paper. I would design the shape, style, color, and paint scheme of my pinewood racecar.
And like most scouts, the actual shape, style, color, and paint scheme of my pinewood racecar turned out slightly different than how it looked on paper; okay, significantly different. But that was okay. There was always a sense of scout pride to do something from start to finish by myself. And while my racecar would never end up in the Boy Scout Pinewood Derby Hall of Fame, I was still confident that it would take less time to travel the length of the racetrack than anyone else’s racecar. Each year, I would reserve a piece of bedroom shelf real estate to display the winning trophy.
The night of the big event would arrive and the first thing most scouts noticed were the scouts/scout fathers who violated Rule #2. It was easy to tell. No blood stains. Some scouts never got to whittle away a single splinter of non-racecar pinewood. Their dad’s would design the shape, style, color, and paint scheme. And if the scout dad was an engineer, he’d take the racecar to work with him and test it in a wind tunnel chamber. Over the years, my pinewood racecars competed against some very aerodynamic racecars with spectacular paint schemes.
At the end of the night there was always one winner and a whole bunch of non-winners. Nobody likes to lose. Even scouts. Scouts are Trustworthy, Loyal, Helpful, Friendly, Courteous, Kind, Obedient, and Cheerful. Thrifty, Brave, Clean, and Reverent. But nowhere in the scout oath does it say anything about being a good sport.
Then one year something incredible happened. I won. It was not my best design. It was not my best whittling job. It was not my best sanding job. It was not even my best paint job. It was obvious to everyone participating that the winning scout’s dad played no active, or even consultant’s role in the development and construction of the winning racecar. It was definitely a scout-only effort. I don’t know who was more surprised when I took home the trophy—my bedroom shelf or me.
So here’s the deal about Pinewood Derbies. They’re as much about life as they are about racing.
* I am a block of pinewood. I am responsible for whittling away the “non-me” part of the pinewood, and leaving only the “me” part.
* Occasionally each of us wins a race, but most of the time we don’t. Sometimes we start strong. Sometimes we finish weak. Sometimes we don’t even make it out of the starting gate. Some people win even though they don’t even try. Some people finish last, even though they try very hard. Not winning can either motivate or debilitate. Our choice.
* A trophy will tarnish over time, unless it is won unfairly. Then it starts out tarnished, and remains that way forever.
* The only true losers are those who choose to stay in their bag—unwhittled, unsanded, and unpainted.
***
Check out L. Dustin Twede’s website at www.ldustintwede.com. He can be reached at ddtwede@yahoo.com.

Dating vs. Relationships By Giosue’ Santarelli

Aside from the obvious perks of having a long-term steady significant other, there is an advantage to such dedicated lifestyles.
Sure, you have to deal with your partner’s family, mother-in-law, and strange Uncle Carl, but the sacrifice is worth it when you consider that having a steady partner is a great benefit. Besides, they’ve never been able to convict Carnal Carl of anything even though he looks like Tom the Peeper.
In this partnering mode you don’t have to worry about feeding yourself, cleaning the house, or going on annoying blind dates. Constant whoopee happens by itself on a schedule from the gods. In the beginning of a long-term relationship there is blissful agile romping with the help of Cupid (actually it is something akin to chipmunk-paced interludes that are obscured by the fact that both people are usually drunk). Then substantial time passes, and you come to realize that you’re never alone. Even bathroom time is a challenge when you share space! Read the rest of this article »

Blue

Slips of paper have been appearing on our living room wall. I ignored them at first, but they keep appearing. Sometimes there are four, sometimes three, sometimes only one. But they all have two things in common: 1) none of them ever stays up for more than a day, and 2) they’re all shades of the color blue.
It’s either a natural phenomena—in which case I have a whole lot to learn about physics, or biology, or whatever science deals with paper spontaneously appearing on walls—an unnatural phenomena involving oozing space monsters, or my wife wants to paint our living room.
I can only assume that whatever is causing this likes blue.
I asked my wife and unfortunately a blue paper-excreting monster from Venus is not loose in our living room, damn it. She wants to paint.
Excuse me, typo. I meant: Damn it, she wants to paint.
Sure, just painting a living room sounds innocent enough (a little taping off here, a little spackling there), but so did the German invasion of Belgium to start World War I (a little machine gun fire here, a little mustard gas there). I think that war started when Kaiser Wilhelm II’s wife wanted to paint the living room blue. The war was less trouble.
Read the rest of this article »

Sacking the SuperBowl
By Sheila Moss

The SuperBowl is a media event that includes pre-game entertainment, a star-studded half-time show, celebrity interviews, a week of media blitz, and unprecedented commercial extravaganza. There is also a football game.
The SuperBowl hype starts weeks early so that everyone can have an opportunity to stock up on beer, snacks, and T-shirts with the name of their favorite team or player. A few people actually watch it to see the football game, but most people watch primarily to see the newly produced commercials. The SuperBowl attracts a larger viewing audience than any other television program.
Because it is a prime time sporting event, the SuperBowl is considered family entertainment. People complain actively when they think prime time programming is not suitable for children, which make sponsors nervous. People do not complain about violence in football, however, especially if a member of the opposing team is being sacked.
The reason that people like to watch the SuperBowl on television is because they cannot get tickets to the game. Tickets are distributed by a lottery method and not through regular ticket agents. However, tailgate parties are not allowed on SuperBowl parking lots, and that’s the main reason for going to an actual game anyhow.
Companies spend millions of dollars to sponsor commercials during the SuperBowl because of the large audience watching. This is another one of the reasons why the SuperBowl is considered important. It promotes crass commercialism and is good for the American economy.
SuperBowls are popular for a number of reasons, but women like them mainly because they signal the end of the football season, which means husbands can return to doing activities other than spending the weekend in front of the television set. Parents like the SuperBowl because it teaches children valuable lessons they can use later in life, like how to read Roman numerals and how to tackle other kids on the playground.
Some people attend SuperBowl parties to watch the game with friends. Such parties are especially popular with members of fantasy football leagues. Playing fantasy football is a new macho pastime whereby league members pick players from various teams to form an imaginary team. Scoring is based on points for yards run, passes completed, and touchdowns scored. Only a computer can understand who actually wins.
The SuperBowl traditionally uses Roman numerals for naming the games. We are not sure why but think it has something to with gladiators and stadiums. They do not use Roman numerals for scoring, thank goodness. Even a computer could not figure that out.
The media hype starts even before the final two teams that will play in the SuperBowl have been determined. The SuperBowl winners receive rings that cost $5,000 each and a $25,000 trophy for the team. The losers receive jewelry too. Women do not receive rings or trophies for putting up with a season of football.
The SuperBowl is held in various cities, which bid on the opportunity to have it because of the publicity and the tourism that it creates. It used to be held at the last of January, but lately it has been on the first week of February instead. The reason it was moved to February is because this is closer to Valentine’s Day and gives men the opportunity to buy something romantic for the woman in their life to try to make up for ignoring them for seven months.
The main thing to remember about the SuperBowl is that there is actually a football game involved. Promoters are working hard on eliminating that distraction and just going to four quarters of prime time commercials with media blitz, pre-game activities, and an extravagant halftime show.
Sheila Moss, Humor Columnist
www.humorcolumnist.com

Love, Regifted
by Mary Tompsett

Deep within the cold, bleak heart of February lurks the feast of St. Valentine. According to legend, Val’s cryptic signature of “Veal sinneth” was decoded centuries later to “St. Valentine” by a dyslexic Hallmark copy editor.
Ever notice that our ideas of what’s “attractive” can change? In the old days I fell for bedroom eyes and Brut cologne. Lately, I lust for a big rack of bedroom ears. I mean, somebody’s got to hear the damn alarm! My keen tactile senses still detect snoring, so I’m also smitten by bedroom lips. No, not Elvis lips. QUIET ones. Preferably, duct-taped until he wakes up.
Read the rest of this article »

Sleeping with Dogs
By Robyn Justo

Call me the Beastmistress.
I had a few strange pets when I was growing up. I preferred the non-domesticated ones like wild cats and ducks. I would make my Dad pick up wounded birds and put them in shoeboxes and beg him to catch squirrels too. And of course I had some normal animals, two dogs (one that my Dad drove up to the mountains and let go without telling me one day) and a cat (which my Mother ran over, but didn’t tell me about until I was 31).
Read the rest of this article »

A Heart Torn Asunder

I had just finished watching a PBS special, Raging Torrents of Black and White: When Good Pandas Go Bad, and noticed Rex was sitting in the kitchen looking at his empty food bowl.
“Oh, rats, Rex, we used the last of your food this morning. Let’s hop on down to Ocean View Veterinarian Clinic and get you some more. Maybe Dr. Kocher will give you a treat! Grab your coat and hat and let’s go!” Of course the words meant nothing to him, but when I whispered “car-car,” he ran in circles at the jingle of the truck keys.
Read the rest of this article »

A couple years ago I did a story on a musician named Randy Constan who is in reality Peter Pan. Hey, if he isn’t the real Peter Pan, he wouldn’t have a website that draws millions of visitors and that helps children in need with donations, and he wouldn’t be a guest on TV talk shows.
Looking at my life as I have, and all the past disasters I’ve experienced, I’ve come to the firm conclusion:
I’M ONE OF THE LOST BOYS. In the Peter Pan story.
Read the rest of this article »