Penwasser History-Happy Presidents Day!

 

Won't get mail today.  Or do business at the bank.  Most of you will have to go to work, too. 
Except me.  I'm retired. 
Suck it.

WARNING: The following contains some truths, half-truths, and outlandish points of conjecture.  Students are therefore urged to not quote any of the below for scholarly research.  Unless you don't live in the United States.  Then, who cares?  Like anyone is gonna know the difference.

NOTE:  Some of this is a repost from last year.  Not all of it.  But some.  Gotta write some of my book, don'tcha know. Because this Blogger gig doesn't pay shit.  Come to think of it, neither do my books.   

******** 

    As I perused Twitter

"It's X!"

whatever, and Threads, the more liberal (relatively) version of Twitter,

"X!"

Seriously, weird dude, give it a rest.  

Anyway, I read posts from a few people calling to ignore Presidents Day because it will celebrate a particular someone.

"I think he means me. 
Although I am the better reincarnation of Lincoln. 
Without the beard."

This was blasted by others who said the day was meant to celebrate George Washington.  Another said, "NO!  It's to celebrate Abraham Lincoln!"

Meaning, they'll argue about anything.

Even though I'd bet I'm more politically aligned with those guys, rather than the one calling for a nationwide boycott, I had to set them straight. 

So, without further adieu...    

    Until recently, there was no such thing as “Presidents” Day.  Rather, we celebrated “Lincoln’s Birthday” on February 12th and “Washington’s Birthday” on February 22nd.  What’s more, these were one shot deals, instead of the three day weekend we now observe.    

"One shot?  More than a little insensitive, wouldn't you say?"

    But, now we have Presidents Day instead of two separate holidays.  Created to make room for the Martin Luther King, Jr. Birthday holiday (no sense giving mailmen too many days off), Presidents Day was meant to commemorate both our 1st and our 16th presidents.  And sales on cars, sheets, and living room furniture.

    So as not to offend either the Washington or Lincoln camps (boy, don’t get those two together in the same room!), Presidents Day was set in the middle of their birthdays.  Or the third Monday in February.  Or whichever made for the better three-day weekend.

    As time wore on, Presidents Day transformed into a day to celebrate all of our nation’s chief executives, even the sucky ones.

"You take that back."

    To be sure, there are plenty of obscure stiffs from which to choose, guys who could be genuine stumpers in Trivial Pursuit.  In fact, were it not for their bosses catching cold at inauguration, having one heck of a tummyache, being assassinated, being the second assassinated president, dropping dead of heart failure, or resigning, we probably would never have heard of Tyler, Andrew Johnson, Arthur, Coolidge, or Ford.

NOTE:  Two more presidents were, tragically, assassinated while in office.  But, I'm sure (unless you went to a Somalian High Skool), you've heard of Theodore Roosevelt and Lyndon B. Johnson.

"Who?"

     So, today I choose to talk about one of the lesser-known men to live rent-free at the White House. 

"What?"

   A man who was legendary in the Whig Party.

"Not wig?"

  A man who put the needs of his fellow citizens before his own.  A man whose hard work paid off handsomely.  A man who had the fortune of being Vice-President when Zachary Taylor died of a stomach-ache in 1849:  Millard Fillmore, 13th President of the United States.

"Kind of a big deal when you put it like that, huh?"

    Millard Fillmore was the last man to occupy the presidency who was neither a Democrat nor Republican.  Meaning he wasn't a batshit-crazy partisan.

"YOU'RE FIRED!"

     When we examine his accomplishments, we can clearly see...

    Oh, wait, I know.  He was a big proponent behind the Compromise of 1850, an attempt to forestall the coming civil war.  But, uh, part of that compromise included the Fugitive Slave Act which expedited the return of escaped slaves to their masters.

     Fillmore failed to secure the nomination of the Whig Party for presidency in 1852 because he sucked reasons.  He then joined the newly-formed Know-Nothing Party.

"Big fan.  No joke."

    That party went nowhere.  Which generally happens when you don't know anything.

"I'll bet they did't even know where Aleppo was, either."
NOTE:  this is an old joke, dating back to the election of 2016. 
Eventually, no one will know what I'm talking about.   

    They faded into obscurity.  A fate avoided by Millard Fillmore.  At least he became a punchline.

    And wasn't responsible for preventing the Civil War. 

"Just can't let that go, huh?"

       

The Unfunny Marx

    Prior to his death in 1977, legendary comedian, Groucho Marx was interviewed about the brothers who formed the wildly popular comedy troupe.

    "Well, of course, Harpo and Chico were hilarious. I could never have done half of what I did without them. Zeppo was a handsome straight man who played romantic-like roles in several of our pictures. Gummo was kind of a goof who wouldn't know a joke if it hit him in the skull. Our oldest brother, Karl, on the other hand, was an unfunny block of wood who never shaved. We stopped inviting him to family picnics after he insisted the ants be invited. 'To each according to his needs, from each according to his means.' What horseshit. That stiff wouldn't even bring a bag of chips to 4th of July barbecues."

 

"I am sooo not an unfunny block of wood. I know plenty of jokes!

Knock, knock

Who's there?

Bolshe.

Bolshe who?

Bolshevik.

Thank you. I'm here 'til Thursday. No. Wait. No, I'm not. I'm dead."

Public Service Announcement

 Public Service Announcement to this Public Service Announcement:  as is my wont, only half of what you will read below is true.  It's up to you to disseminate truth from fiction.  Hey, your education is not up to me.  Besides, why the hell are you coming to Penwasser Place to learn anything anyway?

   

Okay, I'm using a picture from the last post. 
Sue me.

    It’s taken me a couple weeks to get over being violated during my colonoscopy (if you’d like to punish yourself, feel free to read the post before this, “Journey to the Center of my Bowels.”  I won’t stop you).

    Since I can finally look myself in the mirror without sobbing or feeling "cheap,” 

"You get used to it."

I decided I should write once more. After all, it’s the least I could do for the two faithful readers of this blog.

    NOTE:  Since a small polyp (and Jimmy Hoffa.  A joke made in my last post.  Once again, sue me) was found in my colon, I have to undergo another butt “look-see” seven years hence.  Of course, that would make me 74 by then, so the joke may be on them.

Wait.  Hang on.  That's not funny.

    A thought has been nagging at me for several years and has been a bit of a pet peeve.    And that is the name of the mascot for the United States Forestry Service.  The mascot’s name is “Smokey Bear.”  No middle name.  Just “Smokey Bear.”

    Yet, some people mistakenly insist on calling him “Smokey the Bear.” (italics, and old man cranky, are mine).  You wouldn’t call him “Bugs the Bunny” or “Mickey the Mouse,” would you?

Or "Donald the Pantsless Duck"

    So, it is with “Smokey Bear.”

   Yes, yes, there is such a thing as “Felix the Cat.” 

But he is an outlier

     Seriously, though, how many of the two of you remember there was even such a character?  Or a “Betty the Boop”?

Fun Fact: Aunt Bethany from Christmas Vacation was the voice of Betty Boop. 
No shit.
Boop boop a doop 

    Well, since I brought up "Smokey," a brief history....

Not learning

 

"Learing!"

    The concept of using a bear cub mascot occurred during World War II, to raise awareness that careless acts could cause woodlands to catch fire.  In fact, the very first slogan, coined in 1944, was, “Smokey Says-Care Will Prevent 9 of 10 Forest Fires and Kill Every Jap.”

    Since it was deemed a tad insensitive, the “Jap” reference was expunged and the new slogan became the familiar “Only You Can Prevent Forest Fires.”  This slogan persisted throughout our childhood and was finally replaced in 2001 with “Only You Can Prevent Wildfires.”  This was designed so people would know that it's not just forests that catch fire.

Also created with the coming of Gavin Newsom. 
Coincidence?

    The very first real live Smokey was a small black bear cub found and adopted after a forest fire.

"Bear of Color bear cub.  Amirite?"

   His first name was "Hotfoot Teddy."  However, following a lawsuit by the jazz musician, "Athlete Foot Theodore," it was changed to "Smokey."

    Smokey became a big celebrity and was even paired with a female named “Goldie Bear” in some sort of effort to produce an offspring. 

  Unfortunately, attempts at an Ursine Wild Thing were thwarted when a young college student named Bill Clinton, accompanied by a female Gollum, scaled the fence of their enclosure with a camera.

"PFFTTT! You girls are more interesting, anyway.  Smile!"

    Smokey passed away in 1976 after a honey overdose.  Goldie carried on, but never remarried.  No bear could ever live up to her beloved “Smokes,” she maintained.    

    After which she mauled some campers.

"Hey, bears gotta bear, yo."

    FULL DISCLOSURE:  Despite his real name being Smokey Bear, the name "Smokey the Bear" has been perpetuated in popular culture. Steve Nelson and Jack Rollins’ song “Smokey the Bear" has been covered by the group Canned Heat among others. The track is on their CD The Boogie House Tapes 1969–1999.

    Those people are wrong.  

"I know what my name is!  Dopers."

"Allegations made in this post have zero basis in fact.  
They are for entertainment use only."

      I certainly hope so.  

    Don't make me write another colonoscopy post.

       

 

Journey To the Center of My Bowels

 NOTE:  The following is a repost.  While I tried to avoid foisting reruns on the two of you (okay, that's that's a lie), occasionally something strikes me as funny enough to merit another "Look-See" (incidentally, that phrase will pop up again).  So, without further adieu... 

    A long time ago, in a medical clinic far away*…

    One of the benefits of turning 50 was that, besides grey hair sprouting from my nose, needing Pepsi to burp, and developing toenail fungus known as “Old Man Toe,” I got a chance to feel what it’s like to spend some time in a Turkish prison.

I don't care if teenagers make fun of me. 
The way I see it, I'm doing them a kindness.

    The word “colonoscopy” is Greek in origin.  Its entomology (no, wait a minute, that’s the "study of insects."  I meant ‘etymology’-I can never get those straight) derives from “colonos” which means “butt” and “scopy” which means “look see.”  (NOTE: Told ya).

Not to be confused with "Entenmannology," or "Study of Coffee Cakes."

    As befits my advancing years, I was treated to the full Monty (coincidentally, the doctor’s actual name) a few years ago. 

Coincidentally, the doctor's name

  I feel sorry for the poor guys on Obamacare.  They only get a “semicolonoscopy.” 

    The day before, I was directed to drink a couple bottles of what’s called Fleet Phospho Soda.  This, once again, is a Greek term meaning “Ass Rocket Fuel.”  Boy, howdy, does that stuff work!  I haven’t felt that emotionally attached to my lavatorial facilities since my surgery in 1988 (some things I'll leave to your imagination).

    Anyway, I felt like one of those water rockets we bought as kids.  Remember those?  

You know the kind I mean.

    I could never predict when it was time for, uh, Old Faithful to erupt (so to speak).  Needless to say, I left my white pants in the closet with the rest of my Miami Vice wardrobe.

    Falling asleep was an adventure.  Luckily for me (and my terrified wife), my own personal levees weren’t breached during the night.  Although, by the time I woke up, I was so full that I felt like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade balloon.

Like this one

    Throughout the day, I had to fast (which was pretty easy since I’m ‘half-fast’, anyway).

  Although I couldn’t stray too far from my bathroom because, whenever I had to, uh, you know, I had to, uh, you know.  Thank goodness I had plenty to read.  Plus, that handheld Yahtzee was a godsend.

    No one will ever want to use it again, though.

    I grew so famished throughout the day that I started licking the Sunday paper ads for Burger King.

    Finally, my wife drove me to the rather unfortunately named “Dr. Mengele Center for Endoscopic Surgery-Sponsored by BEANO!”

    After checking in, I was wheeled into the prep room where I had to disrobe and asked if I had gone to the bathroom.  Ya know, not for nothin’, wouldn’t it have been better to ask before I took my clothes off?  That way, if I hadn’t used the bathroom, I wouldn’t have had to parade naked through the waiting room.

    Oh, and incidentally, I thought it was odd that it was the janitor who asked me to disrobe.

    The nurse (recently laid off from Verizon) explained what was going to happen.  My eyes grew wide when she showed me a picture of the “instrument.” 

    Good grief and all that's holy, they were going to shove a piece of PVC pipe so far up the exit that I was going to be a piñata for a sadist.

    I was told my ass would be filled with air and that I was encouraged to fart when I was done.

Not wanting to waste it, though, I'm going to wait until church
and then make a joyful noise unto the Lord!

"You ever see him in Church?"
"Not since the 70's, no."
"Just as well, since he plans on farting."
"Then he can sit in his own pew."

    As they wheeled me into the operating room, I reminded them if they found any cave paintings they were the property of the Smithsonian Institution.

    I was told I’d be so pumped full of drugs, I wouldn’t feel a thing.  I informed the “Butt People” that, since that was the case, they could do whatever they want.  I wish I hadn’t told them that though.

Because I'm afraid I'm going to be on You Tube.
With chimps.

      Luckily, everything turned out great.  They did find a polyp

And Jimmy Hoffa

which they cut out.  I plan on having it bronzed (the polyp, not Jimmy Hoffa).

"That's right, Sean.  We plan to enter Mr. Lynch's ass as evidence
 if we decide to prosecute the notorious Union Boss.  Or not.  Who knows?"

    So, that’s my story.  As you can see, everything went well for the most part.  Even better, I don’t have to lick the paper anymore.

    But, I’ll never look at my garden hose the same way again.

*my first colonoscopy was in Pennsylvania.  I am now in Virginia.  My butt is still the same, though.