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.

Kinoki Foot Pads

     I’ve always been fascinated when certain words/phrases enter our lexicon.

    NOTE:  Fancy word for “vocabulary.”  You’re welcome.

    From “jump the shark” to “not that there's anything wrong with that',” our vocabulary (simple word for...oh...you get it) is peppered with colorful metaphors, some playful, some profane.

Like "she's got a face like a hat fulla assholes."

    As an example (although I don’t think anyone else uses this particular phrase, but feel free to), I have come to refer to any product which more than likely doesn’t work as advertised as a “Kinoki Foot Pad.”

Says it, among other things, 'maintains beauty.'

Although, I'm thinking this one would need a truckload. 
Even then.

    Some of you out there may know the scam to which I refer.  In the 1980s (if I remember correctly), the Kinoki Corporation (hence the name) hawked what they claimed was a miracle cure sure to cleanse the body of heavy metals and toxins.

    All you needed to do was place a pad on the bottom of each foot and, by morning, you’d peel them off.  You’d know they were working by the dark patches that were left when you woke up.

Seriously, ewwwwwwwww

    Well, that sounded great to me!  After all, who couldn’t use a little bodily cleanse?  You better believe I bought me a set.  Besides, they were advertised on TV and everybody knows that TV doesn't lie!

Although, I suspect that flying nun thing was bullshit.

      NOTE: In the modern era, it’s “Everybody knows the Internet doesn’t lie!”  Same concept, though.

"Bonjour."

    Well wouldn't you know, the Kinoki Foot Pads didn’t work.  My body wasn't cleansed and all I had to show for it were funked up foot pads which I couldn't even sell on Marketplace as religious artifacts.

"Did you try them ?"
"I'm the Almighty.  You really think I'm that stupid?"

     As I soon found out, the Federal Trade Commission penalized Kinoki for running a scam.  Apparently, there was no evidence that these things worked.

    Yes, as advertised, the patches were dark brown at the end of a goodnight’s sleep.  But, this was actually caused by foot perspiration reacting with chemicals in the things (like I said, ewwwwww).

    So, they were ordered to cease and desist from making false claims to dupes.

"Like you."
"Dupe."

    Well, Kinoki was down but not out.  While researching for this post, 

I don't always wing it.
Mostly, though.

I saw that Amazon sells Kinoki Foot Pads.  Except now, instead of purging the body of harsh chemicals, they’re hawking them as being key for helping pain relief and eliminating odor, among other things, like stopping climate change.

"Enough pads at enough shores and we'll stop the oceans from rising. 
Make checks out to me."

    Amazingly, given the reviews, there are quite a few people out there who buy into this snake oil, proving P.T. Barnum’s maxim

"There's a sucker born every minute."

     As for me, I’ve learned my lesson and won’t just buy anything willy-nilly off TV or the Internet just because some Hollywood celebrity or kindly-looking senior citizen say so.

Except this. 
They look so happy.

    I just hope it doesn't wind up being a Kinoki Foot Pad.  Especially since it doesn't go on my feet.

Ring in the New Year

     Believe it or not, I managed to stay awake until midnight last night to watch the ball drop in Times Square.

    Okay, to be honest, I was morbidly curious to watch if there would be any sort of attack on the revelers in New York City.  Thankfully, there was not.

Which is really good, because New York City is going to have enough problems as it is.

     I also stared out of my front door at midnight on December 31st, 1999, to see if Y2K would destroy civilization.  

Mind you, this is for entertainment purposes only, as it's not a picture of me. 
But, it's pretty damn close.

    Also, thankfully, it did not.

    The evening went by pretty uneventfully.  I was asleep before Chicago brought in the new year, amid much celebratory gunfire.

    As opposed to "regular" gunfire.  Or "Saturday night."

    But, I must admit to harboring a pet peeve, though, albeit small and inconsequential in an old man's "get off my lawn!" kind of way. 

    Ryan Seacrist spoke of welcoming the year "Two Thousand Twenty-Six."

    Please, for the love of God, can't we just call it "Twenty Twenty-Six"????  

    I could see using "Two Thousand" from, uh, 2000 to 2010, but we're well past when we should use "Twenty."

"NOW GET OFF MY LAWN!!!"

 

Do You See What I See?

 

And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that....hey!  Wait a frikkin' minute!  WTF is that sailor doing!!??

An Iceland Christmas

     For those of you who haven’t paid attention (or who’ve visited Penwasser Place solely for the kick-ass pictures), my family and I lived at the U.S. Navy air station in Keflavik, Iceland from 2003-2004.

FFS, that was a long-ass time ago.

    The base, opened during World War II, has since returned to the Icelandic government.  I suppose it was felt the money to keep it operating could be better spent elsewhere.  After all, the threat of Viking raids has pretty much petered out. 

    During the short time we were there, we experienced a rich culture.  From ogling New Year’s fireworks displays which were truly “shock and awe” to lolling about geothermal spas in sub-freezing temperatures, we immersed ourselves in all that was Icelandic.

Except that one where they ate rotted sheep heads.
  Yeah, they could keep that one.

    One of our favorite traditions happened at Christmas.  Readily acknowledging Santa Claus as the favorite of children worldwide, 

Brought to you by Coca Cola!

Icelanders add their own unique way of celebrating the run-up to December 25th.  For the thirteen nights prior to Christmas morning, legend has homes visited by the mischievous gnomes known as the Yule Lads.

    From Sheep Worrier to Candle Beggar, each Lad has his own specific identity. 

Luckily, Butt Sniffer didn't make the cut.

     Never malicious or harboring ill-intent, they play tricks on each household, whether by drinking all the milk or rearranging the furniture.  Revealing their softer sides, they also leave presents in children’s shoes, unless they’d been naughty that year.  In that case, they leave Puffin Poop.

    Enchanted by this charming bit of folklore, my wife and I played up the fable of the Yule Lads to our two children.  As December 12th approached, we told them that Stekkjarstaur, the Sheep Worrier, 

Worried that someone will behead his sheep while he's asleep

would surely pay a visit that night.  To be ready, they needed to place one of their shoes on their windowsills so that he could leave them a present.

    Or poop, I kidded my son.

Not funny, dude.

    Several hours after the kids had gone to bed, we set the stage for the first of the Yule Lads’ visits by placing empty milk cartons in the fridge.

    NOTE: I guess he was worried there'd be no milk in the place.  Or headless sheep.  

    Certain the kids were asleep, I stole into their rooms to place small presents in their shoes.

    Our daughter was snoring away-no doubt dreaming of what kind of “loot” she’d get from the little troll that night (and I don’t mean me).  A precocious fourth-grader, she made sure to tell us at dinner that she’d been a great girl that year.  

Hopefully, Stekkjarstaur would be able to fit a puppy in her sneaker.

    One child down, I told my wife I’d place a “Family Size” Snickers in my son’s shoe.

    The base’s apartments weren’t like the typical ones in America.  Everything was so small, I didn’t have room to walk around his bed.  This being the case, I had to stretch clear across where he slept just to reach the windowsill.     

    As I neared his shoe, I heard a voice from out of the darkness,

"That's okay, Dad.  You can turn on the light if you can't see."

    Busted, I quickly dropped the candy into his shoe and fled without a word.

    The next morning at breakfast, I asked my eleven-year-old about the night before.

    “Oh, that,” he said, “I’m too old for that stuff anymore.  Tell you what, just save yourself the trouble and give me my present before I go to bed.”

    Mildly depressed that my little boy was growing up, I said nothing as he headed off to school.

    Before he walked through the door, he called over his shoulder, “Oh, hey, I left something for you and Mom on your nightstand.  See you this afternoon.”

    Shaking off my gloominess, I shuffled into my dollhouse bedroom and saw a piece of paper next to the alarm clock.  It was my son’s Christmas list.

    Starting off with “Dear Santa,” it went on to list, by color, size, and memory storage, everything he wanted to see under the tree come Christmas morning.

    At the bottom, he closed with, “Oh, yeah, just in case, Merry Christmas, Mom and Dad.”

    Or, as they say in Iceland, “Gleδileg Jól.”

2025 Update:  My son now lives in Richmond and is a civil engineer and pilot.  Meaning, he can afford his own damn Snickers.