Put the Tang Back in Orangutang

Ever since Ham the Brave Orangutang went up in his space rocket in 1961 — which was the same year right side up or upside down — we in this country have commemorated his heroism with a daily sunrise glass of Tang, the astronaut’s powdered orange juice. Now some revisionist nuts are trying to rewrite history by claiming Ham was a Chimpanzee. I denigrate their efforts to spoil the proud American tradition of a morning toast of Tang to Ham — Ham the Brave Orangutang.

What do these nutters want to drink at breakfast? Panzee?

Flesh and Bone Should Get Along

Okay, I understand how the skeleton people want to break free from their prisons of flesh and go dancing around. They get tired of working “behind the scenes” as it were, getting no credit for all the support they give. And I understand how the flesh people get tired of the enforced rigidity of their interior partners, tired of having to diet because of “big bones,” tired of hitting their funny bones. I understand. You see, where there is intimacy there is always strife.

But bone people, flesh people, can’t we all just get along? Without sinews, bone people, you will be only a pile of sticks. No dancing for you! Not even rattling. And, flesh people, without bones how will you press the elevator buttons? You could only slap at them like waves on some dark, futile shore.

Automatic Doors Are Cruel

Is it cruel to raise hopes only to dash them? Yes, I say. Yes! Why then do supermarkets — and other large stores — continue to torment us with automatic doors? Why tease us in this way? It seems to me like bad business for these supermarkets — and other large stores — to encourage the illusion that obstacles in your path will somehow magically move to one side as you progress through their premises, when, in point of fact, if you keep striding towards that display table with the pyramid of tangelos, confident that your way will be made smooth — as you have been falsely led to believe by the automatic doors — well, brother, you’re in for a rude awakening.

Sure, doorknobs spread germs, but, blood-soaked tangelos; is that what you want?

Don’t Call Them “Huts”

I went to the mall on Black Friday to do my usual Christmas thing: sunglasses for everybody.  I did not buy them at Sunglass Hut, though. Every year for seventeen years I’ve told the Sunglass Hut opticians that they had better change their name if they wanted my business. I always point out politely, but very firmly, “It’s not a hut! It’s a unit in a mall!” They always promise to fix the name, but when I scouted on Thanksgiving Eve I saw they’d lied again. That does it. I’m putting Sunglass Hut in my red Boycott Book alongside Radio Shack and Pottery Barn.

Pizza Hut, on the other hand: now that’s a hut.

I Understand Jack in the Box

Every eating establishment worthy of the name has a drive-thru now, and so we take that convenience for granted. But how many of us appreciate the fact that it was all started by Jack in the Box? Before there were cars, before there were intercoms, yes, even before electricity had been subdued by Franklin, there were Jacks in the Box. And how do we show our appreciation? With mockery, that’s how! Everyone and his brother and her sister tries to play the wit by mocking the intercoms at Jack in the Box drive thrus as unintelligible.

Well, I’m here to tell all you ingrates that you should be ashamed. I understand Jack in the Box perfectly well. If you don’t you’re just not paying attention.

Flibbertygibbets Are All Right By Me

I’ve had it up to here with all the ignorant denigration of flibbertygibbets. Lay off. I’d like you smarty-pants know-it-alls to tell me where we are going to get our needlework done if you have your way and the flibbertygibbets are ejected from the Public Square. Mount Holyoke?

And another thing, wise guys: if I hear just one more crack about “hobbledyhoys” someone’s going to wake up in the ICU. Now scram.

The Subconscious is Opportunistic

I hate the subconscious mind. It’s cowardly. It waits until you are weak to spring all it’s goofy news on you. It starts yammering all manner of weird nonsense when you are asleep and unable to respond intelligently.

Why can’t the subconcious mind be forthright and just say it to your face?

Google Earth Goes Too Far

Forget asking Google Earth for directions anywhere. You can can count on her — Google Earth is a monstrous female Gorgon — to give you some goofy serpentine route that takes no account of your desire to stop at local hobby shops. That’s a given. But now she’s gone too far with all those “Wrong Way” signs that are popping up all along my path.

The arrogance of Google Earth is astounding. Where does she get off telling me my way is wrong? It’s as though you were browsing in the Talking Bird section of Barnes & Noble and you pick up My Dear Parrot, Ida, but when you flip it open, out pops a red sign saying, “THIS IS NOT THE BOOK YOU WANT.” How could Barnes or Noble be so sure? It just so happens I love that book! So I ignore those Wrong Way signs.

No More Garbage Slurs

Why do we have to call garbage “garbage?” Why kick it when it’s down? It’s bad enough that you’ve taken all the stuff you don’t want anymore and dropped it unceremoniously on the steaming city dump, leaving it exposed to the tender mercies of roving bears and cougars. It feels bad enough already. Why call it names?

Why can’t we just say the stuff has “graduated” or “achieved trancendance?” How would you feel if the Ghost of Christmas Future brought you to your waiting gravesite and you beheld there carved on your tombstone, instead of your name, the single word “Stupid?” That’s how garbage feels.

Semper Ubi INTRA-ubi!

Why do people insist on calling underwear “underwear?” The stuff isn’t “under” you; it’s within your outer clothes. Unless you’re waltzing around the place in your long-johns, in which case it’s not “under” wear or “within” wear, it’s just “wear.”

The sheer arrogance of calling within-wear “under-wear” disgusts me. It’s as if everyone thought they were their own planet and “over” meant “away from my surface,” and “under” meant “towards my center.” Like any person has enough gravity to make even so much as a garbanzo bean orbit him! Dream on!