squirrelking.com

Mr. Noah Webster,
spelling reformer, word monkey and child actor (retired)
c/o the afterlife

Dear Mr. Webster,

I’m very sorry to hear that you’re still dead. I had an excellent idea today, and I wanted to share it with you. It a word thing.

Here’s the gist:

First, I will list the 70,000 words I’ve had to invent over the years to fill the gaps you left in the English language. This list of fake words will include such favorites as Neurotica, and Lambatomy and Passhole. When the list is complete, I will make and eat a chicken sandwich. After the sandwich (ATS), I’ll jot down meanings for each of the fake words I listed before my sandwich break. That should take me right up to dinner time. Since this paragraph is already running long, I’ll have my summer intern, Rosemary Chickenbreasts, arrange my fake words in alphabetical order while I prepare dinner. Finally, I’ll stuff the words, definitions and perhaps a few bits of mustard into a big compendium of fake words called a “Fictionary.”

Send me a message if you dig it, Noah.

P.S.: I enjoyed your TV program.

While taking a tour of Fenway Park on Thursday, a middle school student from Connecticut was attacked by a red-tailed hawk. Team officials told reporters that the bird was protecting its nest, which was installed above the press booth during off-season ballpark renovations. Some eyewitnesses, however, dispute the official explanation.

“It wasn’t a random attack,” said Joe from Bristol, a Sox fan and tour chaperone. “Come on, man, the kid’s name is Alexa Rodriquez. Do I have to friggin’ spell it out for you?”

Sox fans are often ridiculed for their obsession with curses and conspiracy theories. Even so, one may reasonably question some aspects of the “nest defense theory.” For instance, with so many students to choose from, why did the vengeful raptor single out the namesake of a hated Yankee rival? I mean, what are the freakin’ odds, man? Come on!

According to Joe from Bristol, little A-rod was a marked girl. “I don’t care if they sic a freakin’ pterodactyl on me,” Joe said. “I’m just tellin’ it like it is.” The other tour chaperones, many of whom are parents of students, were reluctant to back Joe’s story. The parents of Annie Pettitte, Derika Jeter, Maryanne Rivera and Becky “F***ing” Dent declined numerous interview requests.

You have survived another blog software upgrade. Now you can engage in many new and exciting blog-related acitivities. Unfortunately, I do not know what any of these activities are. Not yet, anyway. Since I know you all look to me for leadership in new-and-exciting-blog-related-activities area, I will do some research and get back to you at my earliest convenience. If I get back to you sooner than that, it will be at my earliest inconvenience.

Thank you. Get back to work.

Last Saturday night, at General Yee’s Olde Tavern, I ran into a guy I hadn’t seen for a year or two. Guy saw me wandering around, zombie-like. He hailed. “Hey,” he said, “how you been? I haven’t seen you in a year, maybe two.” (Obviously, Guy had not read the first part of this paragraph.)

I said, “I haven’t seen me either. In fact, I was just looking for myself.”

Guy said, “Ha!”, and then he pointed at his girlfriend, who was also saying, “ha!” Guy said, “this is my girlfriend, Whosit.” He looked at Whosit, who was no longer saying “ha,” and he looked back at me, and I could tell that he was trying to remember my name. “Whosit,” said he, “this is . . .”

There was a brief pause, and then Guy said “Ken,” and I said “John.”

Whosit said, “Soooooo, which is it, Ken or John?”

Guy looked at me. “I thought your name was Ken,” he said.

Not knowing how to delicately sidestep the awkward social situation, I said, “Well, my name used to be Ken, but now it’s John.”

Whosit and Guy said, “Ha!”

Before her 11:00 a.m. hair-poofing appointment, my elderly mother and I strolled through Sears. We saw only one other customer. He was standing in the aisle between Electronics and Appliances, and he was so still, I nearly mistook him for a mannequin.

Perhaps I should have suspected mischief. I mean, how often do you see a mannequin in Electronics or Appliances? How often do you see a petrified customer? But I was not alarmed. If a customer had been petrified in Sears, then surely there was a reasonable explanation. Maybe he was struggling with a difficult decision — should he buy the pacific blue Kenmore Elite King-Size Front Load Washer or the Hitachi 50-inch Plasma HD1080 Television? My friends, we have all done battle in the retail arena. Which of us has never been paralyzed by indecision?

The elderly mother and I walked blithely on. When we were about five feet away from Mannequin Man, he started ranting. Apparently, he was motion-activated.

“When you reach a roadblock,” he said, “you MUST seek alternate routes! There are always alternate routes, and you MUST seek them when you reach a roadblock! If the alternate routes are also blocked, then you must seek alternate alternate routes! There is a way around every roadblock!”

Mannequin Man followed us with his eyes as we stepped carefully around him.

The elderly mother glanced over her shoulder and quickened her pace. “Oh, dear,” she said.

“Hey, lady, don’t run from the truth” I said. “Hey, lady, wait up!”

“He’s crazy,” she whispered.

“Maybe he is,” I said. “Or maybe he’s an omniscient commentator.”

“Eh? Is that like a store greeter or something?”

“Nope. It’s more like the chorus in Greek tragedy. That guy is probably trying to reinforce the moral of our particular shopping story.”

“Which is?”

“Don’t be discouraged by obstacles. Don’t let anything stand between you and big poofy hair.”

I’m in the driveway,
shoveling snow, sleet and rain . . .
Stirring a slurpee

String beans, potato balls, Purina Monkey Chow . . . ooh, and one angry old woman who swears in Italian.

Well, hello, fine female-person. I was so busy with my grocery list, I didn’t see you there. Come in, come in! Have you been waiting long? You have? Well, I apologize, and I promise that I’ll never keep you waiting again. Oop, hang on a sec. . . .

One personal-sized Christmas tree (trimmed), a wool hat with ear flaps, a secret freckle . . . there! If I don’t write these things down immediately, they go right out of my head.

So where were we? The Superbowl? Yes, as a matter of fact I did watch the Superbowl this year. I watched it at the Old Same Place. The crowd went wild when that Giant caught a wobbly pass right on top of his head. Amazing! I saw a seal do that with a beach ball once, but not during a football game. Wazzat? Oh, no, don’t feel sorry for Tom Brady. When the game ended, Tom limped home to Gisele Bundchen. Hmm . . . when those two are alone, do you think Gisele teaches Tom how to catch satin babydoll teddies on top of his head? I certainly hope so. The right foot may not be the only appendage Tom Brady keeps in a brace, if you catch my drift.

Hey, are you going to be here for a while? You are? Don’t move a fine female muscle. I’ll be right back.

Post-it notes, plastic hula girls, White Hut caramelized onions. . . .

Okay, I’m back, and I have a confession to make. One time, when I was unhappy, I ate chocolate truffles and drank red wine while sitting in a bath tub. Of course the tub was filled with water, baby . . . kripes. What? No, I am not a girl. Maybe if I had placed smelly candles around the edge of the WATER-FILLED tub, or if I had added scented Bubble Bath to the water before diving in . . . maybe then you’d have a point. But there were no smelly candles — neither bayberry, nor gardenia, nor white ginger — and the only bubbles floating in my WATER-FILLED tub were squirrel-made gas bubbles.

Hey, where’d you go? What did I say? Was it the gas thing?

And last but not least, Beano.

In the autumn of 1965, the University of Florida’s head football coach asked Dr. Robert Cade why Gators players never “wee-wee” after games. This simple, yet disturbing question changed Dr. Cade’s life forever. It lit the Bunsen burner of science beneath his personal pan-sized Petri dish of curiosity. Before he left the football field that day, Dr. Cade promised the coach and players that he would work tirelessly, selflessly, and he wouldn’t stop working until the wee-wee problem was solved.

No, he wouldn’t even stop for a pee break.

After weeks of exhaustive research, Dr. Cade concluded that blocking, tackling and ass-patting caused football players to perspire, and that the process of perspiration caused players to leak water. Through the hot summer days, Dr. Cade worked to end perspiration. Late in 1965, he invented “antiperspirant.” While this generally improved the smell of Gators football players, it did not stop the leakage.

In January, 1966, Dr. Cade abandoned his experiments in fluid retention and focused instead on fluid replacement. With the help of his faithful pet alligator, Samantha Letherpants, Cade concocted a greenish-yellow cocktail loaded with carbohydrates, electrolytes and Siberian vodka. He named the product Gatorade and rushed it into clinical trials.

Early test subjects complained that formulation tasted like pee, and the inventor agreed.

“I guzzled it and I vomited,” Cade said. “It did taste like pee, gator pee, to be specific. Not that I know what gator pee tastes like. Samantha and I don’t have that kind of relationship . . . cough.”

To improve the taste of Gatorade, Dr. Cade infused it with fresh local huckleberries. He named this new flavor “Urinberry.” And with this stroke of marketing genius, the sports drink market was born.

The polar bear is a dangerous and unpredictable predator, but it is not nearly as unpredictable as the bi-polar bear.

On the campaign trail, I often speak of “the two Americas.” No, not North and South America. Not Right and Left America. I speak of those at cocktail parties, but on the campaign trail, I speak of the other two Americas.

My friends, we are a country divided. We are not divided by 3 or by 4 or by the square root of your mama’s hypotenuse; we are divided by 2. Today, half of America believes that Chuck Norris is the deadliest man in the land, and the other half believes that “The Hoff” is the nation’s baddest bad-ass. This great debate pits brother against brother, sister against sister, weird uncle against third cousin once removed. It tears at the fabric of our lives like an angry crocodile in a Brazilian Supermodel’s lingerie drawer.

Where did this terrible schism begin? For years, Mr. Norris and Mr. The Hoff were coequal superpowers of primetime television whoop-ass. And then one night, The Hoff drank too many Fogcutters, talked too much smack, and got his ass kicked by an angry cheeseburger. A shocked America watched the video on YouTube. (If you missed it, it’s the one in which a bleary-eyed, slurring Hoff rolls around like an otter and then eats lettuce, tomato and onion off of his bathroom floor. I’ll have one of my interns post a link for you.)

The video was a tragic blow to the Hoff’s career — more tragic than Baywatch, even — but not everyone saw it exactly the same way. Where most viewers saw sad vulnerability, the Norris campaign team saw joyful opportunity. Just days after the YouTube posting, Mr. Norris told Neal Disputo of Fox News that The Hoff would be easy prey for any sissy-pants, sally-boy Kung Fu master who might happened along . . . Chuck Norris, for example.

Hoff’s agent fired back. “Right now,” she said, “my client is like Sylvester Stallone at the beginning of the first Rocky film — socially dysfunctional, drunk, addicted to junk food — but before you know it, he’ll be running stadium steps, doing push-ups with a Pontiac Firebird on his back, and causing a ruckus in the ladies’ locker room at Wimbledon.”

“And besides,” she added, “that cheeseburger was much tougher than it looked.”

So, my fellow Americans, we are called upon to make a difficult choice. We must decide which of these legendary bad-asses is baddest. But how can we fairly weigh their many pros and cons? Clearly, Mr. Norris has a quickness advantage. Some say he’s so quick, he can run around the world and punch himself in the back of the head. But The Hoff is as cunning as Richie Cunningham. While Chuck is wasting all that time and energy running around the world, the Hoff will surely be lying in wait, gathering strength, gnawing a Fixins Bar tomato slice into the shape a ninja throwing star.

The way I see it, this thing could go either way. So why take sides? Why don’t we just sit this one out . . . you know, remain above the fray? Heck, let’s skip the fray entirely and remain in the punchbowl. Somethings are worth standing up for — that’s true — but other things are worth sitting down for! As John Adams famously said, “United we stand, divided we sit!” My fellow Americans, today we must sit!

Is there anything else we can do here? I mean, anything other than blogging?

While doing play-by-play commentary for the World Series game on Wednesday, Joe Buck’s Giant Head said, “Jeff Francis doesn’t feel the cold tonight. He’s a Canadian, and Canadians are part Yeti.” I am paraphrasing, of course. Joe Buck’s Giant Head used many, many more words to express this theory.

Since the Fox Sports broadcast team occasionally makes statements which are not firmly grounded in science, I asked several REAL CANADIANS FROM CANADA the following two questions:

1. Are you impervious to the cold?

2. Have you or any of your ancestors ever had sex with a Yeti?

In each case the answers were the same: yes and no.

My friends, REAL CANADIANS FROM CANADA do not lie, not even about sexual encounters with furry mythical beasts. Therefore, I conclude that Joe Buck’s Giant Head deliberately overstated the “Yeti factor” in order to ratchet up the hype and boost ratings. Although his theory did correctly identify Canadian cold-imperviousness, it failed to explain why Canadians from all provinces are impervious, and not just those living in the Yeti-dominated Province of Sasquatchewan.

Yesterday, as I was preparing to drive from Point A to Point X, a thoughtful person said to me, “watch out for falling leaves and bears.” That was good advice. The world is a risky place, and falling bears and leaves are only two of the many hazards faced each day by hard-working, laterally-moving people like you and me. Consider the following:

A leaf falling at maximum velocity and at just the right angle will, under certain circumstances, leave a noticeable scratch on your automobile’s fine glossy finish. This is what we call “cosmetic damage.” A bear falling from the same height will put a serious crimp in one or more of your automobile’s crumple zones. We call this “structural damage.”

To understand why a falling bear is more dangerous than a falling leaf, visualize Sir Isaac Newton sitting under his apple tree, watching a bear fall on your car. The force of attraction between the bear and the car is called “gravity,” and Isaac Newton was the smart guy who invented this force. Mr. Newton came from family of clever inventors. As you undoubtedly know, Isaac’s great-great-grandson Wayne invented the casino and the pencil-thin mustache. Wayne’s grandson, Eddie “Tootin’” Newton, invented the Ding King Twist-A-Dent (as seen on TV), which is a useful remedy for most leaf, twig and small meteorite damage.

Hallo, my little liebchens.

Today we will learn the difference between “Schadenfreude” and “Sigmund Freud.” First you will memorize my definitions, and then, as a reward for your hard work, you will be severely disciplined. (Listen up, naughties, I’m talking to you.)

Schadenfreude — malicious enjoyment of the suffering of others.

Sigmund Freud — Austrian psychiatrist who maliciously enjoyed the suffering of others.

Next week we will learn the definition and proper pronounciation of Dasuniversumisteineichhörnchen. Spank you all very much. Class dismissed.

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Thank you all for your support, and always remember the sage advice of my great uncle Alabaster, who said, “Boy, when someone asks your name, try to sound like you know the answer!”

Are you a middle-management atom currently attached to a bile molecule in the Canal of Hering? If so, then you already know TWO IMPORTANT THINGS:

IMPORTANT THING #1 — the Canal of Hering is in the bile duct, not in Norway.

IMPORTANT THING #2 — unless you take immediate action, your already tiny atomic heinie will be downsized by the corporate cost-cutters currently attending my Atomic Downsizing Seminar (see downsizing blog entry below). Have no fear, my friend! If I can help the boss man fix his bottom line, then I can help you save your bottom! Begin by asking yourself this question — can I make space in my crowded headbone for a few more IMPORTANT THINGS? Did I hear a “Yes”? Then make room for the four CONVENIENTLY NUMBERED STEPS in my proven 4-step Atomic Heinie Preservation Program (AHPP!).

Note: if there’s only enough room in your little headbone for three new IMPORTANT THINGS, then delete the Canal of Hering thing before attempting to cram in the AHPP data.

Is everybody with me? Okay, here is my proven 4-step strategy for keeping a sweet biochemical middle-management gig:

1. Call a meeting to discuss your production schedule

2. Revise the production schedule to allow time for more meetings

3. Revise the production schedule spreadsheet to reflect revised production schedule

4. Schedule another meeting (repeat Step 1)

Congratulations, you are now indispensable!

Special Note to atoms in the nervous system: don’t let those nerves stop you from giving my system a try!

for JUST ONE DAY, and then ask yourself, “do these shoes go with my pants?”

I know a guy who has animal magnetism. Women can’t keep their hands off of him. I don’t have animal magnetism, but I do have something almost as good. I have vegetable magnetism.

Every year, 98% of the atoms in your body are replaced. Your body is a big bio-organismization (pronounced bi·oh·AWR·guh·niz·uhm·i·ZAY·tion), and, as its CEO, you must know how and when to ruthlessly sack large numbers of your constituent atoms (biochemical associates). The purpose of this seminar, therefore, is to give you the tools you’ll need to “rightsize” your body for today’s competitive evolutionary marketplace.

Let’s begin with the basics. Bio-organismizational restructuring occurs in three phases — replacement of expensive older atoms with cheap younger atoms, removal of surplus organs from the organizational hierarchy, and outsourcing of non-essential bodily functions (such as blog reading). We will discuss the first two phases this morning, and then pause for a lengthy Coffee & Doughnuts Breakout Session. Dig it.

Phase One — Atom Replacement
Does your bio-organismization have a large and expensive carbon department? Of course it does. Did you know that carbon is one of most abundant elements in the universe? Well, it is. The cost-conscious CEO will use this deep pool of carbon replacement atoms to his or her advantage. There’s no need to tolerate workplace divas simply because they have so-called “seniority.” Replace their wrinkled heinies. Carbon is carbon, dammit. If it has six electrons and a pulse, then it can get the job done.

Phase Two — Organ Reduction.
Approximately 10% of adult humans have one or more “accessory spleens.” Because I’m too lazy to do research, and because logical fallacies make my job easier, we will assume that 10% of all organisms have extra spleens. (That includes beavers.) Redundancy is an unnecessary expense. And, on top of that, the expense of redundancy is unnecessary. If you intend to run an efficient bio-organismization, you must identify all surplus spleens, pull them from their cubicles and push their slippery little molecules through the nearest semi-permeable membrane. Have no mercy. It is for the greater good. If this sacking of spleens adversely affects morale in the digestive tract, paste up a few motivational posters with pithy messages like this: “Get lean and mean — fire surplus spleens!” That should do the trick.

Well, I think that’s quite enough for the morning session. Break time! Please return to the auditorium by 2:30 p.m. for the Outsourcing Session, which will be conducted by some guys I hired. I hear they’re very good.

Enjoy the donuts!

In the dream, I was sitting at a table in bar. Two other people were sitting with me — one was a day-shift manager at the Mardi Gras (the local naked ballet), and the other was Ronald Weasley, a character from the Harry Potter books. No one was talking or making eye contact. Mr. Weasley was fiddling with a Bar Butler® rotating liquor dispenser, which someone had loaded with six bottles of Garnier Fructis shampoo. Ms. Manager was giggling and sending text messages into the great unknown.

A three-legged dog ran by. I swiveled in my chair, and an unfamiliar blonde woman jumped onto my lap. She grabbed a fistful of my hair, jerked my head back, and looked me square in the eye. She said, “wake up and get out now!”

I woke up immediately, but I didn’t get out of bed. I couldn’t think of anyplace to go at 3:33 a.m. on a Saturday morning.