My Mom taught me never to brag. She was the best mother in the whole world.
Dr. Larry day is a retired J-School professor turned humor writer. His book, Day Dreaming: Tales From the Fourth Dementia is available for purchase via his website: http://www.daydreaming.co
The invention of cell phones has permitted people everywhere to prove the adage “talk is cheap.” People talk on cell phones as they drive cars, shop, get their hair done, pump gasoline, and while they are standing in long lines at customer service in the supermarket waiting to buy lottery tickets when the Powerball gets above a half a billion dollars. All that blah-blah was nerve wracking to Miss Minniferd Morningstar who had taught English at Letongaloosa High School for the past 32 years. Miss Minnie used to interrupt people at social gatherings and town council meetings to correct their grammar. For her, correct grammar, diction, usage, and syntax were sacred. Folks in town tolerated Miss Minnie’s interrupting their conversations because they were awed by her knowledge of English and because Miss Minnie had inherited piles of money, and was generous with it. Miss Minnie began teaching public school the year she graduated from college. To teach back then you didn’t need a certificate beyond a bachelor’s degree. She went on to get her masters by taking summer classes at State University. It was at State U. that Miss Minnie first saw Reginald Danforth Suggs. Young Suggs had just been hired as a custodian at the School of Education building. Reggie owed his first two names to his mother who hoped he would rise above his working class roots. Reggie rejected those aspirations. He made his own choices about speech and career options. He and Miss Minnie clashed immediately because she walked on the floor of a hallway that Reggie had just mopped. “Lady, getcher clodhoppers offn’ mah floah,” Reggie growled. Minnie gave the barbarian a withering stare. “Are you addressing me, young man?” “Ain’t addressin’ nobody,” said Reggie, “Ahm tellin yew ta quit trompin’ on mah floah.” At that point Professor Blaine, a member of the graduate faculty, opened his office door. He had heard the exchange. “Hello, Miss Minniferd,” he said. “You can pick up your paperwork at the graduate school office down the hall.” And, “That will do, Reggie.” “Hummmph,” said Reggie, and shoved his mop bucket on down the hall. After Minnie had finished her business at the university and returned home, she realized she had mixed feelings about the encounter. The handsome janitor had acted boorishly, but Minnie somehow found herself intrigued. She made subtle inquiries and learned that Reggie had a high IQ, a gift for language, and an aversion to orthodox social behavior. The latter obviously limited his work options. But those options, she soon realized, coincided what with he wanted to do for a living–be a janitor. Reggie always told people he was a janitor–not a custodian, or a “custodial engineer.” After that, Reggie popped into Minnie’s mind at odd moments—as when she took a break from correcting papers, or was fixing a late-night snack. She dismissed the thoughts, but they kept popping up. And Reggie thought off and on about “that teecher woman” too. When they both sought his aid as an intermediary on the same day, Prof. Blaine became the expediter of their budding romance. After a short engagement the extraordinary couple married. It was a two-part wedding. The first ceremony and reception were held in the chapel and recreation room of the Custodial Workers Union Hall. A janitor, who was a lay pastor, presided. The second ceremony took place in the sanctuary of Letongaloosa’s fine old Episcopal Church under the direction of the Rev. Thomas Leon Harper, D.D. The betrothed wrote their own vows. The union hall ceremony, written by Reggie, was short. To wit: “Ah weel if you weel.” To which Minnieferd responded: “Shore.” The reception featured mounds of serve-yourself chicken nuggets, barbeque beef and pork, mashed potatoes, creamed corn, hard rolls and a huge chocolate layer cake with chocolate frosting. The service at the Episcopal Church, prepared by Minnieferd, lasted an hour, and included two numbers by the choir and short passages from Shakespeare, Tennyson, Wordsworth, and Ezra Pound. The reception featured peach tea and little round mints. Minnie’s vows included five “I do’s,” and four “I wills,” and one “absolutely” spoken on cue by the bride and groom. Minnie and Reggie…Reggie and Minnie…are happilying it ever after. -30-
Dr. Larry day is a retired J-School professor turned humor writer. His book, Day Dreaming: Tales From the Fourth Dementia is available for purchase via his website: http://www.daydreaming.co
Just a random dinnertime musing from the mind of an ol’ geezer. Enjoy!!
Emmaline (my wife) watches late morning TV cooking shows while I’m in the kitchen putting the TV dinners in the microwave.
Dr. Larry day is a retired J-School professor turned humor writer. His book, Day Dreaming: Tales From the Fourth Dementia is available for purchase via his website: http://www.daydreaming.co
As far as I was concerned “yuck” was not a swear word, and I didn’t think that
tearing the label off an empty tin can created indecent exposure, but that was before
my alien friend KB-11.2, filled me in on the finer points of galactic decency.
Kaybe and I were having a soft drink together at The Enchantment, a dingy
roadhouse north of Letongaloosa. The Enchantment is the kind of joint that college towns
like Letongaloosa must have to qualify for academic accreditation.
My alien friend Kaybe isn’t one of those scary bug-eyed, green-skinned beings
that you see in sci-fi movies.. Kaybe looks like a giant tuna fish can. Erector Set® arms
sprout from the curved sides of his body, and three spindly metal legs drop from the flat
underside of his stainless steel torso. He has ball bearing wheels for feet. Three sensoreyes
wave at you from the ends of floppy antennae on the top of his lid.
No one at The Enchantment even raises an eyebrow when Kaybe rolls in and
joins me at one of the back booths. Customers are used to seeing unusual folks around
the place.
One night Kaybe and I were chatting in our favorite booth when Recycle Rick
came in carrying a big black garbage bag.. Rick picks up cans and bottles along the
highway. He starts in town and when he gets to the Enchantment he stops in to sort
everything. Then he mooches a ride back to town.
Rick is meticulous. He takes the items out of the big bag one by one, tidies them
up, and sorts them. Then he puts them into smaller plastic bags. He knows all the recycle
rules and regulations.
On the night in question, Recycle Rick came in and set up shop right across from
Kaybe and me. The first item he pulled from the bag was covered with mud. “Yuck,”
said Rick, and wiped away the mud .
“He shouldn’t swear like that,” said Kaybe.
“Yuck,” isn’t a swear word,” I said.
“It certainly is,” said Kaybe. “The Commission on Foul Communication has
banned that word throughout the galaxy. All it would take is a complaint from an alert
cosmic citizen and that guy’s communication license would be jerked, and he’d face a
seventy thousand mazimba fine.”
“Recycle Rick doesn’t have a communication license,” I said.
“Of course he has a communication license,” said Kaybe. “Everyone in the
galaxy has a communication license. Every word you say goes far beyond these walls.
Your words go out into space. Children on other planets could be listening.”
“So, if I say, @#$%^ and someone turns me in, I can be censured by the Galactic
Commission of Foul Communication?”
“No,” said Kaybe.
“Why not?”
“Because ‘@#$%^’ isn’t a swear word.”
“But ‘yuck’ is?”
“Yes, of course, everyone knows that.”
“I didn’t know that, and Recycle Rick certainly doesn’t. Mild mannered Rick
would never swear.”
Just then Rick pulled out an empty tomato juice can from his bag and began
ripping the label off.
Kaybe rotated away and lowered his antennae with their three sensor-eyes to
the table in a gesture of acute embarrassment.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“You saw that,” said Kaybe. “He stripped that tin can bare. It’s indecent. I can’t
look.”
“You can look now,” I said, “he put it in a sack. You’re weird.”
Kaybe raised his antennae from the table and winked at me with one of his three
sensor-eyes.”
“You’re jerking me around,” I said.
“Guilty as charged,” said Kaybe.
“So ‘yuck’ is not a swear word?”
“Not in this galaxy.”
“And there’s no Galactic Commission on Foul Communication?”
“Oh there is, but it doesn’t concern itself with words like ‘yuck.’ The Galactic
Commission on Foul Communication deals with such reprehensible terms as ‘federal
regulator,’ ‘plausible deniability,’ ‘social justice,’ ‘politically expedient solutions,’
‘federally mandated diversity,’ ‘combatant rendition,’ ‘enhanced interrogation
techniques,’ and the like.”
“People on Earth use those terms all the time and the Galactic Commission on
Foul Language has never done anything about it,” I said.
“You live on a third-world world,” said Kaybe. “The commission doesn’t waste its
efforts on backward planets like Earth.”
“Lucky for us,” I said.
“If you say so,” said Kaybe.”
Dr. Larry day is a retired J-School professor turned humor writer. His book, Day Dreaming: Tales From the Fourth Dementia is available for purchase via his website: http://www.daydreaming.co
I was disconsolate as I nursed a soft drink in a back booth of
The Enchantment. That’s a dingy roadhouse on the outskirts of
Letongaloosa. Every college town needs a joint like the
Enchantment to maintain its academic accreditation. The
Enchantment is where I go to have a soft drink and relax. On that
night I had gone to The Enchantment to brood. I had goofed up,
and I was feeling low. Then, happily, my robot friend Kaybe rolled up
to my booth.
Do you believe in aliens from outer space? I do. I’ve been friends
with one for decades. KB-11.2 doesn’t have green skin and luminous
eyes like the aliens one sees in sci-fi movies. Kaybe looks like a giant
tuna fish can.
Erector Set® arms sprout from the curving sides of his body,
and three spindly metal legs drop down from the underside of his flat
stainless steel torso. He has ball bearing wheels for feet. A floppy
two-foot antenna, with three sensor-eyes, stick out of the middle of
his lid. Kaybe comes from the Alpha Centauri star system. Many
years ago on a visit to Earth, Kaybe saved my marriage. Now here
he was again to cheer me up.
My wife Emmaline and I had taken a vacation to Northwest
Florida where we used to live. We had spent a lovely week at a
hotel in a room overlooking the beach. On the last day as we
packed and got ready to leave for the airport, I realized I hadn’t
packed my house slippers.
But there was not a smidgen of room in any of our luggage.
These house slippers were brown suede. And they were OLD. The
rubber sole of the right one was flapping, and the tops of both were
heavily spotted with toothpaste. So I stuffed them into an already
loaded trash basket, and walked out the door.
I felt a pang of regret immediately. I had worn those house
slippers forever. They were with us on our trips to the Smoky
Mountains, and with me on my journalistic assignments to Central
America and the Caribbean, South America, and Africa. Yet now I
had callously left them in a trash basket in a tourist hotel room far
from home. It wasn’t right.
Emmaline, practical and logical, said it was long past time to
get rid of those house slippers.
“The sole of the right one was coming off, and they were filthy,”
she said. “Filthy,” is a relative term with Emmaline. The word covers
everything from something that is undeniably dirty, to a tiny spot on
an otherwise pristine necktie.
Emmaline was right, of course. It was past time for the slippers
to go. But I loved them. And I was born in the year of the Dog. In
Chinese astrology, people who are born in the year of the dog are
innately loyal to their belongings. Even, apparently, a pair of worn
out house slippers.
As the plane took off, I thought how those dear old house
slippers would soon be lying under a heap of trash in some
malodorous landfill.
I continued to brood even after we had unpacked our
suitcases and put them back in the closet, and I had picked up the
mail that the Post Office had held for us.
“You need to go to The Enchantment,” said Emmaline. “Go
have a soft drink and get this out of your system.” That’s where I
was when Kaybe, my alien robot friend, rolled up to my booth.
Kaybe communicates and takes nourishment telepathically,
and he’s highly intuitive. Kaybe ordered a nonalcoholic beer from
the waitress, Four Finger Fannie, who is also an alien. I watched the
brew disappear from the mug without Kaybe ever having touched
it.
His words filtered into my mind, “You loved them, right?”
“Dearly,” I said. “They didn’t deserve to be abandoned like
that.”
“Then be of good cheer. Your house slippers are safe and well,”
said Kaybe. “I pulled them from the landfill, and I flung them into
space. Your dear slippers will sail happily through the galaxies
forever. Now go home and get some sleep.”
I tried. I really did. I said goodbye to the patrons at The
Enchantment, walked out and drove back into Letongaloosa.
Emmaline was asleep when I got home. I undressed in the walk-in
closet off the master bedroom and put on my pajamas. Then I
automatically tried to slide my feet into my dear old house slippers.
Duh! How dumb was that? I just walked back out to the living room
and collapsed on the sofa.
“I’ve got to get those back from outer space,” I said to
myself. It was late, but I got in the car and headed back to The
Enchantment.
Kaybe was there. He felt bad when he saw how glum I
looked, and few days later Kaybe located and retrieved my house
slippers from a Florida land fill and brought them back to
Letongaloosa. Bless him!
But I still had a problem. For Emmaline, those ratty house
slippers were objets non grata. What could I do with the sorrylooking
things?
Then I had a burst of inspiration. I would have my house slippers
near at hand without ticking Emmaline off.
Emmaline wanted me to toss the house slippers because they
were old and ratty looking. I had a plan to transform them. The idea
had come to me after Emmaline and I attended a baby’s first
birthday party and saw one of the gifts.
I transformed my ratty old house slippers from objects of scorn
to objets d’art. And now the dear old things occupy a prominent
place on my office shelf—as bronzed bookends.
-30-
Dr. Larry day is a retired J-School professor turned humor writer. His book, Day Dreaming: Tales From the Fourth Dementia is available for purchase via his website: http://www.daydreaming.co
Travel to Cuba is off limits to U.S. citizens. The United States put an economic embargo on Cuba back when U.S. cars had giant fins and candy bars cost a nickel. The embargo is still in effect. You can’t go to Cuba without a license.
Prof. Zimmy Tarbox, a professor of entomobugology at Letongaloosa Community Junior College where I teach, got a license from the U.S. government to give a paper at an annual Bugological Symposium in Havana. Zimmy avoided all the government rigmarole by bamboozling a bureaucrat in the government licensing office. He got his license to travel to Cuba in less than 24 hours. Two days later he was sitting at a sidewalk café on the Malecon sipping Perrier water. The Malecon is a boulevard that swings along Havana’s sea wall near the city’s colonial center.
“Well if it isn’t the infamous cockroach enthusiast,” said a melodious woman’s voice from behind him. Without turning Zimmy Tarbox said, “Kate Billingsly, England’s premier pond scum skimmer, I had a feeling you’d be here.” The two bug scientists had been friends since graduate school. Now, in Havana, they shook hands and Kate Billingsly sat down.
“Where are you staying?” she asked.
“I’m at the Hotel Havana Libre.”
“Me too,” she said.
Zimmy signaled the waiter, and said “Let’s take a walk,”
The two strolled down a sidewalk along the sea wall. Bicycle riders and bike rickshaws rolled passed them on the Malecon. Lovers hugged and kissed on top of the five foot wall. Dozens of other people stood at the wall casting fishing lines into the bay. The two chatted about Billingsly’s world renowned research on water skeeters and Tarbox’s groundbreaking work on cockroach larvae. Both were scheduled to present research papers at the conference.
As the two stood at a curb, a bicyclist sped up, braked to a stop, and thrust a folded newspaper into Zimmy’s hand, then sped away.
“What was that about?” asked Kate.
Zimmy unfolded the tabloid newspaper—that day’s edition of Granma, the mouthpiece of the Cuban Communist Party. A message was printed on the front page in large block letters with black magic marker: It said “Back booth, Hotel Libre bar 5 p.m. Both of you.”
Kate and Zimmy looked at each other.
“Looks like CIA” said Kate.
“Or MI-6” said Zimmy.
At five p.m. Kate and Zimmy were sitting side by side in a back booth in the darkened bar behind the lobby of the Hotel Havana Libre. A few minutes passed, then two shadowy figures slid into the booth across the table from them.
The two wore buttoned up beige trench coats, but the woman had on a haut couture turquoise wide brim Preakness hat that was definitely not spy code dress of the day, and the man wore a black GG fabric baseball cap with black leather trim. The hat definitely put him outside the spook uniform dress code..
The man spoke intensely to Kate in an English accent. “Your paper on water skippers breaches British national security. We have purged it from your laptop. We’ve installed an acceptable version of the paper in its place. You’ll present that version. This conversation never happened.”
The man pulled down the brim of his baseball cap, slid out of the booth and walked away.
The woman pulled her wide brim of her Preakness hat down and leaned across the table toward Zimmy. She hissed: “The Castro government is dying to get the data in your cockroach study. The U.S. Department of What’s Good for America has designated your paper top secret. You can’t present the paper, in fact you can’t ever read it again. We’ve installed a new version on your computer. Give that.”
The woman slid out of the booth and disappeared.
Kate and Zimmy looked at each other.
“Same old same old,” said Kate, and shook her head.
“Yeh, just like the Mogadishu conference last year,” said Zimmy.
“I assume you have a back-up version of your paper saved on a secret memory stick,” said Zimmy.
“That I have,” said Kate.
“Me too,” said Zimmy.
:They never check,” he said
“I know,” she said.
They slid out of the booth and Zimmy leaned down and kissed Kate on the cheek. “Good luck with your presentation,” he said.
“You too,” she said.
“See you next year in New Delhi.”
“Right,” he said. -30-
Dr. Larry day is a retired J-School professor turned humor writer. His book, Day Dreaming: Tales From the Fourth Dementia is available for purchase via his website: http://www.daydreaming.co
Hello,
If you are looking for my November column, this is it. Yes, I am celebrating Halloween in November!! Move over Tom Turkey!! I write for The Kaw Valley Senior Monthly and it just so happens that with printing and mailing schedules, this month’s column landed on doorsteps and in inboxes on Halloween!! It was only fitting I write a spook-tacular piece so goofy it lasts ’til Thanksgiving.Enjoy!!
Early one Halloween night I was nursing a soft drink in a back booth at The Enchantment. That’s a dingy roadhouse north of here. I was on my second bottle of pop when Kaybe rolled up.
KB 11.2 (Kaybe for short) is my alien friend from outer space. He looks like a giant tuna fish can. Erector Set arms sprout from the curved sides of his body. Three spindly legs drop from the flat underside of his stainless steel torso. He has ball bearing wheels for feet, and three sensor-eyes wave at you from the ends of floppy antennae on the top of his lid. Kaybe eats drinks and communicates telepathically.
No one at the Enchantment even looks up when Kaybe rolls in. If fact, some of the patrons, including Harry the Hulk and his diminutive pal Miniature Mike, are also aliens from outer space. So is the waitress, Four Finger Fanny.
Kaybe gave me a telepathic “hi,” and joined me.
“Kaybe, where’ve you been?” I asked.
“Doing some business in a galaxy far away.”
“Well I’m glad you’re back. Let me buy you a drink. Fanny, please bring Kaybe a Sarsaparilla.”
Just then four costumed customers walked in and sat down at a booth near us. There was a green-faced witch wearing a pointy black hat; a short, potbellied Frankenstein monster with a realistic looking bolt in his neck; a realistic looking Chewbacca, and an aging Princess Leia.
With all three eyes, Kaybe stared at the newcomers.
“What galaxy are they from?” he asked.
“Those are earthlings,” I said. “It’s Halloween. Those folks are just wearing costumes.”
“Is it some kind of holiday?” Kaybe asked.
“Yes. It used to be called “All Hallows Eve,” and was started to honor the dead. Nowadays children dress up in costumes and go door to door saying ‘Trick or Treat’ and hold out sacks. People give them candy. After people put candy in their sacks, the kids run to the next house. They go all over the neighborhood gathering sacks full of candy.”
“The folks in that booth over there look pretty old to do trick or treat,” said Kaybe.
“Halloween has evolved, and now adults celebrate Halloween too. They put on costumes and go to parties, or out to bars and restaurants.
“WOW!” said Kaybe. The words appeared telepathically in capital letters in my head. “That sounds like fun. I’ve always wanted to go around town and see the sights, but the way I look I’d cause a fuss. Tonight I can roll around and no one will think anything about it.”
“Hey guys,” Kaybe communicated telepathically with Harry the Hulk and Miniature Mike and three strange-looking aliens in the bar. “Let’s go trick or treating.”
“Will you be our guide?” Kaybe asked.
“Of course. Parents take their kids trick or treating. The parents stand out on the sidewalk while the kids go up to the doors.”
“You want to go trick or treating, Fanny?” called Miniature Mike.
“No,” she called back. “I’m still on duty. Beside my feet hurt. But you can take my truck.” Fanny tossed me the keys. “It’s the old blue pickup in the back corner of the parking lot.”
I boosted Kaybe into the passenger seat, and the others jumped in the back of the truck. I drove by a supermarket and picked up trick or treat sacks for everyone. When we got there, my neighborhood was awash with goblins, ghosts and phantoms.
My alien friends were shy at first, but Kaybe encouraged them.
“Come on guys. This will be fun.”
At the first house, I stood out on the sidewalk. Harry the Hulk put Miniature Mike on his shoulders and marched up and rang the bell. Kaybe and the other aliens crowded on the steps behind him.
A woman came to the door.
“Trick or treat,” said Harry the Hulk.
“Wait just a minute,” said the woman. “George,” she yelled, You’ve got to see this. These are the best costumes I’ve seen all night.” -30-
Dr. Larry Day is a retired foreign correspondent and KU J-School professor. He is now the author of countless short stories and the author of Day Dreaming: Tales From the Fourth Dementia. http://www.daydreaming.co
Dr. Larry day is a retired J-School professor turned humor writer. His book, Day Dreaming: Tales From the Fourth Dementia is available for purchase via his website: http://www.daydreaming.co
Miss Bunker (I can’t remember her first name) was principal of East Side School in Idaho Falls, Idaho, circa 1945, when I was in Miss Melton’s (I can’t remember her first name) fourth grade class. Dean Larsen, who sat in front of me in Miss Melton’s class, wrote a smart aleck note and passed it back, unnoticed, to me. I wrote “Screw You!” on another piece of paper and passed it back. Miss Melton saw me pass the note back to Dean, and told me to bring the note up and put it on her desk. She went on with the class. I forgot about the incident until the next day when Miss Melton told me to go see Miss Bunker. In the Principal’s Office, Miss Bunker had the note in herhand.
Miss Bunker: “What does this mean?”
Me: (scrubbing my foot on the floor and looking down) “I don’t know.”
Miss Bunker: “What does this mean?”
Me: “I don’t know.”
Miss Bunker: “I’m going to call your mother on the phone.”
Me: (in desperation) “It’s the title of a story.”
Miss Bunker: “A story?”
Me: “Yes. I’m writing a story about a boy who gets a tool box for Christmas.”
Miss Bunker: “I want to read that story. Bring it to my office by the end of the school day or I’m going to call your mother.”
That’s how I became a writer. From that time to the present I’ve written a lot of fiction. Some of it was written for newspapers and international new services. I’ve reported for the Idaho Falls Post Register, The Deseret News (Salt Lake City) The United Press International (from Buenos Aires), the Minneapolis Star and Tribune, The Miami Herald, the Kansas City Star, Universal Press Syndicate. Everyone knows that newspaper stories aren’t supposed to be fiction. But with tight deadlines, and because journalism is more art than science, a lot of creativity is involved in covering the news.
I’ve written news stories from the United States, Latin America and the Caribbean (including Cuba), the Sudan (Africa) Botswana (Africa) (the old) Yugoslavia, England, Hong Kong, and Letongaloosa (a fictional town in the U.S. Midwest). Many news stories, carrying my byline, were actually published by newspapers or by news services.
For the past dozen years I have been writing humorous fiction for the Kaw Valley Senior Monthly of Lawrence, Kansas. Do I notice a difference between the fiction writing I do now and the news writing I did as a journalist? Yes, I do. Fact checking is more rigorous on the Kaw Valley Senior Monthly than fact checking was during the days when I covered coups and earthquakes in Latin America.
-30- (that means “the end” in journalese)
Dr. Larry day is a retired J-School professor turned humor writer. His book, Day Dreaming: Tales From the Fourth Dementia is available for purchase via his website: http://www.daydreaming.co
