The Happiest Place on Earth.

The happiest place on earth?  It’s not Disneyland. No matter what the billions of dollars in commercials featuring Super Bowl MVPs tell you. Not even when you are a VIP who gets escorted to the front of the line along with folks in wheel chairs.  (And they are certainly more deserving than you.  Am I right?)

Not Hawaii.  It can get hot. And you have to keep slapping sunblock on especially if you go in the water.

The beach?  Like Hawaii only worse. (Though, you get to skip five hours on a plane.) There’s all that sand.  And if you have to drive all day to some sand castle contest you are in hell, my friend.  Or so I’m told.

No, the happiest place on earth you once lived in for over 3/4 of a year. Then you left before you realized how good you had it.  Before your very first breath. Yep, that lovely pink room known as the womb.  The original “no worries, mate” snug studio apartment.  Not a care in the world. Euphoria personified. Might even be a little piped-in singing from the Goddess you are floating inside of.  Remember?   You’re right.  No one does. (Why are all the important questions concerning birth and death seemingly unanswerable?)

I know one thing for sure.  I miss it.  And I’m going back there one day.  All I gotta do is play my cards right.

Awfully Mad Circa 1990.

The new Wizard of Oz cartoon had been previewing for weeks but still wasn’t on.

Her wake-up and go to bed orange juice smelled suspiciously like the white medicine.

Her little brother was getting all the attention for doing really stupid stuff like rolling

a ball or saying “uh-oh”.  (The kitten could do that trick for cripe’s sake and he was

just born a few months ago.

She got sick the last time her best friend was over and she didn’t know when she would

ever see her again.

She didn’t feel much like rocking at night any more. (She got too tired during the day and was lucky if she could keep her eyes open through all three books.)

The family room VCR was on the fritz so if she wanted to color she had to watch baseball.

She was awful mad,today.  So everybody better just stay out of her way.

The Montecito Social Maven: Waiting for the Spark Plugs

Googie swept into the social whirl with all force of a Spartan attacking the Persian front. Then quickly halted to get her bearings. She spotted The Dick circling the perimeter like the oiliest snake in Snakeville. She should pay her respects but she didn’t think she could handle it without two fingers of something much stronger than the water with gas that she was presently clutching.
Across the room girl, Taylor’s dad, the ersatz actor was desperately trying to make eye contact. She had liked his dimpled cheeks when she saw him on the local news filling up a trailer truck for the unfortunate people of New Orleans or whatever the tragedy du jour had been that week. But now that she saw him in the flesh at room’s length there was something about him that just didn’t seem very substantial.
The President of the PTA was bending someone’s ear about funding. She had a very serious look on her cute punim. Googie was certainly going to skirt around that area. She had once fallen asleep in mid conversation with that perky presence. Granted she was on cold medication at the time but it was still quite embarrassing.
Then like the sun breaking through the clouds she saw the Steinkellners across the room. She made a beeline for them of such magnitude that I pity the bee that might have gotten in her way. At last. Now, she could dish.

Kit Steinkellner, Late Night Zombie: A Horror Tale of the Final Decade of the Last Millennium

“Doctor, the Monster won’t go down.”

“What’s her status?”

“We’ve fed her Mcnuggets, fries and a little soda.”

“With a little cupcake and a chocolate kiss for dessert?”

“Yes, yes. Do I look like a fool? After that we read three
books with no effect. And this was after we managed to lure the
beast away from a newly rented Duck Tales video.”

“Great Zeus’s great toe that should have done the trick.”

“I know, right? Then we let the Monster pile on top of us,
had a robust pillow fight that we pretended to lose,
and then engaged the You Can’t Take My Daughter sequence.
We even gave her a detailed itinerary for tomorrow and
a little sip of apple juice.”

“You’re starting to scare me and I don’t frighten easily.
You didn’t forget hush-little-baby, the list of things to
dream about, I love you with a good night kiss and promise
to leave the bedroom door open this much?”

“The whole shebang– in order. But the
creature is awake threatening our very existence.
She’s just lying on the floor next to her bed staring
at a coloring book with a stupefied look on her face.”

“Our only hope then, gentlemen, is the Puff the
Magic Dragon routine. If that doesn’t work may
God have mercy on our souls.”

An In-depth Look at the Undecided Voters of America.

We are ordinary folks.

We like fart jokes.

If you want to make your movie #1, you’d better keep us in mind. (Sometimes this
fact perplexes the “experts” but they always try to please us, often without
success.)

We always laughs when somebody falls down… and at fart jokes.
Probably the funniest thing of all would be a man who
farted so hard he fell down.

Fake vomit is funnier than people vomiting unless it was the villain
who vomited. In that case it would be okey-dokey by us.

We don’t like to figure things out. But if you make it look
like we have to figure things out but make it so easy that it
is as if you told us the answer already but made the whole thing
look like a mystery? We sorta like that. Especially, if you make
us feel smart without forcing us to pay attention in school or
other hard junk like that.

We like regular hours and set jobs that we can go home and put
up our feet on the ottoman from.

And beer. Cold beer. Mmmmmmm.

As far as the 2012 election? We remain undecided.