Honk if You Like Honking

NAOMI’S ANNUAL REPORT

2016-03-04T08:38:00.000-05:00

Stock Symbol: NA-O-MI*

High: 2' 6"
Low: 21"
Last Close: Bedtime
Volume: Nice
Change: For the Better

*The Securities and Exchange Commission doesn't recognize us. Of course, the last time it saw us, we had our eyes closed.

On this, the second anniversary of our founding, we are pleased to report that we are healthy, strong, and in the black in every sector. We are making a statement in emerging markets -- in fact, we are an emerging market. Read our Executive Summary, and discover why growing with us is a good risk.

WALKING AND TALKING

We have built our Walking and Talking Division from the ground up. In just 2 short years, we have become a recognized industry leader in this field. The division now accounts for well in excess of 50% of our total growth. As we continue to make great strides, we have nowhere to go but up (the stairs). In the coming year, we are on target to expand our toddling into the yard. We also have plans to add the names of five new colors to our vocabulary (3 of them real!), and we will soon be rolling out bigger and better animal sounds, including a comprehensively re-tooled monkey screech complete with hand gestures and a wide open grin.

CUTENESS

With seventeen patents pending for various facial expressions, idioms, and distinct kinds of hopping, is it any wonder that when this subject pops up, we are always on the tip of the tongue? As to the rumors that our cheeks are insured by Lloyds of London, we simply will not comment, because some of our intellectual property rights are in coyness. But we love a good mystery as much as the next person. You can draw your own conclusions. We'll even throw in a crayon.

POTTY

Using state-of- the-art methods, (and even some crappy ones), we have made the competition tremble in fear, and literally you-know-what in its pants. And that’s the straight poop.

NAPPING

The AAA gives our napping performance a 2-star rating overall. The BBB gives us a 3-star rating. Moody’s gives us 4 stars. Standard & Poors gives us 5 stars, which is the highest anybody knows how to count – that we've heard tell.

SWIMMING

Our swimming department is doing -- how do you say it in your language? -- swimmingly. In fact, we have rejected many offers to acquire it and spin it off as a separate concern. We intend to keep making a big splash, but our number one goal is customer loyalty -- that, and putting our head under water and blowing bubbles.

EATING

Nobody beats us in this category. N-o-b-o-d-y! Not even Zeyde.

Even if Customer satisfaction surveys lie, ice cream doesn't, and that's just a fact.

There's a reason the public is so impressed with us; we have the stats to back up our claims. For the 2nd year running, we are the winner of the No. 1 Eater Award, beating out all the other eaters everywhere.

READING

When we went public, the naysayers said we'd have a tough time against our competitors--the show-offs who were already reading in the womb before even being listed. But we believe in substance and hard work -- not parlor tricks.

Staying a steady, conservative course, and using just-in-time-for-bedtime management, we have built a formidable inventory.

If we don't have it, it probably isn't worth trying to sound out the vowels.

BALLS

Man, we have a lot of!

COMMUNITY OUTREACH

We are a good citizen, and we always contribute to our community. Our charitable arm is long, and actually extends back quite a ways. Way, way back, actually.

CHART

As graphically displayed by Figure 1, the trends are all positive.

Every good annual report contains charts that have squiggly lines in them. Nobody knows what the lines mean, and please do not pretend otherwise. We have our own doll carriage crammed full of such charts, naturellement. We've published a representative sample so that our annual report will be smart and stylish.

FASHION FORWARD

Our sartorial splendor (in the grass and otherwise) is the Talk of the Town.

Are we a little avant garde? Perhaps. And what risk-taker isn't?

In the mane, the tell-tale sign of a winner is in the roar of approval from the market.

FUTURE PROJECTS

Artist's conception of a stick figure.

We have many mind-blowing projects on the drawing board today, which could be rolled out at any moment. Our R&D Department is working overtime, except when it's napping. Stay tuned. With Naomi, the future is now!

FINAL WORD

LEARN MORE

For more information or to order a prospectus or just a glass of milk with a straw in it, please visit www.xyznowiknowmyabcsnexttimewontyousingwithme?.com
*Read all materials carefully before deciding to enter into a transaction. Past performance may not be indicative of future results and vice versa. We are not responsible for your snap judgments and foolhardy insomnia-induced impulses. Besides, we're only 2 years old, so sue us.

Pincus "Ming" Manelbaum and the Art of War

2013-10-28T00:06:00.000-04:00

If you see that your opponent is decked out in full dress uniform sporting two epaulets -- one on each shoulder -- you must make a point of being seen in full dress uniform with three epaulets (4 if you can swing it). This will sow terror into the heart of your opponent. Additionally, if one of your epaulets comes loose and falls off, you need not busy yourself with such trifles as sewing on another epaulet, as you will already have a backup. Thus is the wise general empowered and emboldened by sowing and not sewing simultaneously. The Zen masters call this “sew-sow.” In the Art of War, sew-sow is not so-so; sew-so is good.

Do not waste precious time anticipating your opponent’s next move. Your opponent has already anticipated that you will attempt to anticipate your opponent’s next move, thereby sucking all the air out of the room. To stay one step ahead of your opponent, you must imagine yourself as your opponent imagining what you would do if you were your opponent’s opponent (i.e., you) anticipating your opponent’s next move. If, following your recovery from the nausea induced by your faithful practice of this exercise, both you and your opponent show up at the observation deck at the top of the Empire State Building at exactly 12 noon, you will know that Game Theory is not entirely poppycock.

While laying waste to your opponent’s territory, focus your mind’s eye on the post-battle landscape. Today, you are the invading soldier; tomorrow, you are the ruler. Leave nothing uninspected. Survey all the land from the highest hilltop to the lowest plain. Give yourself permission to ask this question: “Would this be a good spot for a frozen yoghurt shoppe?” replete with the utterly pretentious and superfluous “pe.” (Your opponent will surely mispronounce “shoppe,” attempting to effectuate some imagined, hyper-accentuated Elizabethan “eh.”). This will confound and demoralize your opponent, and will also be a shibboleth, marking your opponent as the one talking loudly and obnoxiously in an interminable line wending around the corner and peopled with star-struck rubes desperate to be at the next big happening. If the signs are not favorable for erecting a frozen confections stand as a monument to your conquest [and also, if the proper permitting cannot readily be obtained], decamp for a land where the members of the local peerage are more corruptible, and the countryside less overrun by competing styles of soft-serve. The patient general knows that a vanquished populace needs a half-decent incentive (such as a liberal selection of toppings) to at least go through the motions of appearing compliant and servile.

In the midst of a campaign, do not be distracted by the chattering of subordinates. Some will counsel advance; others retreat. Still others will insist that you hold the line. Lest you succumb to the temptation to be pulled this way or that by these underlings, quiet the noise so that all that remains is the still, small clarity of your inner voice. Listen to it carefully. It will always tell you the truth without fail. And the truth is: None of these lieutenants have as many epaulets as you have; that is why they call you “General.”

Never lose sight of your goal. Keep it pinned to the inside of your jacket at all times. Better yet, keep it pinned to the outside of your jacket where you can keep an eye on it. And while never losing sight of your goal, be mindful of the costs. Are they cross-classified efficiently to maximize deductions? The savvy general has the foresight to save all receipts, setting the dubious ones aside for further “analysis.”

The successful general rises above petty squabbles, enforcing discipline through the religious application of strict measures, such as ordering the ranks to find the solution to a crossword puzzle riddled with multiple errors. To the Machiavellian maxim that the Prince is to be both feared and loved, add the Pincus Ming Mandelbaum Principle: The general is to remain an enigma. In a pineapple. Under the sea. It is not for a mere foot soldier to pierce the veil between better judgment and an incomprehensible policy. While the cold, hard truth may be that the general is oft times clueless, this is a privileged secret. It is inviolate. An army will rebel against the most accomplished of generals whose expressions of self-doubt are exposed to the regiment, whereas an incompetent buffoon practiced only in braggadocio and self adoration will engender mindless loyalty to the ends of the earth.

Any fool can start a war. Every child knows this. They are born knowing it. Do not suppose that your opponent does not already know it, especially if your opponent has read ahead. It is no accident that in the annals of history, very few wars have been started by a child – a taunting spree or a temper tantrum, maybe – but not a full-fledged war. The reason is simple: most wars begin well past a child’s bedtime or else on a school day. As effortless as it may be to start a war, for all but the most talented of generals, it is a bridge too far to end one. The insightful general, therefore, consults not only the movement of the opponent, the celestial bodies, and the wind, but also the academic calendar and the television cartoon schedule. The battlefield is littered with generals who imagined that they, instead of circumstances beyond their comprehension, turned the tide. In the Art of War, the general who truly seeks a comprehensive peace must experience the moment through the eyes of a child, think what a child thinks, feel what a child feels, and hear what a child hears. And when you, dear general, hear the final bell ring, ask not for whom the bell tolls; just know this: recess is over.

And so is the war.

It's So Haimishe on the Moon

2013-07-24T22:34:00.000-04:00

"Where are you from?"

"The Sea of Tranquility."

"Really? Which exit?"

"Ha! Ha! Very funny!"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WYYn1OKcVOI

TEXT MESSAGES OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE

2013-07-08T00:01:00.000-04:00

SALVE, CLAUDIUS: U GET MY TXT???

SALVE, HECTOR. WUZ ASCENDIT?

STUCK IN SENATE ALL POST MERIDIAN. CAESAR DRONED ON AD NAUSEAM: “VENI, VIDI, VINCI,” MILKING THE APPLAUSE.

FELT LIKE THROWING UP (ERGO “AD NAUSEAM”) .

OMGS! CICERO FUNDITUS GHOSTWROTE THE “VENI” SPEECH. SCIUNT.

VERITAS DAT. NOW “C” IS CAMPAIGNING IN JUDEA WITH IT.

RIDERE OUT LOUD!!!!!

WHO’D BELIEVE THIS STERCORE? :/

I, CLAUDIUS. I’D BELIEVE IT.

IN ROMA ALIQUID EST POSSIBILE.

A LIQUID EST POSSIBLE!!? WTF DOES THAT MEAN!????

NON A LIQUID, TU IDIOTA! ALIQUID!

OH.

GOTTA GO. C. U.

QUO VADIS?

HIPPODROME. CHARIOT RACE.

HEY! ME II! IBID! WHERE YOU SITTING?

OP. SIT.

???????

JUST KIDDING. HA HA!

OK. MAYBE ILL C. U. THERE.

SICK! C.U.

U MEAN [SIC]?

NO, SIK [SIC]?

SICK, SIK, [SIC]!

HEY. I’M TXTING U A PIC OF THE BIG C RITE NOW.

I CANT OPEN IT.

U HAVE TO HOLD DOWN THE VIII KEY THE MMXIII AND THE IX KEY AT THE SAME TIME.

TECHNOLOGY SUCKS.

WHO IS YOUR SERVICE PROVIDER?

SPQR MOBILIUS. STILL NOT GETTING THE PIC.

??? O THATS Y. I WAS TRYING TO TXT YOU FROM THE CATACOMBS. NO RECEPTION DOWN THERE. I JUST MOVED OVER TO THE SUNDIAL BY THE FOUNTAIN OF THE FORNICATING BARBARIANS. OK. I HAVE A GOOD SIGNAL NOW. I’M RE-SENDING THE PIC. SO YOU SHOULD HAVE II PICS. DID U GET?

??? I’LL CHECK LATER. STOP TXTING PICS TO ME NOW. TEMPUS FUGIT. GOTTA GO.

L QUI YOU GOIN’ WITH?

DUDE! DON’T END A SENTENCE WITH A PREPOSITION!

WHO YOU GOI’N WITH, ASINE?

HA HA! STULTE!

SO, WHO YOU GOI’N WITH?

TRIMALCHIO, ET AL.

UBI TRIMALCHIO IBI PANEM ET CIRCENSES!

VERBUM!

VERITAS? TRIMALCHIO IS SO JUVENILE!

U MEAN JUVENAL?

HA! HA! RIDERE OUT LOUD! I MEAN PETRONIOUS!

HA! WELL, IGNOSCAS, SI SERIUS VENIO. GOTTA GO.

OK. YOU HANGIN’ AT THE COLOSIUM TAVERN POST RACE?

??? QUE SERA, SERA

U GOT THAT EMENDO! THE FUTURE’S NOT OURS TO SEE.

OK, POSTEA VIDEBO VOS. SEE YA!

OK. VALE! AMICUS. AND REMEMBER, WHEN U R AT THE STADIUM…

QUOD?

SI TIBI PLACUERIT FACERE, FAC VOCEM ANSERIS.

QUOD!!!!?

HONK IF YOU LIKE HONKING.

OH.

The Grass is always Greener When You Spray Green Schmutz All Over It

2013-05-27T00:05:00.000-04:00

A Honk if You Like Honking Original:*

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=thWBSUSSDkI

*"Original" is a relative term. Everything is derivative.

The Well-Mannered Nosey Garçon

2013-04-22T00:22:00.000-04:00

"Are you still enjoying that?"

KIM JONG UN RESPONDS TO THE INTERNATIONAL HERALD TRIBUNE

2013-03-31T09:22:00.000-04:00

Dear Editor:

I am not a subscriber or even casual reader of your so-called “newspaper.” For one thing – no good comics. For another thing, who can afford the villas in Cinque Terre listed for sale in the Real Estate Classifieds? Thirdly, the Trib is banned in my country. But one of our “agricultural attachés” brought a copy back from Paris yesterday and showed me an article you had published about me.

It was all about how I am threatening the world with nuclear missiles, and how my people are starving, and how I am mercurial and a Class-A nut job, and blah blah blah. The usual stuff. Then, mid-way through the third paragraph, I read this: “The baby-faced dictator remains jealous of his older exiled paternal half-brother Kim Jong-Nam.”

Ok, like, for starters, “Baby-Faced?” Excuse me?

Had your intrepid reporter bothered to do his homework, he would have learned that I am, hands down, the biggest heartthrob north of the Demilitarized Zone. I so much as step foot in the Pyongyang People’s Pleasure Place & Pâtisserie and the whole place falls into a swoon. All the girls want to dance the “Hustle” with me. (The PPPP&P is a swanky little disco we have here. Thursday is Mandelbrot night, hence “Pâtisserie”).

Why do you think that one of my official titles is “Number 1 Handsome Man?” Every Korean of the female persuasion dreams of having a date with me. Whose photo do you think is taped to all the vanities in the country? The Pope’s? Jerry Lewis’? Guess again, Sparky! It is me, myself, and Mois! (Jerry Lewis is number 3 on the male pinup hit parade, just so you know).

Can you guess what Pop (“Dear Leader” not to be confused with “Dear Abbey”) use to call me? “Macho Macho Man.” Pop was the World’s Number 1 Dad. Don’t take my word for it; he had the coffee mug to prove it. He used to sing “Macho Macho Man” in the shower all the time. Do you know it? “I want to be a macho, macho man.” Those are the lyrics. He’d say “American Adventurists! I’m going to bomb the shit out of them as soon as we get one of these ferkakta rockets to work!” Right after that, he’d jump in the shower and sing “Macho Macho Man.”

In case you were wondering, I also like to sing in the shower. Here’s a little song that I sing in the shower to perk me up right before I meet with our supreme military brass to map out our top secret strategy for the surprise attack on America planned for next Tuesday. It goes like this:

I’m going to Pyongyang

Pyongyang here I come

They got North Korean women there

And I’m gonna get me one.

By the way, did you know that the first time Pop ever played a game of golf, he shot 11 holes-in-one? EEEELEVEN! Read ‘em and weep! Once I went bowling with him, and I scored a perfect 300. He scored a 360, which is like a 300, plus 60! Can the horse’s ass at the Trib who called me “baby-faced” say that? I didn’t think so.

Now I’m going to clue you in on a little secret about my brother, Kim, who you seem to think I’m so jealous of. Are you ready? Here it is.

He’s a moron.

I’m sure you’ve heard the kooky stories about him. Well, take it from me: the stories are true. When we were kids, I shared a bunk bed with my brother. Being the younger (albeit, the handsomer, by far) I had to sleep in the bottom bunk. My brother used to keep me up nights babbling on about how much he wanted to go to Tokyo Disneyland and how he was going to fight off coyotes and savages in Frontierland and learn everything there was to know about the future in Tomorrowland. It was like a fetish. I’d say: “Kim. Give it up already. It aint gonna happen, bro.”

But he would have none of that. He had a portable record player under his covers that played little 45s. And all he ever wanted to listen to was “It’s a Small World After All.” He played it non-stop. Sometimes he would play it at 78 speed so that everybody in the chorus sounded like they had just sucked down a bathtub full of helium. He would hum along with it like Donald Duck in heat. That’s what I had to go to sleep to every night. I wanted to shove that little record player down his throat. Instead, these years of psychological torture conditioned me for my role as Great Successor to Dear Leader.

Then, one day, when the rest of us were distracted by some bogus threat from the lackeys in the South engineered by the Yankee imperialists, my idiot-sans-savant brother bribes some minor palace functionary to get him a fake passport and to help him slip out of the country undetected at dawn. Then he finally makes his way to the fantasy land of his childish dreams, and what does he do there? Can you guess? Spends the whole day riding around and around on the Alice in Wonderland Teacups, squealing like a piglet in doody, that’s what!

His whole life, he fantasizes about his big day at the amusement park where giddy capitalists go to wait on never-ending lines like Soviets of old trying to buy toilet paper. How many times did I suffer through his breathless descriptions of his hoped-for exploits? He had planned every detail. He was going to venture into new horizons. He was going to have once-in-a-lifetime thrills. Who knows? Maybe he was even going to flash his man boobs for the cameras at the bottom of the Space Mountain water slide. But, no! When the big moment finally arrives, all he wants to do is go on the girly teacup ride until closing time.

Ha! Can you believe they were grooming this troglodyte to be the heir to our Dear Leader?

Still, in a perverse kind of way, Tokyo Disneyland is the greatest thing that ever happened, because it got my half-wit half-brother out of the country for good. Can you imagine what an unmitigated disaster if my brother were in charge around here!? I shudder to even think of it.

In conclusion, I have demonstrated to you that: (1) I am not baby-faced. Just the opposite: I am the Number 1 Handsome Man. (2) Saying that I am jealous of my brother is the stupidest thing I ever heard. It is the other way around. I know he is kicking himself in his fat ass every day wishing he was me. But he isn’t me. I am me. Number 1 Handsome Man. (3) There is no number 3.

Well, that’s all for now. Hope this sets the record straight.

Sincerely,

Kim Jong Un

Anatomy of a Gag

2013-03-19T23:39:00.000-04:00

Click on the link. It's all in the delivery.

Or maybe, it's all in the wrist:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=06k95ThnJwM

I'm Just a Ramblin' Rambler, Ramblin' On and On Incoherently

2013-03-16T20:38:00.000-04:00

Being an Idiot for Dummies

2013-03-03T20:39:00.000-05:00

Another original (except for the parts plagiarized shamelessly) HIYLH animated morality play:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GDuqWtk_ODk

Wanna See Some Pics of What I'm Eating Right this Second?

2013-02-24T18:38:00.000-05:00

We, here at HIYLH, always used to be annoyed by people whipping out camera phones at restaurants, snapping photos of their haricot verts, and posting the images on the Internet so that their friends and Linkedin connections could be enthralled in real time by the stunning displays of virtual green beans. For the longest time (this is just a figure of speech; the longest time is actually the eta of the D Train), we could not understand why this insipid practice was so popular amongst the madding crowd of a certain age.

Even more mysterious to us was why anyone could care less what somebody else was eating while dining out last week, or why they would bother breathlessly to peruse a slideshow about it, especially if the photographer were not standing right there next to them, peering giddily over their shoulder, on the verge of crying a river lest the audience (presumably with nothing better to do with his or her life) pretend that studying a digitized reproduction of some half-eaten entre was the most fascinating thing to come along since daylight savings time was pushed up a few weeks.

When we consulted the dictionary, we half-expected this phenomenon to be cited as one of the many examples of the word “stupid.” We were, notably, unable to test this theory, as we do not consult dictionaries, preferring, instead, to just go with our instinct on spellings. And Definitions. And facts. Etc.

We bucked the trend as long as we could. (Taking pictures of our food, that is, not consulting dictionaries. We’re still proudly bucking that trend).

But when it became evident that we would no loner be able to escape the taunts of our peers, accusing us of harboring luddite-sensibilities and worse, we went from bucking to buckling. Accordingly, now whenever we frequent the many victuallers scattered hither and yon throughout the shire, we come equipped with a fully-charged device, a keen eye, and the perspective of a seasoned auteur, prepared to record the day’s repast for posterity, and also to give the Library of Congress reassurance that it won’t run out of stuff to archive.

Will we admit to a smidgen of guilty pleasure in succumbing to this moronic pastime? Absolutely not! We hate it. We do it only as a public service, and only grudgingly. If it were up to us, we would only do take-out from the Hunan Kosher Happy Fun Time Eating Place, and what we scarfed down would be nobody’s business but our own. But as we are programmed by our societal caste to conduct ourselves in the spirit of noblesse oblige (not given over to wasting time confirming the definitions of haughty-sounding phrases by cracking open a dictionary, as you will recall, we are guessing that this term applies to us), we do our duty, and we do so without complaint. Kvetching a bit, but without complaint.

The recent results of our mix of gastronomic and photographic escapades are offered below free of charge. We will caution you, Dear Reader (we trust you are the only reader) just this once, so pay attention: Do not gaze overlong at these images. Their hypnotic qualities have the power to transport you to realms best left to the terrifying recesses of the subconscious. Should you be foolish enough not to heed this warning, we cannot be responsible for the sad results.

The cornbeefed omelette at Grumpy's Breakfast Nook is to stub your toe for. Not that great, but the coffee refills are free if you ask 26 times. As you can tell from this shot, the portions are huge. Looks scrumptious, no?

Elegance is the catchword at Chez Che's. The soft lighting in the dining room nicely contrasts with the posters of Che Guevara plastered all over the walls. It's a kind of culinary marriage of socialism and capitalism. Here, for example, is a spartan yet tasty arrangement of Walnuts One Way (basically raw nuts dumped on a plate), accompanied by a stunning Riesling.

Soupçon was featuring a melted bullion cube the day we visited. I think it was beef. But it might have been chicken. Or fish. Not really sure if truth be told. But doesn't it look good?

At Claudio's Jiggy Fish, they take presentation very seriously. The caviar in this Fish Eggs and Egg Eggs dish had turned by the time it reached our table, but the artistic design of a sturgeon choking on an egg in the center was quite ingenious and well worth preserving with the use of an iPad, nerdiness be damned!

The lighting at Daffy's is crappy. And so is the duck.

Hopefully, the masterful treatment of the baked, stuffed scrod at the tiny purveyor of the day's catch, Any Port in a Storm, is readily evident from this scene. The fish is totally skinned. Then the skin is glazed and stuffed inside. Then the whole thing is baked. Then the skin is taken out of the interior of the fish and glued back on the outside. Then the whole thing is fried. Then the skin is taken off and discarded. Then the fish is sprinkled with almond flakes, or whatever happens to be lying around. Then the whole thing is served on a plate together with a napkin, a plate, a fork, and a knife. Then the whole thing is eaten. Then the bill comes. Amazing experience. Also, expensive.

At Mario's, photography in the dining room is strictly prohibited. We were tossed out into the snow for violating the rule. As the maître d’ was shoving us out the door, we happened to snap this shot of the headless statue out front. The legend at the base reads: "Pincus 'Ming' Mandelbaum, Victoria et Gloria, eh!" We have no idea what it means.

The fare at the Cat House verges on the inedible. We know a certain someone who refuses to eat it no matter how many times "florentine" is used in the name of the dish. There are no English words that can adequately describe the chazzerai they foisted on us the day we came. The big joke there is that they have daily "specials," but it's the same thing every single day. No wonder the patrons are sick of it.

This is our favorite picture. It really captures the flavor of the slow-roasted brew ladled with care into wax-coated paper cups by the crotchety retirees at Ye Olde Hoity Toity Cafe Franchise. Look at the size of that plastic lid! Big enough for 4 or 5 Cups On the Run (TM). Can't you just smell the aroma? Doesn't it make you want to get some this instant? You won't have to go far. There's a YOHTC on practically every corner. But please don't take pictures of the products there. How would it be if everybody did it?

This is Your Blog on Drugs

2013-02-03T23:13:00.004-05:00

Elizabeth Barrett Browning was known to power through marathon writing binges after gorging on bangers and mash washed down with opium and morphine. Oscar Wilde would often sit up all night drinking absinthe, hallucinate, and then write plays like “The Importance of Being Ernest.” (Many of his fans were disappointed upon learning that the film was nothing like the Cliff Notes). Alan Ginsburg used marijuana and nitrous oxide to expand his horizons and induce poetic visions when kishke and chicken soup weren’t up to the task. Carlos Castaneda transformed himself from nebbish to nebbishly chic with the aide of peyote and a mysterious medicine man (who no one else ever saw) inspiring the counter-culture hit: "The Teachings of Don Juan." Anais Nin liked reading Aldous Huxley, but not as much as she liked dropping acid, which, she said, allowed her to “understand the infinite.”

We here at Honk if you Like Honking would like to understand the infinite. Unfortunately, as many of you know, we can’t even understand the tilde (~) key. This seems unfair, as we’re certain that, just as in days of old (or, at least, middle age), serious artists are still sprucing up their creative expression with performance-enhancing hallucinogens. We thought we might level the playing field by trying our hand at a little shamanism of our own. Strictly for the good of the craft, you understand.

We scrounged around the HIYLH offices, and we couldn’t find hide nor hair of LSD. Ditto Opium. We even looked under the office cat to see if he was sitting on any peyote. He was not. We pulled the throw out from under him, and he went flying up in the air angrily, paws akimbo, claws out, -- just long enough for us to check between the cracks in the cushions to see if any morphine had slipped down under there. Not a smidgen. This was a disappointment albeit, a minor setback, as we have always been willing to persevere for the benefit of elite intellectual pursuits long past the time that persons of inferior stamina would have given up and succumbed to the charms of the Cooking Channel. We pressed on, because we could have sworn that we had once seen some absinthe in the wood shed. We were wrong. But at least now we know where the pliers are.

Over time, we managed to overcome the aforementioned obstacles. We found alternate substances appropriate for our foray into the realm of substance-inspired literary creation. How? We won’t bore you with the details. We’ve already done that for the last three paragraphs. Instead, we take you directly to the results.

Written Under the Influence of Vicks Vapo-Rub

There are certain places where you should not put Vicks Vapo-Rub.

Do I have to draw you a picture?

Written under the Influence of Antacid/Calcium Supplement (FreshMint)

Hour 1

Why should “FRESHMINT” be one word?

Do they think we won’t notice if it’s in ALL CAPS?

The “fresh” part seems kind of redundant.

It’s not like if they just said “mint” we might worry that it had gone bad because they had neglected to put the “fresh” in there. Nobody reads the word “mint” on a bottle and thinks “Hmmm. I wonder if it’s gone bad.”

I thought I heard something. Are these walls talking? It sounds like “Feed me. Feed me.” Wow! What’s in this stuff, anyway? I’m hallucinegating now for sure!

Hour 2

I’ve been staring at this bottle for 2 hours. I just now realized that if I peel the label back, there’s a coupon underneath for $1.00 off towards the next purchase of FRESHMINT! But wait! What’s this!? “Coupon may not be bought, transferred, or sold!” There’s got to be a way around this. It sounds like an unreasonable restraint of trade. Maybe there’s a black market in FRESHMINT coupons. I wish I had a guy I could call.

Wait a minute! “Black market!?” I don’t do that sort of thing! Is this the antacid talking?

Hour 3

These pills aren’t half bad.

I could definitely survive in a lifeboat with these for a couple of weeks, at least if I had to. After a while, the chalkiness kind of grows on you. It’s an acquired taste.

Written under the Influence of Antihistamine (Nighttime/Drowsy)

My head feels as though someone has stuffed cotton balls between my ears (i.e. in my head). I have the sensation of being here and being not here at the same time. I have the urge to operate heavy machinery or a motor vehicle, but something tells me I shouldn’t. I hear the walls talking, again. They are saying “Feed me. Feed Me. I’m bored, and I just gotta knock some glass thing off the counter and break it or I will go insane!” What could this mean?

In this altered state, I have the illusion of the cat ripping the shit out of the back of the armchair by the window. I want to strangle him at this moment, and, perhaps, operate a motor vehicle or heavy machinery. Instead, I just sit here, disempowered by the drug. All the while, from someplace (I don’t know where), I hear the eerie refrain: “Feed me! Feed me!”

My eyelids are getting heavy. They should restrict their caloric intake or try the Paleo diet.

Post-Script Upon Coming Out of the Antihistamine-Induced Trance

What a wild night! How much time has gone by? It’s unreal. I have virtually no recollection of anything. I’m like Ray Milland in “The Lost Weekend.”

I notice that the back of the armchair has been torn to shreds, as though it had been clawed to death by a wild beast! How could this have happened? What other strange goings-on have transpired during my vacation from the here and now?

Written under the Influence of Expired Baby Aspirin

The Infinite paid me a midnight visit while I was sitting in the breakfast nook thinking about having a pop tart.

“What have you got to eat?” said the Infinite without even moving its lips.

“Nothing,” I replied.

“Don’t lie to me!” admonished the Infinite. I can see right through your refrigerator door.”

“Oh, alright,” I complained. “Why don’t you help yourself to a Puddin’ Pop?”

“I’d rather have the leftover arugula,” insisted the Infinite.

“But it’s gone bad!” I protested.

“Oh that doesn’t matter,” said the Infinite. “It’s all good.”

Really? Really? Leftover bad arugula over a Puddin’ Pop?

I’ll never understand the Infinite.

ZAGAT's: Bird Edition

2013-01-03T01:24:00.000-05:00

Now that Jack Frost has begun to blow his icy winds in our direction, many avian victuallers in the metropolitan area have spruced up their table d'hôte, prix fixe, À la carte and other intimidating-sounding menus in order to attract this season, a smarter set, instead of just the usual hangers-on, too stupid to fly south for the winter. As a service to those who never quite mastered the V formation, as well as for everybirdy else who won't get all hot and bothered (we are endothermic, after all) draggin' their feathers around in the snow, so to speak, we present this survey of the latest action.

The House with the Sports Car That Just Sits There in the Driveway Under a Tarp, Covered in Bird Shit $

This neighborhood favorite has been around for as long as any of us can remember. We all have pretty short life spans, so that's not saying much. But still...Anyway, regulars swear by the crumbs that the owners toss carelessly into the patio. Nobody here cares a hoot about presentation. It's all about the portion sizes. You'd think they'd never heard of minimalism, which, of course, they haven't. The worms are passable, but with prices as retro as this, nobody's crying over some lousy worms.

[18] [12] [6] [$7]

The Yard Where a Bunch of Small, Dead Animals Are Shoved Under the Hedges

$$$$

What's new here this year? Suet, that's what! Is it pricey? Yes it is. Do you have to stand sideways on a tree trunk and peck through a wire cage fastened to a branch with an old wire hanger by somebody who obviously didn't have the right stuff for the Boy Scouts? It's true. Yet none of that matters. We're talking suet. (And not that homemade chazzerai they tried to palm off last year, but the real deal -- bought in a store! ) This is the place to go to impress your mate. Be prepared to shell out, though. Speaking of which, the dining area is usually hopping with squirrels, so come early.

[28] [28] [25] [$52]

Fat Boy Slim's $$$

If you haven't heard of Fat Boy's, it's safe to say you're not from around here. (Canada perhaps?) Named for the big, huge (did we mention HUGE?) orange cat who always seems to be hanging around just under the feeder, this joint is a conundrum. One the one hand, the seed here is really good and the variety is superb. Unlike some places that promise a healthy mix, but end up just sprinkling a few sunflower casings on an otherwise monotonous stack, Fat Boy's really delivers. And we can overlook that the holder is cracked and held together with electrical tape (believe us when we tell you that it just doesn't go with the rest of the decor). We're also not put off by that hard glob of -- what-- 3, 4 year-old uneaten whatever it is because nobody has bothered to chip it off and clean the container. No, we're not bothered by these things, for, as we have mentioned, the seed is really good. Instead, it's the cat always lurking that always makes us want to eat and run -- or fly, as the case may be. Judging by the blue jay feathers that always seem to be sprinkled on the lawn like pepper flakes on fancy-pants pizza, it's clear that some of our readers fail to take our advice. So don't be a dodo. Enjoy the spread, but don't linger. At Fat Boy's, lingering is definitely not for the birds.

[18] [27 [23] [$25]

Woody's Way, Way Up High in the Tree $$$$

Some of our reviewers think this place is Über-pretentious, mostly because of their annoying ad: "Come for the grub; stay for our amazing view." As many have pointed out, the spécialité de la mason here is maybe 35 or 40 feet above ground level -- not exactly taxing the ole' thrill-o-meter for those of use who habitually commute hundreds of feet higher than that. The grub is very, very good, though, and well worth the trip. The truth is, unless you're a chickadee or a finch, you're probably not going to get all worked up over the view. But do them a little kindness and pretend to be, anyway. You'll be sure to make the proprietor happy. And the grub could care less, so who could it hurt?

[21] [23 [26] [$44]

McMansion on the Hill $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

It's not the pale moon that excites us. That thrills and delights us. Nor is it the over-the-top architecture commissioned by the nouveau-riche owners of this dot com pleasure palace. Nor the liver & onions-shaped swimming pool. Nor the gaudy Greco-Roman statuary posed in various stages of contrived eroticism out back. Oh, no, it's just the nearness of the five (count 'em, 5!) HEATED birdbaths on the grounds. One dip in one of these hedonistic puddles, and you'll be saying: "I can''t remember what I just ate. Give me a pig's foot and a bottle of beer for all I care. Just keep the juice on and the liquid flowing. Do we understand each other?" If you go to just one place in your life where it's worth it to endure the outrageously expensive dreck just to bask in the setting, go here. There's a big dog on the property, but he's a harmless moron and afraid of wild turkeys. Actually, so are we a little bit.

[3] [19 [30] [$72]

Hawk's Delight $$

Are some birds dimwits? Sadly, yes they are. They fail to heed the warnings and to take proper precautions prior to supping on the admittedly scrumptious feast that this reliable standby offers year in and year out. Who doesn't love the fabulous nosh spread out so lovingly that a fully-populated dining area looks like a scene from a Disney cartoon with little peeps chirping playfully above while woodchucks and other adorable ground rodents feast on the remnants below? Who doesn't like dinner just ripe for the plucking, practically begging to be eaten right off the snow pack? Who could possibly be excluded from this group? Certainly not the fellows who give this eponymous eatery its reputation for thrills gone bad. By all means, delight in the bill of fare. But remain vigilant. Failure to do so may ensure that the answer to the question: "what's good on the menu today?" may just be: "Why, you are, you crazy bird!"

[17] [4 [11] [$23]

A Word About What Our Symbols Mean

Nothing.

A Christmas Card from Hope

2012-12-21T02:15:00.000-05:00

Well, it’s been another amazing year for our family. I went to Davos again and hung out with Billy Gates and Sting and Bono. What a hoot! The Duchess of Cambridge showed up this time, and we asked her to play Texas Hold ‘Em with us, but she politely begged off on the grounds that it would be unseemly for a Royal to play poker. Ha, Ha. (Was she funnin’ us?) Anyhoo, also did an initiative on climate change, an initiative on energy independence, and an initiative on initiatives. Also, the TED conference where Keith Richards, Springsteen, Bono and the guy with the wobbly voice from Cold Play and I hung out and played Texas Hold ‘Em into the wee hours. Billy Gates Skyped in for a spell, but then Melinda told him to come to bed. He walked away from a huge pot, but I guess he can afford it. Tip: Bono may be a nice guy, but I’m not sure he’s all above board when it comes to cards. I’ll say this for Vail, Colorado, though; they sure have a lot of famous rich people running around there. The hot cocoa is to die for and the whipped cream, a mechiah!

Hillary’s still doing that thing that she does over at State. We didn’t get to see that much of her this year, because she’s always flying hither and yon, and putting a stop to various wars, yadee, yadee, yadda. This month alone, she was in 147 different world capitals! Who knew there were so many fucking countries!? She loves her “work,” but seriously, it’s kind of nice to have her around for the holidays – even if it took a concussion and a head cold to get her to slow down for a spell. She’s still recovering from the bump on her head. She’s fine, but we had to miss the annual party at the Saudi Embassy. No big loss. They never shake hands with her or let her do karaoke. So instead, we stayed in and watched home makeover shows and I don’t know how many episodes of “Say Yes to the Dress.” Hoo Boy! And I thought there was drama at the U. N.!

Chelsea and what’s-his-name are doing great. We were over at their house last week and it was all decked out. They had hung matzo balls from the Christmas tree. Very multicultural. Chelsea may run for something next year. Her name’s been floated in a few venues. I won’t say by whom. (Could his initials be W.J.C.?). Well, she’s smart as a whip, so why not? We have high hopes for Chelsea. You might say we’ve got high apple pie in the sky hopes. Watch this space for more announcements soon.

So as another year draws to a close, I’m glad to report that we’re all well. We’re so happy that we are able to send you this update on ourselves. We’d love to hear from you, and we hope that we can see you all soon. (Not at once! There are way too many of you!).

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to one and all!

And remember, 2016 is now only 4 years away!

K.I.T.

Bill, Hillary, and Chelsea.

(and What’s-his-name)

The Anguish of an Unrecognized Talent

2012-11-23T15:52:00.000-05:00

______________________________________________________

Notice

Due to a an unscheduled leave of absence for a certain cast member, the part of the “Assistant Duke” will be played by rotating personnel from the cleaning crew for the remaining performances of the production.

_____________________________________________________

Fresh from my triumph treading the boards as the “Dumb Waiter” in the Metro-West Chamber of Commerce presentation of Quadruple Entendre…And Then Some!, I stumbled into a supporting role in the office production of The Duke, the Duchess, and the Dope.

I was tasked with interpreting afresh the vital character of the Assistant Duke, often played too broadly or too narrowly, or sometimes, too hot, or too cold, instead of just right. I rose to the challenge of giving life to a fictitious being so often given short shrift, and to do so in the company of lackluster colleagues, many new to the world of the thespian arts. As luck would have it, my boss was cast as the Duchess. Some lackey from marketing played the Dope, and various no-name types from accounts receivable rounded out the dramatis personae as townsfolk and miscellaneous lepers.

We had rehearsed for weeks wherever we could find space: the copy room, or the adjacent half-kitchen -- squeezed in amongst the carcinogenic sweeteners adorning the countertops and the “tree” of exotic coffees compressed into little testosterone-killing plastic tubs a penny toss from the microwave. Lost in our concentration, we would block scene after scene for who-knows-how-long without a soul pausing to dip into the over-sized bowl of stale pretzels.

After previewing the show for the cleaning crew and other denizens of the sub-basement, and after cutting a few of the draggier musical numbers, like “I’m as Corny as Alfalfa,” we were ready for the big time, to wit: the freshly re-carpeted auditorium of the Abraham Lincoln Middle School.

The first two performances nearly filled the 110-seat hall to capacity. No surprise. The reviews from the Rotarian newsletter -- overlooking the foibles of the lesser players in our midst -- were outstanding: “This show is a harmless way to kill two hours and the tickets are cheap” was just one of the many glowing superlatives that found its way to print.

By the third night, we could be forgiven for feeling entitled to reap the harvest of accolades cascading from the Fourth Estate. Could this mean box office gold? Even the make-up lady’s penchant for overly-liberal appliques of rouge (making the players all look like Raggedy Annes and Raggedy Andys on steroids) could not dampen our esprit de corps.

But something that had happened at the office earlier on the morning after the second night’s performance had been distracting me all day: I had asked Walter to replenish the staples in my stapler, and he just snapped like a man consumed with hatred of mechanical wire fasteners, screaming at me, “Do I look like a stapler replenisher to you!? Well, do I!?”

Everyone has their hair trigger; this was his.

Before I had the chance to reply, “Well, kinda, yes,” he was out the door and down the hall, smashing the water cooler angrily with his two good hands and muttering expletives.

Though Walter did not exactly report to me, or even work in the same department, or on the same floor, he was, technically, my junior, given that he had been at the company three weeks fewer than had I, and his office was smaller by 1 and 1/8 square feet. I was, therefore, stunned by his rogue display of insubordination. In fact, I began to obsess over it.

I was still obsessing over it later that night prior to the next performance of the “Duke,” and then, all throughout vocal warm-ups backstage, and continuing through the overture pulsating from the electric piano in the orchestra “pit.” (In actuality, this consisted of a few seats roped off in the front row reserved for the part-time organist from the minor league ball park. So skilled was our concertmaster with his electric “ensemble” that he could cause it to mimic 27 different musical instruments and to make metallic-sounding voices that were supposed to put one in mind of the Vienna Boys Choir, but mostly sounded like car alarms whose batteries were dying in dulcet tones).

I was still obsessing over it all throughout Act I, even at the moment when the entire cast was supposed to effect a goofy grin, slap their foreheads in unison and shout “Oy Vey!” (always a riotous crowd pleaser).

Indeed, so shaken had I become by Walter’s crude bent towards usurpation of the workplace hierarchy that I was now fully in the grips of fixation. My cast mates, deaf to my inner turmoil, ploughed on unawares. They were to be forgiven. After all, how could they feel my pain? They had not witnessed the whole sordid stapler affair and knew nothing of the revenge fantasies playing out in my head.

By now it was the second scene of Act II during my boss’ character’s big solo – a mini operetta in which she was to sing to the character of the Dope with the memorable refrain: “You are such a Dope!” I wasn’t supposed to be out of the wings until after the conclusion of the number, immediately following the Dope’s line, “Begging pardon, Majesty, I was born that way!”

But still lost in my trance, I wandered onto center stage just as my boss as the Duchess was belting out the lyric: “I am sick of your amateurism/ You will give me an aneurysm!” (one of the show’s many thrilling denouements!).

As soon as my boss saw me straying from the script and invading the mise en scene, wearing a vacant stare like a pair of familiar fleece undergarments, she stopped singing. Cold. Right in the middle of the song. There was a kind of hush all over the room that night.

In fact, there was so much silence that one could hear the patrons fiddling with candy wrappers, discussing their children's prowess on the soccer field, and texting – sounds typically drowned out by the actors’ dialogue. My boss gave me a look. I had seen it in every other community theatrical production in which I had ever participated. I knew that look. It was the look that said: “Idiot! What are you doing on the stage!? Get off! Get Off! You’re not even in costume! You’re ruining everything! Get Off, now!”

Relying on some primordial dramatist’s instinct, summoned, perhaps, from a past-life stint as a journeyman in an ancient Greek chorus, I did what I had always done in these situations; I improvised a few lines.

“What seems to be the fuss here, M’lady?”

I delivered this line with a stage wink, hoping against hope that my boss would pick up on my subtle cue. She was cueless.

She continued to glower at me. I turned to the hapless junior executive from sales playing the part of the Dope.

“I heard yelling. What gives, Imbecile?”

He just froze like a je ne sais qois caught in the headlights. He simply didn’t have the acumen to think on his feet. I turned back to my boss (a/k/a the “Duchess”):

“Who’s hungry? How ‘bout a sandwich?”

Nothing.

She walked up to me and whispered in my ear: “Are you out of your mind!? Get off the stage! Stop being a jerk! You’re ruining the whole show!”

I sized up the situation quickly, and thought: ‘Hmmm. You may be my boss in the office, but here on this stage, I am the Assistant Duke and you are just the Duchess. In this show, you are not the boss of me! I am the boss of you! Or, if not the boss of you, then at least, assistant to the boss of you!’”

Just as I was about to speak my latest improvisation: “You are not the boss of me!” some klutz in the lighting booth tripped, and the entire theater was plunged into darkness. Then I heard a loudmouth coughing into a microphone about waiting for the lights to come up before heading for the doors. But the exodus was already well in progress.

I was asked to leave the show that night. The vote was unanimous.

The scuttlebutt on the street is that the rank amateurs who stayed on with the production and forced me out are so blinded by self-adulation, so enamored with their own mediocre talent, that they haven’t even noticed the precipitous drop in quality since my departure. It would not surprise me one whit were the show to close before completing its scheduled nine-performance run, and its backers to suffer a loss. Outrageous, indeed, are the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. But, that's life; you're riding high in April, shot down in May.

Me? I’m planning to audition for the upcoming extravaganza: Flummoxed, the Musical. Maybe this time, we can assemble a team of real professionals, class acts who take their craft seriously, who can roll with the punches, and who know the appropriate response to the call of their muse or an improvised line now and again.

Heaven knows, the community deserves it.

HIYLH Concedes Election Early Before Polls Even Open, in Fact.

2012-11-05T10:22:00.001-05:00

If people can vote before the polls open, then we're going to one-up them! We hereby concede defeat. Right now. Before the little hand is on the 12 and the big hand is on the 12.1 in Dixville Notch, New Hampshire (where at least the postmaster still knows how to tell time with an old-fashioned clock).

We'd like to congratulate whoever wins. Or whomever. Or whomsoever. Or, if none of those are grammatically correct, then we'd just like to congratulate the "winner."

To our worthy opponent: You know all those untoward things we said about you during the Campaign? We didn't hardly mean some of them.

To the 300 million or so of you who failed and refused to endorse our candidacy, or even buy one of our bumper stickers for $19.99 (plus shipping and handling*) you were right all along!

We admit it.

The People have spoken. Or, the People have spoke. Or, if neither of those is grammatically correct, then we understand that the People have told us to go screw ourselves.

This is their right. This is what makes our democracy the envy of the world.

We respect the results, even though they are in a sealed envelope whose contents are known only to a couple of accountants at Price Waterhouse Coopers.

Even the Oscar Committee doesn't know who the winner is.

Now that the Campaign is over, let us all work together as One and try to dispose of these unused bumper stickers on Craigslist. We owe this much to our country, to our posterity, to our sacred honor, and to the printer whose monthly invoices are now colored pink with ominous red stamps all over them.

Remember: Together we can't do any worse.

*Does anybody else think this sounds just a tad obscene?

THE ROBO-CALL THAT CAUSED ME TO FINALLY DECIDE…TO DISCONNECT THE PHONE AND LOCK ALL THE DOORS.

2012-11-02T03:24:00.000-04:00

Hi! This is Marv Flanken with one “K.” I’m running for Village Perambulator and I’d appreciate your vote this Wednesday, November 8 when we all go to the polls to…hold on. Hold on.

LUCILLE!

I’M ON THE PHONE!

I..WHAT?

IT IS?

IT IS!?

ARE YOU SURE!?

IT IS!?

ARE YOU SURE!?

OK. Ok. Ok.

DON’T GET YOUR CUHNICKERS ALL IN A TWIST!

SHEESH!

Hi! This is Marv Flanken with one “K.” I’m running for Village Perambulator and I’d appreciate your vote this TUESDAY, November 7 when we all go to the polls to throw out the old bums and replace them with new ones.

My opponent, Merv Flunkken (with 2 “Ks”), has been slinging a lot of mud in the last days of this campaign. For one thing, he sucked a whole bunch of helium out of some kids’ balloons and then did his own robo-call in a Donald Duck kind of voice pretending to me and claiming that I hate puppies and children, which is a blatant falsehood.

I do not hate puppies.

I also saw some of his campaign workers stealing my yard signs, which is why we now chain them to people’s fences and front doors.

Do not be fooled by my opponent. He is desperate and will do anything to win. But, no mater how low he stoops, I will not resort to the same kind of foul play. And I certainly won’t repeat the rumor that he was disqualified from running for perambulator in 3 neighboring towns for cheating on the perambulator’s licensing exam.

If elected perambulator by you, I promise to…to…hold on please…

LUCILE! LUCILLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLE!

GET THE CAT! HE’S THROWING UP ON THE RUG!

WHAT!?

NO, YOU GET HIM! I ALREADY TOLD YOU; I’M IN THE MIDDLE OF SOMETHING HERE!

WHAT!? I DON’T CARE!

JUST KICK HIM OUT THE DOOR!

WHAT!?

HE WON’T RUN AWAY!

NO HE WON’T!

CHAIN HIM TO A DAMN YARD SIGN OR SOMETHING!

I DON'T KNOW! GRAB HIM BY THE NECK!

NO! THAT'S THE TAIL! IT'S..YEAH...

GOT HIM!? OK! GOOD!

GET HIM OUT OF HERE! HE STINKS!

Hi! This is Marv Flanken with…Oh, I read that already.

If elected perambulator by you, I promise to execute the duties of the office faithfully and not resign midway through my term to run for Congress.

I hope I can count on your vote this Wed…uh..Tues…uh…when the polls open.

IS THAT YOU AT THE DOOR, LUCILLE!?

WHAT!? YOU’RE LOCKED OUT!?

HOLD ON, I…I SAID HOLD ON!!! (Gawd awmighty!)

Remember, that’s Flanken with one “k.”

Look for my yard signs. You can’t miss ‘em.

And you sure as hell can’t remove ‘em.

I SAID I’M COMING!!!! DON’T HAVE A COW!!

This is Marv Flanken signing off.

A perambulator you can count on.

With one hand.

Thanks for your support.

That’s “Flanken.”

Like the meat.

Again. I repeat.

One "k."

Thank you.

OK, LUCILLE. I SAID I WAS COMI

Don’t Worry; Their Instructions Are Just as Boring and Incomprehensible as Yours Are. We Swear!

2012-10-08T20:56:00.001-04:00

English

Lay all 365 pieces out flat on a 15’ x 20’ piece of black rubberized foam, being careful to label each category of components and to separate them into galvanized steel containers.

Place the starter base rails in the front corners of the product 1 1/2” in from the sheeting ledge on the sides of the slab with 3 welded vertical pins. The vertical pins should be on 4’ or 5’ centers. Measure the distance from the end pin on each base rail to the first pin on the next inserted base rail and adjust the joint so that all the pins are on 4’ or 5’ centers.  Fasten each joint with two #12 self-drilling screws on the top of the base rail.

Use a 5/8” concrete bit in a hammer drill to drill a 5” deep hole in the slab. Place the washer and nut on the top of the bolt with about 2 threads showing. Tap the bolt into the hole with a hammer and tighten the nut until it is good and snug. Do not crush the base rail tube. Note: Before you drill holes in concrete be sure that you have secured the joint between base rails with (2) # 12 x 3/4” self-drilling screws.

The swage is 6” long. Insert the top of the height extension into the side post and attach with (4) #12 x 3/4” self-drilling screws. The base plates will be attached to the slab with 5/8” x 5” concrete wedge anchors. Using a 5/8” concrete drill bit in a hammer drill, drill a hole in the slab 5 1/2” deep. Place the flat washer on the anchor bolt and thread the hex nut. You must then plumb the post side to side and front to back and brace the post in place with a diagonal brace to a stake.

End girts are 1 1/2” square tubes that are flush mounted to the verticals with BK-30 single brackets and BK-31 double brackets. The girts are typically cut 1/4” shorter than the opening between verticals. Attach the single brackets with # 12 x 3/4” self-drilling screws to the girt and with #10 x 7/8” pan head, self drilling, square drive screws to the frame. Attach the double brackets to the girts and frame with #12 x 3/4” self-drilling screws (one per flange.)

Let dry for 52 hours.

Français

Mon nom est M. Thiébault. J'habite Place d'Italie à Paris. J'aime avoir du bon temps. J'aime manger des croissants tous les jours. Yum! Yum! J'aime aussi une bonne tasse de café. Dois-je fume des cigarettes en buvant mon café? Bien sûr! Je suis français!

Je suis marié. Le nom de mon épouse est Marie. Bien sûr! Elle est française! Nous vivons ensemble au 5ème étage d'un immeuble de charme dans le onzième arrondissement.

Nous vivons ensemble avec nos deux chiens, Fifi et Foo Foo. Ils sont caniches. Bien sûr! Ils sont français!

Quand je vais à mon bureau, je prends le métro à 3 arrêts. Gérer les comptes. Michele travaille dans le département des comptes avec moi. Je l'aime beaucoup. Elle porte des jupes courtes et a des jambes magnifiques. Michele et moi avons beaucoup de bons moments, ainsi que de boire du vin, fumer des cigarettes, en discutant Sarte, et de faire bien d'autres choses.

Les travailleurs de mon bureau se mettre en grève tous les mois. Bien sûr! Ils sont français!

Chaque samedi soir, Marie et je vais dans un restaurant avec Fifi et Foo Foo. Souvent, je vais commander le steak avec des frites. Très souvent, Marie va commander le canard ou un souffle agréable. Fifi et Foo Foo presque toujours le pâté de foie.

Nous avons une belle Bordeaux avec notre repas. Bien sûr! Nous sommes français!

Italiano

Devo avere la pasta in questo momento! Il sole non brillerà di nuovo fino a quando non ho la pasta con le vongole e una buona bottiglia di Chianti. La caldaia è esplosa e l'acqua si riversa su tutto il pavimento. Io sarà presente ad esso dopo aver finito il mio pasto, e fare sesso con la mia amante, e fare un pisolino. Sì, c'è del lavoro da fare, ma si può aspettare! Ora ci godiamo la vita! Posso offrirle un bicchiere di Limoncello?

La politica in questo paese sono molto pazzo. Chi se ne frega? Ci piace la bella vita! Ridiamo. Noi cantiamo. Noi giochiamo Combattiamo. Dormiamo. E si mangia una grande quantità di pasta. Inoltre, il gelato. Mmmmm Mmmmmm, ci piace il gelato!

Ti piace l'arte? Certo che sì! Permettetemi di dire qualche nome: Michelangelo, Botticelli, Da Vinci, Raffaello, Caravggio, Tiziano, Donatello, Tintoretto.

Ti piace la musica? Certo che sì! Permettetemi di dire qualche nome: Albinoni, Paganini, Pucini, Rossini, Scarlatti, Verdi, Vivaldi.

Ti piace la moda? Certo che sì! Permettetemi di dire qualche nome: Ferragamo, Gucci, Prada, Ricci, Versace, Zegna.

Facciamo una siesta!

Español

¿Ves ese edificio de allí? Es muy viejo. Cuando los musulmanes invadieron, era un fuerte. Durante la Inquisición, era una prisión. Las autoridades torturaron a mucha gente allí. Durante la Guerra Civil Española, fue un hospital. Hemmingway dormía allí una noche. Durante el reinado de Franco, que era una oficina de la Policía Secreta. Hoy en día, es una escuela de arquitectura. Ellos querían ponerle el nombre de Gaudí, pero su finca les dijo que fueran al infierno! En cambio, lo nombraron para el Euro. El cafetaria sirve un Tappas muy deliciosos.

¿Ves a esa mujer de pie en frente de la escuela jugando Flamenco? Ella está cantando una canción triste. Es una canción sobre un amor perdido. Ha actuado allí todos los días durante los últimos 23 años. En algunos días, los transeúntes se apiadara de ella y echar monedas en el sombrero. Si la moneda está en Euros, ella lo echa hacia atrás y demanda de dólares.

¿Ves ese cuervo en la plaza que se reclina sobre la estatua del Cid? Es el bisnieto de un ave que modeló para Picasso. Es ame es El Cid al menor.

¿Ves ese retrato que cuelga en la pared? Ese es el retrato del hombre que inventó la paella. Él es un héroe nacional. Su nombre era Irving Paella.

Venga, vamos a comer un poco de paella y beber una copa de jerez.

Deutsch

Achtung! Achtung!

Wir besitzen 23 robustes Holstein Kühen. Unsere Milchmädchen, Heidi, steigt in der Dämmerung und melkt sie. Sie haben große Euter.

Zum Frühstück haben wir eine herzhafte Mahlzeit aus Brot eingetaucht in Milch mit sauerbraten. Dann setzen wir auf Lederhosen und Jodeln für ein paar Stunden. Wenn wir fertig sind, essen wir etwas mehr Brot eingetaucht in Milch. Mit sauerbraten.

Dann sind wir in die Fabrik zu gehen und große Maschinen, die viel Lärm machen und sind teuer. Wir arbeiten sehr hart und nur selten eine Pause. Wenn wir uns ausruhen, essen wir etwas Brot eingetaucht in Milch. Mit sauerbraten.

Wir machen viele feine Produkte. Doppel-Klammern. Das sind unsere Lieblings-Produkte. Doppel-Klammern. Wir möchten diese Wort zu sagen: Doppel-Klammern. Es ist wirklich zwei Worte, aber wir verbinden sie mit einem Bindestrich ein Wort zu machen: Doppel-Klammern. Bitte missverstehen Sie mich nicht. Wir möchten mit anderen Worten zu sagen, auch, wie "Kompressor" und "Verbrennungsmotor."

Aber unser Lieblingswort ist Doppel-Klammern. Wir können nicht sagen, dass es genug. Doppel-Klammern. Wenn Sie es sagen zehnmal schneller wird Ihr Mund müde. Vor allem, wenn es Oktoberfest und Sie haben gerade viele große Krüge Bier konsumiert. Wir möchten Bier, natürlich! Ich sage nicht, dass wir das nicht tun. Natürlich tun wir. Normalerweise, wenn wir Brot dip, aber wir wollen Doppel-Klammern noch mehr sagen.

Doppel-Klammern. Doppel-Klammern. Doppel-Klammern. Doppel-Klammern. Doppel-Klammern. Doppel-Klammern. Doppel-Klammern. Doppel-Klammern.

Gott ist tot!

Doppel-Klammern, Ja!

It's Only the Warm-Up Act, But What's the Difference, Anyway?

2012-10-03T18:53:00.000-04:00

Another HIYLH original short:

http://www.xtranormal.com/watch/13750487/its-only-the-debate-warm-up-act

Whuppahusset in the Off Season

2012-09-06T00:49:00.000-04:00

The shoulder season, the period that begins directly after Labor Day when the disgruntled masses have flocked home to their tedious work-a-day lives, is the best time to save big on trips to the New England playground of Whuppahusset Island. Bargains abound for the astute skinflint.

The name “Whuppahusset” comes from the ancient tribal language of the original inhabitants and means roughly: “Nobody loves you but your Mama, and she may be jiving, too.” It has become the unofficial motto of the place, although the reasons remain a mystery.

Located just 18 miles from the mainland, Whuppahusset is easily reached by ferry operated by the state Steamship Authority. While prices for motorized vehicles are outrageous, the parsimonious traveller will have extra cash to spend ashore by packing light, going on foot, and riding in steerage belowdecks. There are no amenities in this part of the boat, but the oxygen supply is recycled every 6 minutes or so making conditions for the passage serviceable, if not luxe

All ferries dock at the Whining Seal Wharf in Whuppahusset Town Harbor. Whuppahusset Town, by far, the largest town on the island (the others are Whuppahasset, Huppawhusset, and the twin hamlets of Zippetydoodahusset and Zipperydodayhasset), is the commercial and tourist center. (If you do bring a car to the island, remember that parking in town, while impossible to find, is technically free. Nonetheless, the local constabulary is tasked with filling a quota of tickets weekly for such infractions as parking too close to the curb, parking too far from the curb, parking on the curb, or having an ugly car. The proceeds from the fines for these misdemeanors support important island institutions, such as the local constabulary.

The cheerful pre-colonial village is crisscrossed by three main cobblestoned thoroughfares: King Street, Kings Street, and King’s Lane, all of which evoke its Royalist past. These street names are an endless source of confusion to visitors and delight to locals. Several initiatives to rename the roads and erect distinguishing markers have all gone down in flames when put to a vote at Town meetings.

After disembarking from the ferry, head straight for the information booth at the end of the wharf for some free whimsical maps decorated with cartoonish drawings of marine life frolicking in the borders and a compass that, annoyingly, shows north at a tilt instead of straight up and down. These maps are not drawn to scale and are of little actual use as navigation guides, but they make great souvenirs or placemats. The information booth is staffed by retired truant officers whose gaps in knowledge about the land’s geography and customs are offset by vivid imaginations and dramatic presentations.

Be sure to ask for an itinerary for a self-guided walking tour. The town proper is relatively small and most people can complete a tour within 2 to 3 hours – provided a modicum of dawdling obtains. Thus, if you arrive on one of the morning boats and start immediately, you can complete the tour in time for lunch. If you arrive on one of the late night boats, your tour will likely cause you to be stumbling around in the dark, and many of the points of interest will be shuttered.

First stop on your self-guided walking tour is the statue of Pluck at Sovereign Immunity Square (intersection of King Street, King’s Street, and King’s Lane, and site of many fender benders). Pluck commemorates the story of Montague Spence who, at the age of 93, after a lifetime spent setting type for a ferryboat ticket office, ran away to sea to join the merchant marine. He died while being interrogated by a shipping agent before ever lifting a foot off the dock. But the townsfolk were so moved by his indomitable spirit that they commissioned the monument. It shows the agent laughing at Spence’s curriculum vitae while Spence fishes around in his pocket for a hard candy. At the foot of the statue, Spence’s dog, Plucky, orphaned upon his master’s death, is touchingly depicted being adopted by a rich family who feed him from the table and let him get up on the bed and do whatever he wants.

Continue up King Street to the Thistle ‘N Whistle (26 King Street. 243-9013) where master chef, Sky King, works magic with the island’s native cuisine, the thistle. His “Thistle Three Ways” is a testament to the virtuosity of the thistle and is not to be missed. Do not confuse this bistro with that of King’s twin brother, Wal King, whose competing establishment, the Whistle ‘N Thistle is around the corner (26 Kings Street. 243-9014). The brothers’ culinary rivalry plays itself out in Wal’s “Thistle Four Ways.” These brothers are always pushing the thistle envelope, and no one knows how experimental they will get.

Whuppahusset prides itself on being the first place anywhere to make wide use of the “Yes! We’re Open!” placard in store windows, a fact you will soon learn (again) at the Museum of Store Signage (32 King’s Street. 243-9016 open daily 9-5). Other signs on display include prototypes of the sign “Sorry, we’re closed” and various notices of lien. The museum’s snack bar sells a surprisingly good thistle bisque.

Turn left on King’s Lane and finger the merchandise at the Thistle Market (46-93 King’s Lane, open daily from 7 am to 4 pm). To say there is a lot of thistle here is an understatement. There is a lot of thistle here.

At the end of the lane, turn right on King Street and proceed until it intersects with Kings Street. You’re at The Meat Locker (78 King Street at the intersection of Kings Street, 244-7641). Chef King Domcom has converted this former insane asylum into one of the hippest watering holes in town. Many first-time visitors are surprised to learn that the establishment offers vegetarian fare only. It used to be called the Thistlery, but when the air conditioning jammed, the patrons demanded a new moniker. Try the fried thistle. It’s to die for.

Come! Come! Join the harvest! The annual Thistle Harvest is on each year (hence, “annual”) at Black Fly Beach. Organized by the Thistle Conservancy, these events are so popular in the autumn season that it seems as though the entire island turns out for them. (This is not the case, however, as the local constabulary stays behind to hand out parking tickets). Tourists can join the fun by purchasing collection baskets of varying shapes and sizes. The carnival-like atmosphere also features face-painting, pony tricks, and other depressing activities for the children. In what is now a beloved island tradition, Black Fly Beach is also the site of the reenactment of the Oil Slick of Aught Four, a pageant commemorating an important moment in the island’s history, and presented as a public service by the Thistle Guild. At the end of each performance, the players throw mud balls at the audience. Do not forget the bug spray! (Call 244-7655 to reserve a ticket or just to chat with one of the operators standing by).

Now that the harvest is safely in, time to see where the island’s favorite spirits are distilled. Head on over to The Thistillery (52 Kings Street. 244-7644). In a clever play on words, this ancient and honorable establishment combines the island’s most important commodity with a reference to the vats where sour mash is made. The Thistillery has three tours daily at 1:00 pm, 3:00 pm, and 4:47 pm. (the last tour is abbreviated, as the joint closes at 5). Here, visitors can sample the lovely varietals of thistle used in the production of such regional favorites as Whuppahusset Red, which is actually a little brownish but still has a kick. The old wives tale about going blind from drinking too much of this product has been disproven, though quaffing a bottle will turn most people into blathering idiots. If you pay for the tastings, the mug is yours to keep or to attempt to sell.

The new fall theater season has begun in Whuppahusset. Take a little diversion to King’s Park (bounded by King Street, Kings Street, and King’s Lane) where for three weeks each September and October, Sheriff Bull “Chien” Sheet trots out the convicts from the village jail and forces them to perform musical entertainments for the day trippers besotted with Whuppahusset Red and other liquors. The captive thespians usually do musical adaptations of popular films interlaced with songs of their own devising. In past seasons, they have performed “Prisoner of Zenda,” “Prisoner of Zenda II,” and “Prisoner of Zenda III.” The apparent lack of variation appears to matter not a whit to the tourists fresh from enjoying their liquid refreshments at the Thistillery. This year, the troupe is slated to appear in “Prisoner of Zenda IV, the Sequel.” (3 shows nightly, at 7:00 PM, 8:00 PM, and 9:PM. Call 244-9988 for tickets and show times. Although, we just told you the show times). This is a perfect way to close out the day in Whuppahusset. After the show, you can lie in the grass and watch the sun set over the harbor, the recycling center, and the sludge dump.

Before heading back to your B&B or H&O&T&E&L, stop off at one of Whuppahusset’s many fine and charming bawdy houses for a nightcap. Though perhaps not as glittery as its well-heeled competitors, Martha’s Vineyard, Nantucket, or the Hamptons, Whuppahusset is not without its share of luminaries, and you never know with whom you will rub shoulders. Look, over there! At the next table! Is that a paralegal from the Patent and Trademark Office? Keep an autograph book on your person at all times. You’re with the in crowd now!

If you plan your trip carefully, you can see everything on your list until you are finished and want to go home. Whuppahusset is just the place for some of the people all of the time.

As always, safe travels.

Ayn Rand: Late Night.

2012-08-17T00:50:00.000-04:00

Another HIYLH short:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TjJrQ5CShLk

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaarvark Goes for Gold

2012-08-01T23:39:00.001-04:00

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is how many rows away from the emergency exit I was sitting, and what my lousy flight was like, and how my stewardesses acted before they had me confined to my seat for doing jumping jacks in the aisle, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.

The point is, the Aaaaaaaaaaaaaarvark National Team finally made it to the Olympics. Or within the general proximity thereof. At least on paper. Sort of.

Here's how it all went down.

Day 1: Aaaaaaaaaaaaaarvark National Team formed. (tryouts not necessary because country has a population of only 2 (1 of whom refuses to recognize country) plus cat.

Day 2: Cat deemed not eligible for National Team and summarily kicked off.

Day 3: Cat appeals expulsion order.

Day 3: (partius secundus): Expulsion order upheld.

Day 3: (partius tricundus): Cat defects across the border and seeks political asylum.

Day 3: (partius quatrain): Cat's application for political asylum denied!

Day 3: (partius quintius maximus): Cat summarily repatriated by enemy border patrol.

Day 3: (partius sextuplet): Cat begins sit-in protest.

Days 4-72: Casting about for some Olympic event in which to compete.

Day 73: Hitting upon notion of Olympic Solitaire. Pros: Can be played with only one person. Cons: Can be played with only one person.

Day 73 (partius secundus) : Olympic Solitaire scratched!!!

Days 74-79: In training for Olympic channel surfing. (not to be confused with other surfing events).

Day 80: Board plane for London.

[skipping over various incidents on the plane]

Day 80: (partius secundus) Arrive London.

Day 80: (partius ticonderoga) Ask directions for Olympic Village.

Day 80: (partius quatrain) No one knows where Olympic Village is.

Days 80-83: At Courtyard by Marriot®, stewing.

Day: 83 (partius secundus) Bellhop happens to causally mention that Olympics are not in London, Ontario but, rather, that other London, and what is the Aaaaaaaaaaaaaarvark National Team doing in Canada when the Olympics are in England? Rubbing it in, etc.

Day 84: Board plane for London.

[skipping over various incidents on the plane]

[skipping over various incidents at customs]

[skipping over various incidents on the “Tube”]

Day 85: Conversation with bobby, summarized as follows:

“You can’t come in here, without credentials mate.”

“I’m with the Aaaaaaaaaaaaaarvark National Team.”

“Never ‘eard of you.”

“What do you mean you never heard of us? Here. Here’s our flag.”

“You’re not on the list. Put that greasy thing away, and kindly step aside.”

“But I’ve got to march in the Parade of Nations.”

“Mate, the Parade of Nations was 6 days ago. You’re a mite late.”

“Ho, ho. Very funny. The Parade of Nations can’t get started without the first team alphabetically. That would be us by a long shot. Helllo? Aaaaaaaaaaaaaarvark. Also first in the phone book. Maybe you should look at your little list again.”

[skipping over various incidents at the magistrate’s court]

[skipping over Aaaaaaaaaaaaaarvark medal count so far, but you can probably guess it.]

Day 86: Consoling self with high tea at the Savoy, watching on the “telly” as various badminton teams deliberately throw their matches. Even the cat could play better than these buffoons.

Day: 86 (partius secundus) Happen to tell bellhop at the Savoy about the ins and outs of the Aaaaaaaaaaaaaarvark National Team Olympic event. In response, bellhop happens to causally mention that there never was and never will be any such Olympic event.

Why do clueless people and fakers have so many opinions, do you suppose?

-------------------------

Don’t ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.

FOR OUR CONVENIENCE, WE'VE AUTOMATED YOUR LEGAL BILL

2012-07-13T00:28:00.000-04:00

Check all that apply:

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_____ Putting up with your nonsense ------------- $ A whole bunch

_____ Listening to your whining -------------------$ Plenty

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_____ Getting you out of the weeds----------------- $ Lots

_____ Lifting you out of the tall grass--------------- $ Mucho

_____ Pulling your ass out of the frying pan ------ $ Mondo

_____ Pulling your ass from the fire ----------------$ Mucho-Mondo

_____ Pulling your ass from a sling -----------------$ Mongahela

_____ Snatching you from the Titanic ------------- $ Wads

_____ Making people forget what you just said ---- $ Scads

_____ Making people forget what you just did ---- $ Gobs

_____ Resolving your crisis du jour-------------------$ Heaps

_____ Stamping out your fires ------------------------ $ Megabucks

_____ Rescuing you from your own stupidity ------ $ A fortune

The Presidential Grate Debate (it grates on you).

2012-07-08T09:44:00.000-04:00

Presented as an election-year service by the machers at Honk if you Like Honking:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2l3NS69dwqI

FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS

2012-06-22T00:38:00.000-04:00

1. What does FAQ stand for?

Answer

Search us. Why do you ask? Hopefully it will never come up.

2. When people say “at the end of the day,” as in: “At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter what the government does,” do they mean 5:00 pm, 11:00 pm, midnight, or what?

Answer

What?

3. How ya doin?

Answer

Alright. How ya doin?

4. You gonna finish that?

Answer

No, you can have it. It wasn’t very good.

5. How do you know that your dreams aren’t your real life and what you think is your conscious state isn’t really just a dream?

Answer

What?

6. How come every stupid scandal that comes along has to be nicknamed with the suffix “gate,” as in “fencegate”?

Answer

There was a fence scandal? Where were we?

7. When a movie critic uses the phrase “fun for the whole family,” what is the real message?

Answer

Avoid this insufferable piece of fluff like the plague.

8. Where are you if you are standing at Latitude:[40.749830598227], Longitude:[-73.987841281506]?

Answer

Bloomingdales. But if you cheat a little to the left, you’ll be at the food court.

9. Has anybody ever really been thrown under the bus?

Answer

Once. In a movie. That was fun for the whole family.

10. Is time-lapse photography just for lazy people?

Answer

No. Not everybody has the time to sit around all day and watch flower petals open up. But some people do.

11. If the queen shows up at your door unexpectedly, what do you offer her to eat?

Answer

Chitlins. She can’t get enough of them. Always have some on standby.

12. Wouldn’t it be faster to drive all the way to the bank?

Answer

You mean instead of laughing? No. It’s like a parking lot out there. Nothing’s moving in all directions. You might as well laugh.

13. Is it illegal to “oprima numero dos” if you don’t really speak Spanish?

Answer

Yes. Highly illegal.

14. Who? or Whom?

Answer

That’s a question?

15. Have you had about enough of this?

Answer

I’ll say.