A glorious All Hallows’ Eve to one and all, hallowed or otherwise:

     Halloween is a time for horror stories—surely none more terrifying than the horror stories about costumes that we’ve worn. Whether we were put up to it by someone, lost a bet, were forced to do it, or made the decision on our own, most of us have had a dreaded experience putting on a Halloween costume that didn’t quite come off…er, in a manner of speaking. We who frequent the Fortress of Funitude are no exceptions to this rule: what follows is a selection of costumes we’ve worn that fall under the general heading of “it seemed like a good idea at the time”. I yield the floor to my protégé Sparky’s inamorata and restraining influence, Miss Moose:

Thanks…we had a dismal trick-or-treating session a couple of years back, when Sparky thought it would be a good idea to go out as a fishwife.

As if the stench of “fresh” haddock and halibut wasn’t bad enough, Sparky decided that the best way to really get into the spirit of it all was to use a fishwife’s vocabulary every chance he got. “(Censored) Trick or (Censored) Treat, you (Censored) (Censored) (Expletive Deleted)” is not necessarily what you want to open the door to, and didn’t exactly yield us a big catch of goodies.

(Mebbe not, but I learn’d some more new words worth usin’ at nearly ev’ry house we stopp’d at. –Sparky.)

Mind you, I have nothing to be proud of myself. The year before that, Sparky convinced me to go out dressed up as the Great White Coati God of the Maya.

Strangely enough, most people in this day and age aren’t familiar with Mayan religious beliefs (other than the crazy crackpot ones about the world coming to an end). I also know it’s hard to believe that most people don’t know what a coati is, but there you have it. To make things worse, I was supposed to be an albino coati. I gave up explaining any of this after the fifth doorway full of blank stares. I felt like what I looked like—a raccoon that had been bleached and put through a clothes wringer one time too many.

(Yeh, but ya kept us all safe frum attacks by th’ lords of th’ Mayan underworld Xibalba. –Sparky.)

     When it comes to costumes that don’t exactly speak for themselves, though, Science Boy is our resident expert. One Halloween he went out as the calandria from a heavy-water-moderated nuclear reactor.

     As a dues-paying unionized witch, Milady Madeira M’Dear is contractually obligated to work (at time-and-a-half) on Halloween, but that doesn’t mean she can’t play dress-up like the rest of the non-magic-practising hoi polloi.

Yes indeedy, sweetie…even with magic on my side, I’ve had my fair share of costume woes. Shape-shifting spells are considered cheating (I never could get the hang of them anyway), which means I have to deal with the same preconceived notions about my wardrobe options as any other fuller-figured gal. I try to think outside the box…or rack…or fitting room, or whatever it is you think outside of when it comes to clothes, but I still get flak for some of my choices—like one Halloween when I dressed up as Judy Jetson.

      You got no complaints from me, M’Dear. Personally, I thought the problem that year was the way the “Jetsons” theme as a whole was handled. Sparky should’ve dressed up as Elroy, not Henry Orbit, the whimsically addle-pated caretaker—and Moose as Rosie the robot maid was an accident looking for one place after another to happen.

(Tell me about it…two words, Sparky—eye holes. –Moose.)

(I thot ya wuz s’pos’d ta see usin’ diodes er sumpin’. –Sparky.)

     As for myself, my costume choices are invariably bang-on. One I do refrain from wearing around the easily frightened, however, is my inimitable and uncanny rendition of The Headless Horseman from “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow”.

     This sort of costuming to type doesn’t always get the best results for everyone. Count Boguslav Boguslavsky, the manager of the Ashcan Club, figured he was a natural to dress up as an interpretation of William Blake’s classic poem “The Tyger”:

     That was enough to get a rise out of even Frank the Alligator, the Ashcan Club’s contrarian bartender. Ordinarily he shuns frivolity, in case it might be catching. I suspect that Frank’s policy of being against everything until it gives him a better reason to be against it will extend to costumes once again this year.

     To thine own self be true, Frank. As for the rest of you…don’t take candy from anyone who asks for ID…at least, not without getting a receipt.

Uncle Fun

At The Funday Sunnies featuring Duncan, we take pride in bringing you the latest developments in the world of self-employment:

 

Next week, tips for accessorizing ensembles to wear while standing in line for your social assistance cheque.

Happy John Cleese’s Birthday to our readers in East Funsville (the observance has yet to spread to the rest of Fun County, due to a persistent and unresolved debate over which Silly Walk should be the official one for the parade):

     Today’s posting features a guest commentator—Francesco Aligadro, a.k.a. Frank the Alligator, the weekday bartender and weekend bookmaker at my emporium of joie de vivre and eau de vie, the Ashcan Club. In his dual function as dispenser of libations and collector of lost wagers, Frank gets a chance to hear people pour out their hearts and souls…and occasionally even their minds, so he says. Don’t misconstrue me—it’s not that he’s a misanthrope. He just doesn’t like anyone or anything, that’s all.

Uncle Fun

Thanks for the ringing endorsement, Unc. Remind me to leave the cap off your San Pellegrino ‘til it goes flat to get back at you. First, I have something to say to all the fine folks out there…

 

Hey there, cretins. Since this is the anniversary of the publication of the first of the Federalist Papers, I thought I’d lead off by reminding you that there was a time when people who had something better than butterscotch pudding for brains got their ideas about politics published. So far this election, every time someone opens their mouth, it makes me use a word that just got Ann Coulter in trouble with the Special Olympics. Ordinarily, I don’t mind the drastic stupidity of the cheerfully misinformed, but the only visible trend in the campaign so far has been a steady stream of smartass remarks from know-nothing numbskulls in the peanut gallery.  

 I’ll grant you, this isn’t helped by both of the chuckleheaded presidential candidates saying things that wouldn’t pass the idiot test in a room full of idiots so idiotic they invested with Bernie Madoff, but that’s beside the point. (Seriously, though, Prez—could you poke a hole in your busy schedule of lipping off about who said what about whom on American Idol and try to show an interest in whether Syria is going to turn into the Bosnia of the 21st Century?)

 

That still doesn’t excuse the feeble attempts at humour that are trampling all the funny material that the politicians are giving us for free. All of a sudden, it’s Open Mike Night at the Improv for every halfwitted heckler who can’t let idiocy speak for itself. Here’s one of the worst offenders—some internet troll with a Facebook account who styles himself, or herself, (for the sake of the future of the human race, I hope it’s “itself”) “God”. Check out the profile picture on this peabrain’s page. Nothing says “prepare to be dazzled by satirical brilliance” like a tenth-rate vector drawing.

 

(In case you’re wondering, I don’t have a Facebook account. I just like to look over other people’s shoulders when they look at theirs. Whenever I think that my own life is full of repetitive nonsense that isn’t worth mentioning to anyone, I have Facebook to remind me of all the lamos I can’t hold a candle to on that score.)

 

But let’s get back to “God”. In his infinite wisdom, this Second Coming of Mort Sahl has leapt upon something that trickled out of Hymie the Robot's Mitt Romney’s mouth (sorry—I get those two confused) during the last debate. Here it is, with the oh-so-clever caption our comedy deity hath affixed to it:

Be still, and know that I am Not Funny. (No, seriously—excuse me while I get the surgical tape. I think I broke a rib laughing. I don’t want “God” to pluck it out and make a lamentably unfunny woman out of it. One Tina Fey is enough...and if it isn't, one Lena Dunham certainly is.)

Okay, now here comes the portion of this bottom-of-the-bill vaudeville act where someone who didn’t spend his schooldays drinking mucilage straight from the bottle gets to interrupt the laff riot with some cold, hard, comedy–killing facts.

FACT: There’s this thing separating the Persian Gulf from the Arabian Sea (those two things labelled “Sea” on the map wrought by “God”). It’s called the Strait of Hormuz. It’s so narrow that ships going through it need the maritime equivalent of a traffic light to keep from ramming into one another.

FACT: 20 percent of the world’s oil supply is shipped through there.

FACT: Of the countries on the Persian Gulf, all but one enjoy favourable relations with the United States.

FACT: That one country is (sing along when you know it…) IRAN, which periodically threatens to blockade the Strait of Hormuz.

FACT: Because of that last fact, the waters near the Strait of Hormuz are teeming with vessels belonging to the United States and its NATO buddies Great Britain and France, effectively cutting off Iran’s access to the Arabian Sea.

(Just in case you think I actually care about any of this, all those facts are the result of exhaustive web-based research that I got someone else to do because I can’t be bothered. It took a grand total of 11 seconds. “God” works in mysterious ways that don’t involve Google or Wikipedia, apparently.)  

So, let’s revise that picture juuuuuuust a little, shall we?

 

Looks like Mittens didn’t quite blow it as bad as you all thought, now did he? What he didn’t do was make the message clear, which, if you’re running for the Single Most Responsible Executive Position in your country, still adds up to a great big tub of dumbass. By the way, so does saying that navies are as obsolete as horses and bayonets, when your navy is the only thing keeping a lid on a situation like this.

 

So, time to review, class:

-If you can’t put across a point that can be confirmed by a Google search, you are a DUMBASS.

-If you don’t know how important ships are for a) transporting oil and b) making sure that ships full of oil actually get to you without being hijacked, you are a DUMBASS.

Here’s a visual aid for all the slow learners:

Everybody clear? Am I going slowly enough for you? Okay…

-If you try to be a smartass and all you succeed in proving is that you know less than a dumbass, that makes you a…

That, my friends (and you aren’t my friends, believe me), is an insult to all the dumbasses out there, who’ve worked their dumb asses off to become the dumbasses they are today.

And if that word offends any of you, you can all blow it out your dumb you-know-whats. Unless there’s some form of athletic competition for dumbasses, I won’t have to worry about an open letter from any real dumbasses anytime soon…at least until the National Hockey League gets back to playing, if it ever does.

This week, The Funday Sunnies featuring Duncan takes a page out of What They Don’t Teach You at Harvard Business School…sort of.

 

(A Google search will probably turn up about 10,000 actual companies with this exact name, but it seemed like a cute idea at the time.)

Happy Saturday, Tenacious Holders of Suffrage Rights:

     As those of you who follow the world from the safety and comfort of the internet will know, the presidential election campaign has become less about issues and more about witless tweets and Facebook posts by unemployed ex-Star Trek actors. (Much as I loathe working for the sake of working, to you, George Takei and Wil Wheaton, I say—take a job bagging groceries, even if you don’t need the money. You obviously have too much time on your hands.)

     Fortunately for the citizens of Funsville, today gives them a chance to turn their attention away from politics, and towards…well, politics.

     Sounds confusing? It is—but I’ll explain. October 20th is Charles Ives Day, an annual celebration of the life and work of one of the foremost American avant-garde composers of the 20th Century. If the name “Charles Ives” sends you on a wild Google chase, don’t feel uncultured. He’s hardly had the benefit of extensive mass media publicity.

     In addition to performances of Ives’ music in gazebos, bus shelters, shoe shine stands, and other public places all over Funsville, this mini-jubilee features a strong degree of political content. You see, as well as being an accomplished tunesmith and a crackerjack insurance salesman (but that’s another story), Charles Ives was something of an activist. In 1920, he published a pamphlet outlining a constitutional amendment which would allow U.S. citizens to enact legislation directly through annual plebiscites. (This was back in the days before blogs, when you had to go out of pocket to do things like this—take note of your good fortune, Messrs. Takei and Wheaton.)

     Ives’ dream of direct democracy was never shared by Uncle Sam, but we here in Funsville have embraced it with a vengeance. Every year on Charles Ives Day, we vote on a series of proposed new laws, as chosen by the eldest of our town elders during the scavenger hunt at Funsville’s annual Salute to Scrap Paper Festival. (This happens just after the annual ticker-tape parade to honour Edward A. Calahan, the inventor of ticker tape.)

     In keeping with the musical theme of Charles Ives Day, proposals must be arranged for piano and voice—preferably tenor or contralto, although baritones of either gender are acceptable. Voting is based not only on legislative merit, but on the creative use of tone clusters, polyrhythm and riffs borrowed from Stephen Foster songs like “Camptown Races”. Among this year’s most promising ideas are the following:

-An amendment to the Keep Our Dogs Clean Act, increasing the number of public flea baths in the downtown core from five to seven.

-A rider on Paragraph 3, Subsection A of Civic Ordinance 11 for the Control of Unnecessary Slapstick, reducing the fine for carrying a custard pie within 15 feet of an open banana peel.

-A new Standing Order to empanel a permanent Ways and Means Committee to study the ramifications of replacing the stripes on barber poles with paisley patterns.

-A broadening of the powers of the Office of Fish Counsellors, allowing them wider latitude to intervene in and mediate disputes concerning mollusks and smaller cephalopods (including, but not limited to, squid, octopi, and some varieties of cuttlefish, but with the exception of most species of nautilus).

-An extension to the license granted by the Bureau of Events and Happenings to the Society for Hurling Abuse at Passers-by, reinstating the right of their twice-yearly March of the Unprovoked Hecklers to pass in front of ladies’ hair salons and beauty parlours during business hours.

     As you can see, this year brings us an embarrassment of choices (you can interpret that phrase any way you wish). I’d better hurry down to the Funsville Philharmonic Hall and Jai-Alai Fronton, and get a good seat. The voting is by show of hands, and I want to be there early enough to mark the cards so I can get at least an inside straight to draw to.

     No, don’t try to figure out that last remark. Really, though—isn’t all voting a form of legalized gambling, when you think about it?

Uncle Fun

This week, The Funday Sunnies featuring Duncan is all about family:

 

There isn’t really much to say after that, is there?

Hello again, prospective exercisers of the franchise:

     With tonight’s vice-presidential debate set to launch the U.S. electoral campaign to new heights of rancour, I thought I’d use this space to bring you a heartening story of true hands-across-the-aisle bipartisan cooperation. Two little–known relatives of the contenders for the Second Most Demanding Job on Earth (the position of trying to convince Greece and Spain that Germany really does have their best interests at heart is already taken, by someone who doesn’t really want it) have gotten together to bring an eagerly awaiting world the one item of all items that it will find indispensable in these politically uncertain times.

     Who are these selfless benefactors of humankind, you ask? (And well you may—although I already did it for you.)

     The first is a distant cousin of the President, an avant-garde visual artist and specialist in kinetic sculpture, who goes by the name of Mobile Al Obama.

     The other is an equally distant cousin of the Republican presidential challenger—a small-to-middling digital multimedia impresario named C.D. Romney.

     In the best traditions of good old-fashioned American knowhow and stick-to-it-iveness, these two have joined forces, using the leftovers from their most recent critical and commercial setbacks. For Mobile Al, it was 15,000 miles of medium-gauge coat hanger wire for a planned retrospective of the history of dry cleaning, which fell through when he neglected to pay full postage on the grant application. For C.D., it was a warehouse full of copies of a less-than-universally-embraced attempt to create a new sensation in a crossover pop music genre called “techno-funk fusion goth metal emo Christian agnostic hip-hop”.   

     With a surplus of raw materials at their disposal, our intrepid entrepreneurs have pooled their resources to give the public something it didn’t even know it needed, just before the Great American Electorate makes its latest weary trek to the polling stations. To a nation a-tremble with anticipation, I give you…

The Swing State Prognosticator.

     And what’s a Swing State Prognosticator when it’s at home, you ask?  (Believe me, I did when they sprung this one on me.) The answer is simplicity itself (or a reasonable facsimile thereof). As its name implies, it’s a handy little gadget for determining how the vote is going to go in any one of a number of key battleground or “swing” states.

     Here’s how it works: each swing state is represented by a repurposed compact disc, opposite sides of which have been emblazoned with the insignias of the Democratic and Republican parties.

     The discs are suspended from a wire framework, allowing them to move freely. To determine which party will win the electoral vote in a given state, simply spin the disc until it comes to rest. Note which side is facing you, and get in touch with your bookie to place your all-important election side bets. (This is America, after all—there’s nothing in the Constitution prohibiting citizens from mixing issues of governance with free enterprise.)

     If tests with prototypes prove successful, the Swing State Prognosticator may be available to the general public as early as next week. Mobile Al and C.D. are already accepting advance orders, though. You may purchase Swing State Prognosticators individually, or (for a small additional fee) several at a time, complete with custom-made, lovingly hand-crafted armatures.

     C.D. and Mobile Al recommend that you take advantage of the tremendous saving on unit costs offered by the full set of fifty. This way (so their brochure tells me), you’ll have a leg up on all the guesswork about what’s going to happen come Election Day. And to those who say that this method replaces calm, rational analysis with nothing more than random chance, I remind you that, in this election year, good sense and clear thinking have long since taken to their heels and are in full retreat. After all, people are still making wisecracks about the future of Sesame Street—as if that fun-fur-covered cottage industry's merchandising revenues alone couldn’t balance the budget, with enough left over to buy PBS outright and get Jim Lehrer at least one suit that looks like it almost fits.

     There has to be a way I can get a piece of that action…I wonder how Sparky would look sitting in a trash can?

Uncle Fun

This week, The Funday Sunnies brings Duncan back to reality:

 

This was drawn a few years ago. Sadly, the only thing that seems to have changed is the size of cell phones.

 

 

Happy C’lumbus Day weekend and/or Canadian Thanksgiving and/or whatever th’ heck it is they sellabrate wherever th’ heck it is they sellabrate it:

Well, things has started ta heat up in th’ Americkun prezidentshul race, er at least not cool down as fast as it look’t as if they wuz gonna recently. One thing th’ punditzes an’ p’ltickull pollsters an’ other assorted whatchamacallits has bin talkin’ ‘bout, tho’, is how, with ruffly a month ta go b’fore th’ all ballots gits offishully spoilt, a lotta people has already made their minds up, with no backsies. Now, I’m not always among th’ 73% who find joornullists average er worse in terms’a trustworthiness, but I can’t help but think that this mind-makin’-uppedness gits a bit of a nudge frum th’ meediya sometimes:

 

 

You’ll notice I’ve left th’ names out so those’a you who havvunt made yer minds up kin start with a fresh slate. Here’s another one fer ya ta chew on:

 

Ya see, whut someone sez otta be at least as important as who sez it. (Th’ one exsepshun I’ll make to it is that when a cop sez “come here”, I take that as my cue ta run.) Both’a these gomers iz chronick sufferers frum foot-in-mouth dizeez, but only one’a them’s gettin' diagnosed as such by Dr. Genurall Publick. An’, speekin’ a doobeeyus utterunces, th’ Prezdunt himself is on reckord as sayin’ that this eleckshun is th’ clearest choice in hist’ry, so let’s examine that one, too. Takin' away names, faces, an' other sooperfishyallatees, here’s th’ choices that're acktuwally availabull ta th’ voter:

 

Yeah, that’s sure a choice-an’-a-half alright. Sints there ain’t no tellin’ th’ players without a scorecard nohow, th’ best thing’d be ta reshuffle th’ deck, an’ create two new tickets:

 

 

 

Now THAT’S a clear choice. Fer those of ya who don’t wanna think about politicks no longer, ya kin click here an’ lissen ta sumpin’ that wuzzent meant ta make any sense, but makes at least half as much as any’a these guys.

Th’ rest’a you massakists out there kin start thinkin’ up write-in candidates. I’ll start ya off with a good one whose name got menshuned in Wens’dy’s d’bate. If runnin' fer prezdunt don't come down ta anythin' other'n how likable ya are, this guy's a shoo-in: 

 

As fer me, I’m votin’ th’ straight Ernie & Bert ticket.

Sparky