The third sure thing in this life that Ben Franklin forgot to mention is “never follow animal acts”…

Today is the second-last day for all of you in the U.S. of A. to fill out your income tax forms.

This week’s edition of The Funday Sunnies featuring Duncan has nothing to do with that.

That’s showbiz for ya.

If you’re feeling superstitious today…just remember—there are thirteen letters in ‘Vince Lombardi’…

Hello, teeming masses, it’s Moose here:

   While I wait for Sparky to reappear (he can be a pain in the you-know-what, but he’s MY pain in the you-know-what) I’m killing time in the Fortress of Funitude, writing “It’s WERNHER von Braun, not WERNER von Braun” 50,000 times on the blackboard (check out this posting and this one to find out what brought THAT on).

   My vigil is partly a house-sitting gig. As they do every time Friday the Thirteenth is due to roll around, Uncle Fun and his lady friend M’Dear have hit the road in the Funmobile, hawking what they swear on a bust of Luther Burbank is a bumper crop from a four-leaf clover plantation. The skeptic in me has a hunch that something not altogether horticultural is behind this harvest.

   But enough about that already. The illustration at the top of this posting is by Mr. Cousins, who is helping Mrs. Cousins watch over me (which, confidentially, is more or less like letting Wile E. Coyote and a lit match watch over a carload of dynamite). Male Spouse Cousins has altogether too much time on his hands after submitting his master’s thesis, and has let his mind wander like a hobo with a train schedule. I submit the following as evidence—he actually shows this sort of thing to people, in the blind faith that they WON’T have him committed for it…

   Thank you for that completely unsolicited vote of confidence on my sanity. Just for that, I won’t read you the story about Goldilocks and the Three Stages of the North Korean Rocket. Be that as it may (and it isn’t, so why should we even kid ourselves about it?), when my grey matter is at a loose end, it drifts towards such Vital Questions of Our Age as “can you make a professional football team from profesional football team logos?” You’ll note I’m restricting myself to the pro game—it’s not that I don’t think that there’s a wealth of potential talent in the college logo ranks…it’s just that I’m too lazy to look for it. Someday I’ll organize a pre-draft combine for the college logos, but for the time being, the professional ones are what I have the time and energy to work with.

   I’ll start by building the team’s offence around a strong center:

   Their recent successes with an attractively streamlined logo notwithstanding, this is what I think of when I hear the name ‘New England Patriots’. Pat Patriot (or, to give him the more appropriately Early American name I’ve always used for him, Henry Wadsworth Longsnapper) has that ‘don’t mess with me and mine’ look that turned my ancestors into United Empire Loyalists with a permanent case of Canadian chilblains. Whatever moniker he goes by, it can’t be a pleasant prospect to be face-to-face across the line of scrimmage with a dude who helped drive Lord Cornwallis back to England.

   There was stiff competiton for the center position, as you can see:



   This cat is ready to dish out a mountain mauling on any nose tackle in Creation, but I’ll put him at one of the guard positions. I want those claws of his free to go to work when he has to block on passing plays.

   The rest of the offensive line will be filled out with the same principle in mind:

(We might have to watch that this guy doesn’t take too many penalties for unnecessary roughness.)

   There’s no shortage of candidates for the skill positions in the offence. That’s not to say, however, that I exactly have an embarrassment of riches to choose from at quarterback:

(I think this logo is what prompted the Packers to draft Brett Favre way back when…he looks a little on the immobile side.)

(Politically incorrect, but built like a tank. I’m not sure about his arm, though. He may be most useful in short-yardage situations.)

This is my first-string QB:

(Note the resemblance to Eli Manning’s throwing motion. Passes longer than 20 yards are likely to be up for grabs.)

   This is his primary target—a big, physical possession receiver out of the Art Monk/Harold Carmichael mould:

(Look at all the ground he’s covering…I count six U.S. states in the background. Talk about your ‘yards after catch’.)

   It’s also good to have a deep threat with a flair for the spectacular:

 

(Kind of reminds me of Randy Moss or Terrell Owens, only with hooves. He could become a discipline problem if he doesn’t curb his tendency to—you should pardon the expression—horse around.)

   My tight end is from the old school, and is there strictly to block:

   I’m not too concerned about who I have at QB and receivers, though, because the talent available makes for a run-oriented offense. Rather than use a single featured back, I’ll rotate my ball carriers in depending on the situation.

   Mr. St. Louis Cardinal here (yes, kids, that used to be name of a football team, too) looks like a good all-purpose back.



   The way he carries the ball makes me a little worried about fumbling, so I’ll also use this more sure-handed tailback:

   Monsieur Alouette and Mister Cardinal will generally be on the field together, lined up in a double wing formation.

   When the going gets heavy, I have in a sturdy fullback in reserve:

(No teeny little free safety is going to slap the ball out of Smokey’s hands when he gets up a head of steam. I just have to find a way to keep him from going into hibernation when the playoffs start.)

   I’ll bring this guy in to catch screen passes out of the backfield on second and long:

(He’s a strong open-field runner, and an even stronger open-field biter.)

   This is my specialist for fourth-down dive plays and goal-line plunges:

   And this fellow is our ace in the hole for when all else fails.

   As long as our blocking clears a path for him, there’s something in every chamber of that six-shooter for each member of the defensive secondary. And, if we need to protect a fourth-quarter lead, he can wrap things up a little early by firing the final gun.

   The one thing I’m not completely sure about is this team’s ability to punch the ball into the end zone on a regular basis. To make sure we still can score some points, I’ll call on the best kicker I can find:

   If the rules committee doesn’t ban steel-toed boots, he should be money in the bank anytime we get inside the 35-yard line. Fortunately, he doubles as a punter, so at least we can pin the other team deep while I try to figure out if any of my guys can play defense.







Never mind what this guy says—should the delivery of eggs be entrusted to a mammal in the first place?

Der Happy Easter to all of you from all of us in der Onkel Fun und Schparky Land,

   This year perhaps it is just der ‘Onkel Fun Land’, because no Schparky is there here.  For this I am glad, and I am not caring who ist not glad, because of what is happening every year when Schparky ist trying to do what he ist calling der ‘helping’ mit der preparation of der Easter eggs.

   This sort of thing ist ein typical egg-sample (das ist eine kleine play on der words there) of Schparky’s handiwork. Dieses kind of helps I am not needing, danke schön. So, Schparky, he can come back now that I am done mit der doing of my job for this year, and messing up he can be to some other holidays or observances, like maybe Arbor Day or something like that, whenever that is.

   So wishing it is I am to you der Happy Easter, and hopping (also another play on der words mit der bunny-hop, ja?) I am that you are enjoying your day as much as I haff been enjoying mine without Schparky.

Georg Friederich Wilhelm von Osterhasen

(known to you in Englisch as der Easter Bunny)



This Sunday is Easter, so this week's edition of The Funday Sunnies featuring Duncan comes to you on Saturday.

None of that hokey Johnny Hart-style ‘born-again’ razzmatazz here, folks…just good old fashioned secular oddness, like God intended.

…and he says, “can you put me up for the night?”

   This is the Commissioner of the Universe. You may have heard my voice if you’ve clicked on recent links to the audio postings in this blog. I hope I’m not bothering you, but, well, technically, it is my universe, and I suppose I can pretty much bother whomever I like…uh, within reason, I suppose.

   Um…yes, well…the title of this posting’s from a joke that Rob Justice told me recently, when he was in my office, begging off his latest mission. Apparently it’s either highly appropriate or highly inappropriate for today…the joke, that is--not begging off missions, which Rob Justice is allowed to do--it's somewhere in the fine print of his contract…which I had to take his word for, since he didn’t actually have his contract on him, but, as I said, I’ll take his word for it, since he’s generally pretty knowledgeable about these things.

   But, anyway--about the joke--I’m pretty sure he told me whether it was or wasn’t appropriate, and why, but the reason escapes me…as does the rest of the joke, so if any of you who think you can remember what it is would use the comment section below this posting to write in with your best guess, I’d really appreciate it. Oh--I’m pretty sure that bit I gave you was the punch line, if that helps any.

P.S. (This is really just an exercise to see if anybody’s actually reading this thing…I mean, I don’t so much want to know who’s reading as what the rest of that joke is, but they figured my title would swing a bit of weight, so they kind of put me up to it…at least, I’m pretty sure that’s what they did…I find it hard to keep track of details like that these days…)

(signed) The Commissioner of the Universe

P.S. I suppose I should have put the first ‘P.S.’ after my signature, where it’s supposed to go, but I couldn’t remember whether I signed this thing or not.

P.S. to previous P.S. Now I’ve signed it, so this ‘P.S.’ as well as the one before it are both okay.

My apologies for being incommunicado, Fellow Travelers in Cyberspace,

   Sparky has been located, but he is not among us. More on that in the next posting. For now, here’s the rest of the story of our travels with the legendary explorer and card-carrying anachronism Vasco da Gama. We pick up where we left off, with Sparky, Vasco and I meandering around the outskirts of Detroit, trying to retrace our steps out of a dead end we blundered into in the River Rouge industrial park. According to Vasco’s journals, this is what transpired:

Today, The Year of Our Lord This Year,

The Uncle of Fun, El Sparky and me myself, the great Vasco da Gama, we are for to having-it to have explorationèd the legendary River of the Rouge, in which it is that the sumptuous mother-loading of the priceless foundation makeup it has once to being there. We are not for the having to the finding of it any of the rouge in the river, which El Sparky he is saying-it that it is for to on account of the having of it been all strip-minèd out by the conquistador Max Factor.

-In case you’re wondering, Sparky was kidding. In case you’re also wondering, it doesn’t pay to kid Vasco.

Because we are finding none of it the fabulous treasure in the Detroit Rock City, deciding therefore is it to that I, the Great Vasco da Gama, he shall for to be instead the hunting for the trophy. Asking is it then am I to him, The Uncle of Fun, where is it the best place in the Detroit Rock City to be finding we will of it the big game. Before it is The Uncle of Fun, he is getting to it the word in with the edgewise, El Sparky, he is saying that the most closest place to where we are for the having of it the big game, it is the home of the liones, at The Dome of the Silver Potted Yaks.

-By ‘Dome of the Silver Potted Yaks’, he means the Pontiac Silverdome, the former home of the NFL’s Detroit Lions.

The potted yaks, they are the for-to having been-it hunted to the extinctioning of them—

-This piece of information comes from either Vasco or Sparky, or both of them, confusing Pontiac, Michigan, which is still very much around, with the Pontiac division of General Motors, which is well and truly defunct.

—so now the liones, they are for to having been-it moving to the Field of the Ford.

-That’s ‘Ford Field’, football fans. (By the way, if you’re ever looking for some low-cost entertainment on a dull afternoon when you have nothing better to do, try saying ‘Ford Field’ over and over again as many times as you can, as fast as you can.)   

When we are the having been of it arrivèd at the Field of the Ford, we are for the finding of it that it is not yet the regular season for the liones, so suggesting-it is he, El Sparky, that we are going to instead for the hunting of the el tigres at the near-it-by The Park of Calamari Erica.

(Alas for sailors, Calamari Erica is just a myth.)

-Um…that would be ‘Comerica Park’, where we went to see, and not hunt—I repeat, NOT hunt—the Detroit Tigers.

   While Sparky and I were helping local law enforcement officials maintain order by removing untoward evidence of recent illegal activity from the pockets of ticket scalpers, we ran into an old acquaintance—Count Boguslav Boguslavsky, a Siberian émigré whose claim to fame is an unverifiable claim to being the last surviving descendant of a family pet of a minor member of the House of Romanov.

   ‘Bogey’, as he insists we call him, was on a goodwill tour of the Midwestern States, visiting local zoos to inquire whether they might, for a small consideration, consent to making a prize addition to their collection of Big Cats. (The consideration was that they’d have to feed and house him for life. He mentioned something about refugee status and extradition treaties, but I was too busy searching the concession stands for the grain of salt to take his story with to get all the details.)

   Having heard from the people at the Detroit Zoo of the existence of a local professional sports franchise named after his own species, Bogey had taken it upon himself to acquaint them with the advantages of having the genuine article as the Tigers’ full-time, fully-paid mascot, rather than, as he put it, “some punk kid in a fuzzy costume”.

 

(This is family-friendly…)

(…this would liven things up during those dull pitching changes and the seventh-inning stretch.)

   I suggested to Bogey that a more congenial solution to his current room-and-board dilemma would be for him to accept a position as manager-in-residence and compere of the Ash Can Club, the white elephant with an albatross around its neck masquerading as a watering hole that I have the dubious fortune to own (click here for details of how that came about...and never mind the obvious discrepancy in timelines it implies--things just work that way in business sometimes).  Bogey’s experience in dealing with a variety of information-gathering organizations which trace their spiritual lineage from either J. Edgar Hoover or Felix Dzerzhinsky will put all of us in a better strategic position vis-à-vis the Animal Alley borough of Funsville’s civic authorities…not to mention its euphemistically-titled Legitimate Business Community, one of whose euphemistically legitimate activities is the funding and support of certain of the aforementioned civic authorities. Besides, as a representative example of Planet Earth’s largest wholly land-based carnivores, he’ll command a little respect from the riff-raff that clutters up the neighbourhood.

   Bogey and I were just about to seal our verbal agreement with a gentlemanly handshake when the sounds of a commotion arose from just out of view. A crowd of policemen, fans of the Great American Pastime, fans of the Detroit Tigers, fans of public monuments, and fans of the general idea of keeping large numbers of policemen in clear view in the event that flight was suddenly in order, had gathered around the statue of Hank Greenberg, which Vasco was trying to topple, using his sword as a crowbar. I later found out that this had more than a little to do with Sparky giving Vasco an estimate of the statue’s metallurgical composition which was rather over-generous in its percentage content of gold. The last thing we overheard, as we discreetly stole away, was a loud and solemn pledge from Vasco to bring the full might of the Portuguese military-industrial complex, circa 1502, to bear upon the unsuspecting citizens of Detroit, the state of Michigan (Lower Peninsula first, then Upper), the entire Great Lakes region, and any lands he couldn’t think of at the moment which lay between there and the Indian subcontinent.

   As a way of bringing closure to this entire unfortunate chapter of our exploits, and making a transition to another unfortunate chapter, you can listen to an episode of “Uncle Fun and Sparky’s Radio Colouring Book” in which Vasco features, if not altogether as prominently as he might like. We’ll tell you soon about what Sparky’s up to and why he hasn’t been chiming in every few seconds with comments from the cheap seats. Do try not to spend too many sleepless nights in anticipation between now and then.

Uncle Fun

April is the foolest month, as T.S. Eliot said when he sat on a whoopee cushion...

(Okay, that title is irrelevant, but at least it’s consistent to the irrelevant nature of things in this here corner of the internet.)

 Sparky is still among the missing, but The Funday Sunnies featuring Duncan is here again like clockwork.

Let the chorus of huzzahs and hosannas begin.