Well howdy-dowdy-diddly-doodly-do! Gracious! How long has it been, gorgeous readers? Over two weeks, you say? Heavens. Here I sit luxuriously parked in my violet and turquoise "leaves of autumn" barkalounger with magic fingers, gazing at my faux-wood philco television set disapprovingly as hardened criminal Martha Stewart presumes to tell me that crocheting a toaster cozy from hand shorn Tibetan yak hair is a "good thing." I rather think it demonstrates an acute excess of free time, which to my mind is a "dangerous thing" in the hands of an ex-con.
Darlings, I've so many things to tell you. The last few weeks have been simply fraught with incident. First, yours truly took a holiday in a quaint seaside village called Provincetown. My visit coincided with an event called "Bear Week," but for the life of me I never saw one single bear. There was, however, a preponderance of exceedingly affectionate shirtless hirsute gentlemen of impressive girth traipsing to and fro. The beach was charming, but I had to alert the concession stand that whatever they were serving, it was a serious choke-hazard; on several occasions I ventured into the dunes and invariably encountered swarthy gents giving each other the heimlich maneuver (although, if memory serves, one may effectively administer the technique fully clothed). I wondered where all the females were, so at a widely advertised event called "Bitch Brunch" (again, nary a dog in sight), I asked a jovial group of goatee'd chaps on their third round of mimosas where their wives were. They looked at each other, and one of them confided that their women were gathered at a place called the "Dick Dock." The others burst into gales of high-pitched laughter. As I thanked them and turned to leave, the athletic one (he wore a t-shirt that said "Catcher") said "love the librarian-from-Peoria drag, sweetie. You better work that out." I politely responded that librarians are corrupting influences who distribute filth like Catcher in the Rye which encourage youngsters to wear tight pants and sass their mothers. At any rate, the Dick Dock was a disappointment. It was poorly lit and the service was deplorable. The only woman I encountered was an enormous redhead with too much makeup and severe glandular issues. She introduced herself as Hank and promptly tried to perform the Heimlich maneuver on me! I informed Ms. Hank that I've never choked on anything, which curiously made her coerce me to kneel in front of her. I hastily muttered to Hank that I wasn't Cathy-lick and she could save her wafer for someone else.
Ah, but vacations are made to end, so back I came to Aunt-Betsy-stan (a Christian theocracy, population moi), only to discover that Bruce and Lance (who share the throne of the neighboring Ass-Bandit Republic) were in the midst of throwing a Michael Phelps "come in your skimpiest speedo" garden party and weenie roast. Thinking quickly, I located my dear deceased husband Cecil's salt pellet rifle (used to protect our domicile from raccoons and Jehovah's Witnesses) and took cover in a laurel bush adjoining their fussy japanese garden. I held my fire until they started blaring a shrill Cher song over the hi-fi, and the guests began gyrating and undulating in a lascivious manner. Quickly lost in that blissful reverie only snipers can appreciate, I began pumping round after round of salt pellets into their spandex-clad sodomite fannies. They were slow to catch on, as their shrieking jerking about was generally assumed to be Cher-related. Eventually my trigger finger cramped and I withdrew indoors. Their distasteful gathering disbursed quickly thereafter.
In Yahtzee news, I'm thrilled to report the Greater Headcheese Ladies Yahtzee League Tournament Trophy has retained its rightful spot on my mantle, right next to my porcelain "Little Black Sambo" collectible figurines. Things got hairy in the final round, when a tied score resulted in a tournament regulation sudden death knife fight between yours truly and Trudy Borg, the hare-lipped Lutheran with a crooked bob and eczema-afflicted thighs. Following tournament rules to the letter, each of us bit down on opposite corners of a bandanna and swung carving knives at each other. Trudy made the mistake of stepping on my kitty-cat Mr. Sillypants' tail during the scuffle. Mr. Sillypants in turn, yowled and clawed at her inflamed thighs. The distraction enabled me to hack off her left thumb, which went flying into a pot of cheese fondue. At that point Trudy unclenched her teeth from the bandanna, handing yours truly a well-deserved grand championship. I do love a good Yahtzee game!
But enough of that fiddle-faddle. Let Aunt Betsy turn her attention to the precariously stacked letters of desperate cries for help that arrive by the sackful on a daily basis. Since those darling Chinese Olympics just wound down, I thought I'd prolong your collective agony by answering the Chineeziest letters in the bunch. Fire away!
Dear Aunt Betsy: My name is Sum Dam Foo, and I am to living in Beijing. I not to seeing glorious orympics though, as my head hairs are scarce and my face is to having birthmark in shape of Simon Le Bon. So authorities are to rocking me in house with shooty-pow-pow man outside so Bob Costas not to making laughy time with my ugly stuffs. Last year the bully-dozers make squashy time with my mother-person's house to making room for synchronized badminton arena, and for compensating the authorities give mother-person a sack of rice, a book with Chairman Mao poetry and a side of labrador meatstuffs. This is to making mother-person to having saddy-sad time. So when orympic stuffs to coming, mother-person go make application dance for to protesting in protest zone place. But authorities allest mother-person (her name is to being Nin Kum Poo) and now she is to having happy good re-education time in laughy fun gulag and Nike factory. She is to being happy fun 90-old-years and is to having non-functioning eyeballs. Why is authorities to re-educate 90-old-year mother-person? How am I, Sum Dam Foo, to getting mother-person from silly happy killy slappy-face work camp? Signed, Because Authorities Detaining Sad Old Nin
Dear BADSON: Reading your letter (or should I say leading your retter) I was struck by the fact that, despite our cultural differences, we've exactly one thing in common: old people are hilarious! My dear deceased mother, as she waltzed through her senile years, proved a constant source of entertainment. One day she forgot to put on her clothes and drove her turbo-charged scooter to Tuscaloosa, where she was apprehended after crashing spectacularly through the plate glass window of the local IHOP. On another occasion we took her to the dog track and while placing a bet I took my eyes off her for a second and the next thing I know she's straddling a greyhound named Satan's Enema and riding the excitable creature around the track only to win the race! Her hilarity took a turn for the somber when, on a family vacation to Yellowstone she took an ill-timed stroll up to Old Faithful and found herself shot into orbit. I miss my mother dearly. And with that in mind, you can rest peacefully in the knowledge that at least you know where your mother is, even if she doesn't. And sneaker manufacturing is a far more practical old-person pastime than mah-jong or canasta. Wrinkle gulags are the wave of the future.
Dear Aunt Betsy: My wife Alfreda and I visited the Beijing Olympics to watch our son compete in synchronized wrestling. We weren't there for twenty minutes before Alfreda (having sampled the local cuisine) felt a sudden need to use the public facilities. She was unprepared for the barbaric Chinese custom of standing up to poop so she panicked and dropped her kids off in the sink. She was immediately tossed into the back of a van and is currently being re-educated in a camp somewhere in the Jiangsu province. How do I get her back? Where's the Jiangsu province? As a side note, our son won the bronze in synchronized wrestling and we look forward to displaying the medal next to his hopscotch trophy and his needlepoint badge. Signed, Free Alfreda Guys! Soon Detained Americans Depart!
Dear FAGSDAD: I'm afraid yours is a lost cause, Alfreda is doomed. Within a week her feet will be bound, causing her eyes turn slanty. Before long she'll be talking in gibberish and shuffling about in that sneaky Chinese manner. Years from now perhaps your paths will cross again, possibly at the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and your Chineezified spouse will spy you from her chattering gaggle of tourists snapping pictures of the phallicly angled edifice. You won't recognize her, I'm afraid. Once thoroughly Chineezed they're quite impossible to tell apart. I know, I've seen Flower Drum Song eight times and I still haven't the foggiest notion what it's about.
Dear Aunt Betsy: My name is Mi Sook Dong, and I make compete in synchronized balance beam in duper-super orympics. Me and my twin sister (Mi Sook Yu) were to make excited face! But when we get on balancy beam we do flippy flip we make mistakey-time and do head knock dance and to make ouchy falling on our hoo-hoos. Now we are to going at funny laughy re-education camp and we to learning how to making Nikes. My questioning is to being what size shoes are you to wearing? Signed Funny Unlucky Knocky Time!
Dear FUKT: What a charming letter. Although I don't particularly want a pair of Air Jordans (Aunt Betsy believes any woman who wears athletic shoes likely has lesbianic tendencies), I'd much appreciate it if you'd manufacture two pairs for my darling kitty-cat Mr. Sillypants. While I'm not sure what size he wears, I imagine his widdle feetsies are about the same size as your tightly bound, freakishly petite size zeroes.
Aunt Betsy sez: "Subscribe to COWA. Spend eternity in Hell. Your choice."
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