Another Attempt to Cheer Up Edgar Allan Poe

Hello Dear Readers!  As you may  know, this blog sometimes takes it upon itself to attempt to cheer up America’s most bummed-out pen-pusher, Edgar Allan Poe. 

“I am smiling.”

It seems Edgar just got back from a much needed vacation at the  House of Usher.  Let’s ask him how it went, shall we?

Hey Edgar!  How was your vacation?

During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens . . .

Oh sorry to hear you didn’t have very good weather.  I hope you managed to get outdoors a little bit anyway.

I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country . . .

Oh great!  Then you got in some horseback riding.  Good for you!

 . . . as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher.

Did it actually say “melancholy” in the brochure?  And you chose it anyway? What were you thinking?

 . . . and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher . . .

You should have turned right around and gone home, Edgar.   For heavens sake, Edgar, for once in your life use that over-sized-melon brain of yours to do something besides scare and depress yourself.

I know not how it was –but,

Oh now you’re just making excuses!

 . . .with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit.

Oh don’t pretend like you didn’t like it, Eddy. I’m beginning to think you live for that kind of thing.

I say insufferable; for the feeling was unrelieved by any of that half-pleasurable, because poetic, sentiment . . . 

Edgar! Your not making any sense.  Calm down!  Here breath into this paper bag.

with which . . . gasp . . . the mind usually receives even the . . . gasp . . . sternest natural images of the desolate . . .gasp . . . or terrible. . . . gasp

Okay that’s not working.  Hang tough, Ed,  I’m going to go see if I can find your laudanum.  Where’s your medicine cabinet?

–upon the bleak walls –upon the vacant eye-like windows –upon a few rank sedges –

Okay, well, I’ll look in all three places.  Just sit down and try to stay calm.

 . . .and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees . . .

Okay, okay!  I’ll look there too.

 . . . .with an utter depression of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the after-dream of the reveller upon opium . . . 

Opium!! Okay that does it.  Get in the car.  I’m taking you to rehab.

 . . . there was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart –an unredeemed . . . 

Get in the back seat.  Watch your head!

 . . .dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into . . .

Yeah, yeah, whatever you say Eddie . . . buckle in!

What was it –I paused to think –what was it that so unnerved me in the contemplation of the House of Usher?

I don’t know, Edgar, but for next year’s vacation, why don’t you do us all a favor and just plan to go to Hawaii?

Until next time . . . I love you

Aliens Secretly Study Humanity Under the Guise of a 1960′s Sandwich Cookbook.

I know it’s hard to believe, but after carefully examining the above peculiarly worded cookbook from the 1960′s – it quickly became apparent to me that this is not a cookbook at all, but, in actuality, is a scientific study of the human race conducted by aliens from the planet Zorin! 

Shall we turn to the first page? 

Sandwiches for the Small Fry

As you can see by this heading, the aliens are going to great pains to make us believe that they have full command of English language idioms.  Apparently they think these children are idioms.  Apparently they think the entire human race are idioms!

The aliens go on to explain to their fellow Zorinians that sandwiches in the small fry’s  “carried lunch”  should be “made of bread” and that fruit should be eaten out of  the small fry’s “hands” and that “milk should be sent from home in a small vacuum bottle”. 

The aliens stressed that Zorinians should not confuse  ”Small Frys”  with “small order of fries” even though both are equally delicious.

Let us move on (quickly!):

 Taste Tempters for Teens

After much concentrated  study, the aliens have ascertained that this is a fair representation of  the typical eating behavior of the human “teen”.  And they go on to state that “teen-agers are a mystery”  — adding that “boy or girl their appetites are immense” even “staggering.”   The report emphasizes that  human “teenagers” have a “bottomless appetite” and an “endless thirst.”  Information that probably raised a Zorinian eyebrow or two (or seven).

The aliens were careful not to get too close.

Next the aliens attempt to enlighten Zorinians about the mystifying behavior of:

Picnic Packables:

As you can see from this heading, when  it comes to alliteration, the aliens are definitely on-board the human-language train!  Even going so far as to use the word, “packables”.  Well they aren’t billions of years more advanced than us for nothin’!

At first, the aliens were in total disarray as to what the father figure pictured above was doing.  But after intensified study,  the aliens came to the conclusion that this particular human being’s lower appendages had collapsed by a whopping fifty percent (perhaps from carting around Picnic Packables?) and when that happens, human beings must squeeze a circular object with their ”hands” for prolonged periods of time in order to restore proper appendage positioning.

The aliens got a good laugh out of this one!

Well that’s all we have time for today, Dear Reader, but rest assured there are plenty more Secret Studies by Zorinians about the Human Race hiding within the pages of 1960 cookbooks and I plan to expose every single one of them or be abducted trying!

That is my pledge to you.

Until next time . . . I love you

In 37′s Mind, Thanksgiving IS Football

It’s Thanksgiving morning, and my husband, 37, – better known as Sports Fan Dad – has just turned on the first of the 500 games he  will vicariously experience on this, The Day of the Turkey.

In addition to  his couch-coaching commitments, he will also attempt to help me prepare the holiday feast.  If all goes according to his plan, he will be able to help with the cooking, eat The Big Meal and take The Big Nap without missing even a second of the Thanksgiving Day Foootball-a-thon.

At 9 am, 37 takes his position in front of the television set where he begins gently stretching his thumbstrings in preparation for some serious football spectator skills, such as olive-to-mouth tossing, pull-tab popping and rapid-fire remote controlling.

I’m in the kitchen preparing the dressing and making the usual holiday decisions about whether to stuff the turkey in the fridge or the one on the couch.

By 10 am, after I have everything chopped, cleaned, peeled, and stuffed, Father Football dashes into the kitchen (during one of the longer commercials) and, assuming an air of authority, lifts lids and asks pertinent questions such as:

“Are these nuts or what?”  and  “How much Longer?”

He then grabs a cold refreshment with one hand and nimbly plugs in the electric knife with the other and toddles back to the couch, secure in the knowledge that he has been a valuable team player in the outcome of the big game hen.

Of course, after expending all this energy, it is not surprising that 37 is a no-show when it comes to getting out the good china and setting the table.

After all, too much activity at this critical point in the day could cause 37′s blood sugar level to plummet — zapping him of his much needed cork-popping strength at The Big Meal.

At 1 pm, I summon You Know Who to the kitchen so that he can perform “The Dad Thing” –which is to get the turkey from the oven to the counter without 1) dropping the patient on the floor and 2) getting third-degree burns on his free hand — the one not holding the refreshment.

Then with the precision of a tree surgeon, 37 carefully carves the turkey while I get the rest of the food ready and call everyone to the table. 

About the time the potatoes are cold and the Jello is warm, 37 emerges from the kitchen proudly displaying a delectable platter of turkey parts arranged in the famous football wing formation.

This duly impresses the relatives and they applaud while the children at the card table perform the wave. 

For the first time all day, the television set is turned off, Thanksgiving dinner is served and the family shares the warmth o fellowship in collective turkey gobbling.

The culmination of hours of planning, shopping and cooking is consumed in a matter of minutes and as 37 returns to his post (with dessert), he assures me he will be assisting in the clean up of The Big Mess . . . just as soon as he awakens from The Big Nap, that is.

Until next time . . . I love you

15 Signs You’re Going to OverdoThanksgiving

"Something tells me I'm going to overdo Thanksgiving."

You’ve instructed your surgeon to break ground on that new stomach addition.

You’ve replaced the phrase “I love you” with the phrase “Olive you”.

Your new gravy boat sleeps six.

Even if you were to carry out pi to a million decimals, all forms of pi will be polished off by Friday.

You’ve taken to sleeping on a pillow of mini marshmallows.

In preparation of the big feast, you’ve managed to diet down to a size bite.

Thanks to you and your voluminous Yam Stockpile the earth will be taking 6 days longer to orbit the sun.

Your appendix has been officially called back into active duty for the stomach reserves.

You’ve rented a storage locker for leftovers.

You made an appointment with your dentist to get your teeth sharpened.

You just got back from Potato Mashing Immersion Camp.

Your husband Tom is slightly worried about you because his name is Bill.

You’ve been preheating your oven since the 4th of July.

You refuse to read or listen to any sentence that doesn’t contain the word Jello.

And the most obvious way to tell if your going to overdo Thanksgiving:

This year your turkey is getting a breast augmentation.