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If It Wisnae Fur Yer Wellies

September 17, 2023 1 Comment

It’s a shame this fellow doesn’t speak English. A song like this could have been big here in the States.

Some changes would have been in order. It’s harder to work LL Bean gumboots into a lyric, but he could have had a go at it. He’d be hard pressed to find an audience of Presbyterians here in the US to sit still like that, and smile quietly to themselves throughout his performance. And he’d have to kill a Bee Gee to get ahold of that shirt if he forgot to bring one with him. But a fine effort, overall, don’t you think?

The Answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything

July 2, 2015 8 Comments

Excuse me, did you say “42”? Because 42 is so last week. I have discovered the answer to life, the universe, and everything, and it’s a lot more useful and comprehensible than 42.

My wife was accosted in the supermarket parking lot by some ill-mannered brigands, otherwise known as female high school students. Don’t get me wrong; people are more mannerly and friendly in Maine than in other places I have known. But there are many interactions between persons that have been bent by circumstance. One thing used to mean one thing, and now means another. The form of the thing remains, but it’s reflected in a dirty funhouse mirror.

That is to say: a dirty mirror in a funhouse, not a mirror in a dirty funhouse. A dirty funhouse sounds like fun to my ear. Upon reflection, I’ve been in a dirty funhouse before. It was fun. Walmart is not fun, but it is dirty. It’s installed dirty, I think. All the surfaces look drear on day one. The sky was lowering and the occasional urban jellyfish was buoyed on the breeze pregnant with rain, and …

Sorry, I turned into David Foster Wallace there for a minute. Anyway, the old trouble and strife needed provisions, and she had to pass the portals of Dante’s Always Low Prices and Common Denominator Warehouse to get them. That was the precise moment that she was waylaid, when she was girding her loins and shrugging from a low-rent blow from an existential god unseen — the exact moment we discovered the answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything. The students sauntered up to my wife, and importunately asked if she would like to buy a candy bar to send a kid to camp.

My wife is very quiet and reserved. She smiles a lot, but she doesn’t talk very much. I have always depended on her steadiness, because I am mercurial. I wonder if there is anyone in this world who has anything bad to say about her, other than she chooses husbands in lighting not suitable for buying off-brand bales of hay. Anyway, she was caught somewhat unawares, and didn’t have a moment to parse what she said carefully for its effect. She just asked, more or less politely, “Why would I want to do that?”

They backed up like people who had opened a mummy’s tomb and heard Egyptian being spoken. It was as unanswerable as a tax bill.

Don’t you see? Can’t you see it? It’s the answer to everything. It’s the Swiss army knife of life, with the little can-opener dongle on it, except instead of opening cans it opens universes. If everyone would answer 99 percent of the questions put to them every day with, “Why would I want to do that?”, the world would be a better place. Not just for the questioner. All manner of mischief would fold up and die and I wouldn’t get messages from Nigerian princelings anymore because every offer to send a million dollars tax-free would be met with, “Why would I want to do that?”

I recognized it like a lost friend. It’s the phrase I’ve been thinking but not saying, morning, noon and night, for years on end, whenever anyone asks me anything about anything. It is my default position for everything, I’ve just never uttered it.

Why would I want to do that?

Look at it. It’s a daisy. It’s magnificent. No, really try it out. Try it right now. It works on everything.

“For only five dollars more a month, you can add over 250 channels of television programming to your monthly Internet bill.”
“Why would I want to do that?”

“If you act now, you’ll receive a free coupon that will allow you to take the whole family to Disneyland!”
“Why would I want to do that?”

“This new button on YouTube lets you autoplay all the videos in the right-hand column!”
“Why would I want to do that?”

“Sign up for Facebook and find your friends. Create an account to start sharing photos and updates with people you know!”
“Why would I want to do that?”

“You can read the New York Times on your smartphone for free!”
“Why would I want to do that?”

“For only $200, you can have an Amazon Echo device that will let you use voice activation to stream music from a smartphone app wirelessly!”
“Why would I want to do that?”

” You can donate $3 of your federal tax to go to the Presidential Election Campaign Fund”

“Why…”
“Why…”

It was there that my slogan failed the ultimate test of life, the universe, and everything. Because it had to be modified in this one instance, it was not universal, and with the modification, the phrase reads and sounds less lyrical to the ear:

“Why in the name of Honore de Balzac would I want to do that you buttmunch dillhole *deep breath* me cago en la leche *deep breath* yela’an sabe’a jad lak *deep breath* nide muchin shr ega da wukwei *deep breath* krisnera zhazh tan vred *deep breath*. Now go piss into a transformer.”

It just doesn’t roll off the tongue. Back to the drawing board.

Read The Rumford Meteor Before the Pixels Go Bad

June 16, 2015 2 Comments

A neighbor of mine named Aubuchon Connery publishes a newspaper all about Maine called The Rumford Meteor. It’s a daisy.

The Rumford Meteor is full of interesting facts. The fact that the facts ain’t factual never puts him off the scent. He seems to get to the facts no matter where you bury them. He’ll dig through a ton of manure to get a turnip, that boy. He’s as honest as the day is long. You can tell from his handshake, which is firm, and smells a bit like turnip, and something else I can’t quite put my finger on. No matter. That boy’s not half bad I tell you what.

When we see Aubuchon commuting home from the Meteor office to his yurt on his recumbent bicycle, we always water the soup and invite him in to join us for dinner. He’s deuced quiet, that boy. Doesn’t like to talk about himself. You could tell he had a sad tale to tell, and one day when the soup ran out, he mentioned how he ended up all alone in this world.

Every year Aubuchon and his wife, Large Marge, would go to the East Lebanon County Agricultural Fair, Tractor Pull, and Fashion Show. He’d look at the tractors and inquire from the owners how much they thought each was worth, and where exactly they kept them at night. I’ve always found Aubuchon to be very solicitous in such matters; it’s a sign of his innate goodness, I think, to worry over other people’s possessions like they were his own.

While he was doing that, Large Marge would go to the fashion show to see what kind of waders were in that year, and to see if her Craftsman lingerie had come in by mail order yet. Then Aubuchon and Marge would get in a terrible row, I tell you what. Every year it was the same thing. There was a man with a cropduster biplane with two seats, and he sold rides for $5, and every year, Aubuchon wanted that ride so bad he would have sold a kidney for it if he had one that worked. Marge said, “NO!,” every year, and for the same reason each time. “Five dollars is five dollars, Aubuchon,” and that was that. It was logic as impenetrable as Doomsday, and there was no hammer lane around it. “Five dollars is five dollars!” can’t be reasoned with, and it can’t be bargained with.

After five or ten years of hearing Aubuchon plead and Marge say, “Five dollars is five dollars,” the pilot of that crop duster felt sad for Aubuchon and saw an opening with Large Marge. That woman had a prodigious piehole, and he knew it. He made them an offer.

“I’ll tell you what. You two take the ride together, and if you can both keep absolutely silent for the whole trip, I’ll give you the ride for free. If either of you say a word, you pay me five dollars.”

Marge jumped at the chance, but Aubuchon looked cagey about the whole deal. Still, it was his only chance, and he took it. That pilot sat up front with the joystick and the dials, and Large Marge and Aubuchon packed themselves in the back seat like peas and carrots I tell you what. That pilot had a black heart and an empty wallet, and he was determined to get that five dollars. He took them up to treetop level, and gave them what for. He did barrel rolls, outside loops, and tickled the tops of the blue spruces with the landing gear. Not a peep. He upped the ante. He choked the engine into a stall, and plummeted toward the earth like a stone until he got nervous, and then pulled out. Not a whimper. He knew he’d been bested.

They landed, and the pilot fiddled with the knobs and whatnot that pilots fiddle with. Aubuchon was standing next to the plane, and tapped him on the elbow.

“Thanks for the ride. It was everything I’d hoped it would be.”
“How did your wife like it?”
“Well, I don’t know. She fell out about a half way through.”
“SHE FELL OUT? WHY DIDN’T YOU SAY SOMETHING?”
“Mister, like Marge always said, five dollars is five dollars.”

Read the The Rumford Meteor. Do it for Marge

Forget It Sippican. It’s Internettown

June 4, 2015 3 Comments

Evelyn Mulwray: Tell me, Mr. Sippican: Does this often happen to you?

Sippican: What’s that?

Evelyn Mulwray: Well, I’m judging only on the basis of one afternoon and an evening, but, uh, if this is how you go about your blogging, I’d say you’d be lucky to, uh, get through a whole day.

Sippican: Actually, this hasn’t happened to me for a long time.

Evelyn Mulwray: When was the last time?

Sippican: Why?

Evelyn Mulwray: It’s an innocent question.

Sippican: In Internettown.

Evelyn Mulwray: What were you doing there?

Sippican: Blogging for nothing.

Evelyn Mulwray: Doing what?

Sippican: As little as possible.

Evelyn Mulwray: The Internet gives their men advice like that?

Sippican: They do in Internettown.

Real Men of Genius, Chapter Eleventy-Two: Creatividad con Sencillez

March 7, 2015 2 Comments

The title means: creativity with simplicity. I’m not sure it qualifies, really. If all you’re trying to do is keep the cows from getting out of the enclosure every time someone drives through, it would be much simpler to kill all the cows right away and then eat them.

I’m here to help. If you have a problem that requires creativity with simplicity, let me know. I’ve often overheard people remarking on how creative and simple I am, so it must be true.

Tag: humor

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sippicancottage

A Man Who Has Nothing In Particular To Recommend Him Discusses All Sorts of Subjects at Random as Though He Knew Everything.

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