Thrilling Tales of Verity!

Comic Books are Just Evil

2011-12-06T15:32:00.004-06:00

Separated @ Birth?

2011-07-04T13:21:00.003-05:00

Oona O'Neil

Natalie Merchant

Separated at Birth?

2011-04-20T12:03:00.002-05:00

The BEST Charlie Chan film!

2011-01-15T21:25:00.002-06:00

It starts out with Chan in this exotic locale. He's there on business, but before he can do anything about his business, someone shows up dead. Right away, Chan proves that it's murder and exposes the devilishly clever way the fellow was killed. Pretty soon, number-something son shows up and offers to help. Chan disparages this offer with a snappy saying from Confucius, which proves to be about right, as his son is way too eager and jumps to unwarranted conclusions. Just the same, the kid is good company for his beloved "Pop," and provides a lot of comic relief. Anyway, there are about five suspects, each of them with a plausible motive for wanting the poor fellow to be murdered, but all of them having pretty good alibis as to why they didn't do it. Chan is very observant though and pretty soon he is about to reveal a key piece of evidence when, all of the sudden, the lights go out and the evidence disappears! At this point the killer is in a tight spot and he knows it. He figures that if he commits yet another crime he can cover his tracks completely. But Chan is just one step ahead of the culprit and, when the murder makes his move, Chan catches him in the act! This proves the fellow to be guilty, and naturally everyone wants to know just how Chan figured it out. No sooner does Chan finish his explanation however, when his son bursts in with an other piece of evidence, announcing quite loudly that this proves who the killer is, thus confirming Chan's assessment exactly.

Wow! I never saw it coming.

Separated At Birth?

2010-08-27T15:03:00.000-05:00

Fascist without scruple: Benito Mussolini

Baritone with savoir-vivre:
Quinn Kelsey

Don't get them confused!

2010-07-22T15:39:00.002-05:00

Tom Kiradjieff,
inventor of
Four-Way Chili

George Ivanovich Gurdjieff,
inventor of
Fourth Way Theosophy

Separated at Birth?

2010-06-04T22:27:00.003-05:00

Carol
Burnett

Nancy
Reagan

Separated at Birth? (by Grandma Nell)

2010-04-27T15:37:00.002-05:00

Hermann
Rorschach

Brad
Pitt

Never Can Tell What You Might Find ...

2010-03-04T20:57:00.000-06:00

So I had to make a delivery to the Art Institute today. I got there with the trailer and the Security Guard and to find the person the delivery was for. So I'm stuck on the dock for about five minutes and there's nothing to do but look into this dumpster parked hard up against the dock. So anyway, the Security Guard comes back and signs for the delivery, but then she asks what I'm doing.

Dutchman: Just looking at the stuff in the dumpster.

Security Guard: Why?

Dutchman: Oh, maybe I'll find an Erased De Kooning.

Security Guard: [scoffing] No one's going to 'rase something like that!

Separated at Birth (by Mrs. Baran)

2010-03-01T22:12:00.000-06:00

Mrs. Baran explains: "At last, the anecdote I've been telling has some compelling evidence. Michael pointed to Billy Ficca on Chris's Television shirt and said "MAMA." I can't help but agree."

Separated at Birth?

2010-02-24T21:05:00.001-06:00

Thuringian Gauleiter
Fritz Sauckel

Belarusian President
Alexander Lukashenko

Separated at Birth? (by Mrs. Willingham)

2010-02-23T12:59:00.002-06:00

Vincent Van Gogh,
famous mentally ill artist

Chris Martin,
singer of British band Coldplay

Separated at Birth?

2010-02-13T16:12:00.001-06:00

"Crate + Barrel Two" logo

"Chicago Free Press" logo

Beats Me?

2010-02-08T20:36:00.002-06:00

So, Pod-Man and I spent Superbowl Sunday at the Field Museum. That's the best day to go there too, since everybody except the Asians is at home or in a bar watching the dumb game. Anyway, it was fun just going through the galleries and being together.

Dutchman: Says here that the Stripped Hyena has horizontal markings, while the Spotted Hyena is covered with black circles.

Pod-Man: How can you tell them apart?

Dutchman: Uhhhh — it doesn't say.

Separated At Birth?

2010-01-22T15:23:00.001-06:00

Willa Cather

Joseph Gordon-Levitt

Undoubtedly True!

2010-01-12T16:44:00.001-06:00

“Our civilization is a function of the degree of vacuum man can produce industrially.”

— Doctor Peter Schlumbohm

So I got this comment on my blog ...

2010-01-08T20:23:00.001-06:00

Your blog keeps getting better and better! Your older articles are not as good as newer ones you have a lot more creativity and originality now keep it up!

Well, that certainly was nice to hear. I felt great for about a day, until I got exactly the same comment on my other blog. A quick Google search for that entire phrase yields some 8,600 results, all of them (apparently) comments on various blogs.

So, I guess what my wife says is right: I have no friends and my mother never loved me.

Perry Mason and the Case of the Stupid Guns and Important Shoes

2009-12-09T14:52:00.001-06:00

My son was complaining the other day about the key plot twist in an old episode of Perry Mason that he had seen on TV. The key to the mystery was that there were two guns, the murder weapon and one that was never fired, and that the only witness, a woman, couldn’t tell the difference between the two. Plausible enough, my son thought, except that one was a revolver while the other was an automatic, and so the difference ought to have been immediately apparent to anyone.

“Well, she was a woman,” I countered, “Guns aren’t important to women.”

“Dad! Anyone can tell the difference between a revolver and a gat!”

“Ah, maybe. Say, did you see your girlfriend today?”

“Yeah.”

“Notice what she was wearing?”

“Of course!”

“What color were her shoes?”

“Shoes?” he asked in a tone that indicated he shouldn’t even be expected to know.

I nodded and called his sister into the room. I asked her, “Hey, Bean-Girl, what’s the difference between a revolver and an automatic?”

“Uh — well they’re both guns, right?” When I nodded, she went on, “Does an automatic have more bullets?”

“Something like that,” I changed the subject, “See your friend DeeDee today?”

“I see her on the bus everyday.”

“What color were her shoes?”

“Black Converse high-tops with the white circle on the ankle, why?”

“Well, because Pod-Man knows the difference between an automatic and a revolver, but he doesn’t know what color shoes his girlfriend was wearing today.”

She shook her head, saying to Pod-Man before she left the room, “Guns are stupid; shoes are important.”

So I then told my son always to keep in mind a few lessons:

People naturally think about and remember what is important to them.
You need to put some effort into remembering the things that are not important to you because you won’t do it automatically.
Different things are important to men and women , and you had better figure out what is important to the women in your life.

One Story: Two Versions

2009-11-23T21:30:00.001-06:00

Dutch-man Version:

So, I'm in the bedroom, ironing a shirt, when Bean-Girl comes in, throws herself on the bed, and asks —

Bean-Girl: Why isn't Mister Rogers' Neighborhood on TV anymore?

Dutchman (Not looking at her, busy ironing the shirt): Because Fred Rogers is dead.

Bean-Girl: Well, they could show re-runs.

Dutchman: Not after how he died.

Bean-Girl: Why, how did he die?

Dutchman: Shot to death in a motel in Jersey City …

Bean-Girl: Really?

Dutchman: Yeah, he was coked out of his mind, beatin' some ho' with a golf club, yellin' "You're not my neighbor!" when the pimp broke in and shot him dead with a Glock. Emptied the whole clip into him, too.

Bean-Girl (sobbing): Really?

Dutchman (turns around, sees how upset she is): No! Fred Rogers was a happily married Presbyterian minister. He died at home, in bed, surrounded by his family, after a short illness!

Bean-Girl (running from the room, sobbing wildly): I don't believe you!

Bean-girl Version:

So, Dad is in the bedroom about to Iron a shirt when he yells "Hey Bean! Give me some company while I iron a shirt!" I walk in and commence to glare at him.

Bean-Girl: (Looking to annoy him) Hey, Old man, Why isn't Mister Rogers' Neighborhood on TV anymore? They show re-runs of other shows!

Dutchman: (trying to pull one on me) Because he is dead... D-E-D!!

Bean-Girl: They could show re-runs... they do on every other show?

Dutchman: Not how he died.

Bean-Girl: (sarcastically) Why how did he die?

Dutchman: (turns around looking grim) He was shot to death in a motel in Jersey City... (turns back around)

Bean-Girl: Yeah Right!

Dutchman: Yeah, he was coked out of his mind, beatin' some ho' with a golf club, yellin' "You're not my neighbor!" when the pimp broke in and shot him dead. Emptied the whole clip into him, too.

Bean-Girl: *cough cough*

Dutchman: (quickly, turns around to try to pretend to care) No! Fred Rogers was a happily married Presbyterian minister. He died at home, in bed, surrounded by his family and friends, after a short illness!

Bean-Girl: suuuuurrrreeee

The Truth? You decide!

Shana Tova!

2009-09-22T16:09:00.001-05:00

So it’s Friday, 18 August, 2009, and I’m walking down Franklin Street, when this guy in a really big black hat comes up to me and says:

Guy In Black Hat: “Shana Tova!”

Dutchman: “Sorry, I don’t speak Spanish.”

Guy In Black Hat: “Why do you think that’s Spanish?”

Dutchman: “Because you’re wearing the sombrero!”

Separated at Birth?

2009-09-19T01:27:00.000-05:00

Be a LUG!

2009-09-03T17:43:00.004-05:00

This program is amazing! These videos make it so that it's just like you're there! Excep, of course, that we were at home, not in an office, and I would never wear a ball-cap like that, and I'm a good deal taller than pumpkin, and, I guess, a few other things as well ...

Heaven or Joliet: Your Choice!

2009-09-03T16:53:00.002-05:00

An actual incident that happened to me in the quad at Moody Bible Incident.
This animation is so real — it's like you're there!

Separated at Birth?

2009-08-17T20:40:00.001-05:00

Out of the closet at last!

2009-08-04T14:31:00.002-05:00

Though Mommy pleads for him to stay (even offering to meet his "special needs"), Daddy has come out as a fisting bottom and has resolved to live his life for himself from now on. "I'm going to live with my soul-mate," Daddy says tearfully as he loads up the last of his luggage, "Sergent Snorkel!"

True — especially if you look like David Foster Wallace

2009-07-16T21:37:00.002-05:00

Worship your own body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly, and when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally plant you.
— David Foster Wallace
"This is Water" p. 106

Hope!

2009-06-11T22:19:00.002-05:00

I Know Exactly How He Feels

2009-03-30T11:50:00.002-05:00

"If I followed my instincts, I would be strangled by some hairy sailor in a public urinal. Every comely man, every bank clerk and delivery boy, was aimed at my life like a loaded pistol."

— John Cheever, journal entry

Of course, I mean the sailor, I know how he feels.

We Spread Sunshine, Wherever We Go!

2009-03-20T17:59:00.001-05:00

So, Sunday Pod-Man and I went down to the Art Institute. The big draw that afternoon was a special exhibit of paintings by Edvard Munch, including his famous “Scream.” Naturally, as they always do in modern museums, there was an audio tour that you could take. Curious about this, I asked the woman at the information desk —

Dutchman: If we take the audio tour, do we get to hear the scream?

Information Lady: Yes, absolutely!

Dutchman: Does the scream sound more like Mae Clark or Fay Wray?

Information Lady: (pausing a moment to think it over) Actually — more like Elsa Lanchester.

Dutchman: If we like it, can we get an audio tape of it at the souvenir stand?

Information Lady: No tapes, but you can get a CD.

Dutchman: What about an MP3 download?

Information Lady: No — but a lot of people have been asking for that.

Later we found ourselves in a room with about fifteen or twenty Georgia O'Keeffe paintings, and Pod-Man had an inspiration:

Pod-Man: Hey, let’s play Where’s Waldo!

Dutchman: Where’s Waldo?

Pod-Man: Yeah, only instead of Waldo, we look for the vaginas in the Georgia O'Keeffe paintings.

At this point a woman gave us a nasty look and made a sort of snorting sound of disapproval.

Dutchman: You’re as queer as a three-dollar-bill; do you even know what a vagina looks like? Have you ever seen one?

I could see the woman’s lips curl up in disgust. She was probably in her early thirties, wearing jeans and a gray turtleneck, shoulder-length hair pulled back behind her ears, tiny little “Tina Fey” glasses.

Pod-Man: Well, I’ve never actually seen one — but if I pick out the ugliest part of the painting, I figure that’s got to be it!

Dutchman: Smart boy!

The woman made an audible grunt of disgust before she left the room.

Not me, no sir!

2009-03-17T14:26:00.002-05:00

So, I'm walking down LaSalle Street, in a suit, going to the opera with Bean-Girl, when this car pulls up next to us and slows to a stop. There are two couples in the car, probably early thirties, well turned-out in suits and dresses, and the fellow in the back seat leans forward to ask: "Are you going to the swing club?"

"No, sir!" I answered promptly, "I'm happily married!"

Separated at Birth?

2009-03-17T14:25:00.001-05:00

James Toback

Comic Book Guy

Old Favorite Song

2009-01-30T04:27:00.001-06:00

About fifteen years ago, I heard this great song on Dick Bartley's "Rock & Roll Oldies Show.” It was just a guy bragging, "I — am the magnificent!" to a rock-steady beat with a little bit of Ska piano and organ behind him. I waited patiently, while half-a-dozen other songs played, and then carefully wrote down the announced name: "Jungle Fever" by the Chakachas. I then promptly sent away to Nina's Discount Oldies for the 45.

Wrong!

"Jungle Fever" was not the song I wanted. Years later, a Google search for "I — am the magnificent!" gave out only a sample of the song I wanted by the Prophet. Damn!

Anyway, on Tuesday I heard it again on WXRT's Sound Opinions show. I immediately fund it on YouTube and now am totally blissed out!

With no further ado, here's Dave & Ansel Collins doing "Double Barrel!"

Separated at Birth?

2009-01-06T22:42:00.004-06:00

Lisa Marie Presley

Renée Flemming

New Favorite Song

2009-01-05T21:15:00.002-06:00

Home of the Brave by the Nails

Actual License Plate

2009-01-05T13:13:00.001-06:00

These people must be animals!

Separated at Birth?

2009-01-03T18:35:00.002-06:00

Saul Alinsky

Joe Profaci

Separated at Birth?

2008-12-27T15:43:00.003-06:00

Nick Eck

Fr. Frank Phillips

National Hook-Up Day

2008-12-24T15:29:00.003-06:00

According to Manhunt, a social networking website that facilitates same-sex casual sex, New Year's Day is the busiest day for red-hot, soul destroying, man-on-man, anonymous, steamy, impersonal, oral and anal sodomy with strangers. In fact, it has now been declared "National Hook-Up Day!"

Makes sense if you think about it. I mean, everybody is off work and no body has any plans. After a nice party the night before, all the boys are primed for more sizzling action the next day.

As for me, I'm afraid I'll have to miss out on all the torrid, slippery fun, as I will be hearing the Mass of the Circumcision of the Lord at Saint John Cantius parish.

Don't you just hate it when you have two fun things to do on the same day and can only choose one?

Way Cool Water Tower!

2008-12-15T13:38:00.001-06:00

Bean-Girl and I were taking the train out to Naperville to hear Stacy Tappan sing, when we passed through Riverside and saw this amazing water tower:

It's sad to think that no city council since the 1920's would authorized a delightfully eccentric public expenditure.

Prowling the Night City ...

2008-12-10T13:03:00.001-06:00

... leathern clad, jump boots for speed, gray flag flying defiantly on the left. I shall not hold the beast of prey to be "evil" merely for utilizing his own strength — unless, of course, he comes home after curfew!

How Many 5-Year-Olds Could You Take in a Fight?

2008-12-05T15:44:00.000-06:00

Created by OnePlusYou - Free Online Dating

What a Shocking Bad Hat!

2008-11-25T12:40:00.003-06:00

"What a shocking bad hat!" was the phrase that was next in vogue. No sooner had it become universal, than thousands of idle but sharp eyes were on the watch for the passenger whose hat shewed any signs, however slight, of ancicnt service. Immediately the cry arose, and, like the war whoop of the Indians, was repeated by a hundred discordant throats. He was a wise man who, finding himself under these circumstances "the observed of all observers," bore his honours meekly. He who shewed symptoms of ill feeling at the imputations cast upon his hat, only brought upon himself redoubled notice. The mob soon perceive whether a man is irritable, and, if of their own class, they love to make sport of him. When such a man, and with such a hat, passed in those days through a crowded neighbourhood, he might think himself fortunate if his annoyances were confined to the shouts and cries of the populace. The obnoxious hat was often snatched from his head and thrown into the gutter by some practical joker, and then raised, covered with mud, upon the end of a stick, for the admiration of the spectators, who held their sides with laughter, and exclaimed in the pauses of their mirth, "Oh, what a shocking bad hat!" "What a shocking bad hat!" Many a nervous poor man, whose purse could but ill spare the outlay, doubtless purchased a new hat before the time, in order to avoid exposure in this manner.

— Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds By Charles Mackay

Young Black Man in a Burgundy Windbreaker

2008-11-15T00:36:00.000-06:00

I was leaving the building where I work the day after the election in 2006 at about 6PM and I could see a black guy waiting at the door. You know how it is — guy standing there with his hand on the door, like he’s expecting to be buzzed in at any moment, but really he’s just waiting for someone to exit so that he can sneak in. This guy was tall, and skinny, in a burgundy red windbreaker and jeans, but it was dark out and I couldn’t see much more. So, I’m coming up from the basement, I can see him right from the bottom of the stairs, and, if he had any business in the building, by the time I got to the top he should have been buzzed in. Now I figure I’m going to have to be an ass-hole, not let him in, and insist that he try the intercom again. Things like this can get ugly, because the first thing a guy like that will say is: “You’d let me in if I was white!” There’s no answer for that. It’s half true, but you’d also let him in if he were dressed nicer, or if he were a woman, or if he had gray hair — you know, it’s a judgment call and you base it on the fact that most 20-something black guys probably don’t belong in your building ...

So, I figure I’ll go up and open the door real slow and careful and ask who he’s there to see, and if he can answer, then I might just let him by. But when I push the door just a bit, this guy pulls it wide and tries to slip by me real quick. I was about to object, when I notice he has really big ears, and I say “I think I recognize you!”

“I guess you do!” Caught dead-to-rights trying to sneak past me, Barack Obama stops, turns around and shakes my hand.

“You had a good night last night, didn’t you?”

“I guess, but let’s see what we can do with it.” Then he got in the elevator and headed up to the offices of political consultant David Axelrod.

Pod-Man at an Obama Rally in 2004

2008-11-14T21:17:00.000-06:00

Stinky Goat

2008-11-08T23:42:00.002-06:00

Almost thirty years ago, in 1978, I was at the Billy Goat Bar and Grill (made famous by SNL a few years later) with my girlfriend when who should show up, but Dick the Bruiser and wrasling promoter Bob Luce with a camera crew. It seems they were going to film a promo for their upcoming card at the Coliseum where Dick was going to fight that rascal, Nick Botwinkle! For good luck, the Bruiser was going to kiss Sam Sianis’ goat! So the cameras started rolling. To the left was the Bruiser, to the right was Sam holding the stinky goat, and in the middle was Bob Luce waxing hysterical about the upcoming grudge matches at the coliseum. Not only was Billy Robinson dying to get back at Mad Dog Vachon (who had bit him last time out), but the Bruiser finally had a chance to pay back that dastardly Nick Botwinkle after he had been knocked out by Beautiful Buddy Wolf with a folding chair during their last match. So, without further a due, the Bruiser will now kiss the goat ... BUT WAIT! The door burst open and in rushed Nick Botwinkle! He wasn’t going to let the Bruiser kiss the goat. So there they were, struggling, the Bruiser trying to kiss the goat while Nick Botwinkle tried to keep them separate, Bob Luce’s voice hitting the very peak level of hysteria possible before cardiac arrest became inevitable, and poor Sam Sianis trying to keep the goat from being hurt. CUT! The cameras stopped rolling, the blood enemies stopped dead in their tracks, everybody had a beer, and then they decided to try it again. Hey lined up the Bruiser, Luce, and the goat, Botwinkle went back out to the alley.

Just then my girlfriend insisted that we go before they started in again because “I can’t stand the smell!”

“Of the Goat?”

“No — of the Bruiser!”

The Connoisseur

2008-10-08T22:44:00.000-05:00

Back in January of 2003, when Pod-man was about nine, we were both supernumeraries in the Lyric production of Un ballo in Maschera with Wayne Tigges and Christopher Dickerson who were in comprimario roles. At the time Tigges and Dickerson were both in the Lyric's apprenticeship program, the Lyric Opera Center for American Artists; they have since gone on to impressive careers.

Right then we were waiting for act one to start. Pod-man was watching from the wings, as he didn't appear in act one, while Tigges and Dickerson entered after the curtain went up. So they talked:

Pod-man: I like it when Maestro Elder conducts; I think he really feels the music.

Tigges: Oh, you do?

Dickerson: Who else do you like?

Pod-man: I like Maestro Bartoletti because he's master of the Italian repertory, Andrew Davis is too nonchalant about conducting, I really like Eschenbach, he so sensitive. My dad likes Furtwängler in recorded music, but I think Bruno Walter gets a bigger sound out of the orchestra.

Tigges: (Looks uneasily at Dickerson) That's about what I'd pick.

Dickerson: (Nods in agreement) Yeah.

Now, this whole time, Pod-man has been twisting the sole of his shoe against the floor.

Dickerson: What are you doing with your foot?

Pod-man: When I move my foot like this — it makes a farting sound!

Snappy Answer

2008-09-22T23:00:00.002-05:00

So, I'm at work where I came up with a pretty clover solution to a problem. And this customer saw me do it, and he was impressed with my ingenuity, and he says, "Gee — you really know how to problem solve!"

"That's because I never backwards talk."

Another of my Dad's jokes

2008-09-10T17:24:00.003-05:00

My father was out in Los Angeles filming a commercial for Listerine when he was invited to an Hollywood party. Lulu showed up at the party and my father said, "What a stroke of luck! Maybe she'll sing a medley of her greatest hit."

One of my Dad's jokes

2008-09-10T17:18:00.000-05:00

Probably in 1965 we were watching TV when Lee Phillip came on. Laconically, Dad said "You know I heard that Lee Phillip fell down the other day — broke her hair."

New Favorite Song

2008-09-10T13:57:00.000-05:00

I am just like Hello Kitty!

2008-07-17T13:45:00.001-05:00

I never put much faith in astrology until I found out that Hello Kitty and me share she same birthday. This instant I found that out it struck me: I am just like Hello Kitty!!!!!!

I even look like Hello Kitty!

Me:

Hello Kitty:

Pic of the Dutchman

2008-06-03T21:16:00.002-05:00

Art students were taking pictures of guys at I.M.L,. This is their pic of me.

Altered Street Sign

2008-05-20T23:50:00.002-05:00

Oak Street, behind the Newberry Library.

Are they handicapped because they've been drinking?

Bad To The Bone?

2008-04-07T11:17:00.001-05:00

So, Pod-Man and I were sitting in front of the chess pavilion by the lake at North Avenue, watching people go by, when this couple came by dressed like out-law bikers. They wore black leather jackets, hers with long fringes, bandannas over their heads, blue-jeans, and boots. Only, they obviously weren't bikers: she was walking a little white yorkie while, despite his salt-and-pepper goatee, the fellow looked like a fairly prosperous bourgeois type. A they passed, we could see that the fellow's jacket had black-on-black embroidery reading: "Bad To The Bone"

So Pod-Man asked: "Bad to the bone?"

"Yeah," I answered, "No matter how you cook it!"

A Few Practical Rules We Have Around Our House

2008-04-02T15:14:00.001-05:00

Rule of Three: No one is allowed to say the same thing more than three times in one day.

Elbow Rule: All cups, glasses, mugs, beer bottles, etc. must be further from the edge of the table than your elbow can reach.

Laser Rule: When Dad and Wife-Mate are talking to each other, there is an imaginary laser beam that burns anyone coming between them.

Shoulder Pay-Back: If one person hurts another (steps on their toes, hits them, spills soup on them, etc.), even by accident, the offended party gets to punch the transgressor as hard as they possibly can on the left shoulder. This may not be fair, but it avoids a lot of arguing and the victim feels a lot better. This also has the effect of reducing the number of “accidents.”

Pew Rule: When sitting together for a long time (e.g. at Mass, at the movies, at a lecture), Daddy sits between the two smallest children, girls on one side, boys on the other.

Curbside Rule: When walking down the street, Daddy walks on the curbside. This has nothing to do with safety, it’s just to prevent the kinderen from talking to you from both sides about two unrelated matters simultaneously.

Fruit First Rule: You can’t have dessert unless you eat a piece of fruit first. By “piece” we mean the equivalent of an apple (half-an-apple for pre-schoolers); a single grape doesn’t count.

“Fair Warning”: Anyone who is going to tie-up the bathroom for more than ten minutes must yell out “Fair Warning!”

“Collection Time”: This is announced about ten minutes before diner is ready. At this time the kids are responsible for making sure 1] all dirty laundry is in the hamper 2] all towels are hung properly 3] all beds are made and 4] all dirty dishes are in the dishwasher or sink. At this point Dad makes sure the trash situation is under control (all full bags are out of the house and no trash can is too full) and that the table is cleared for dinner. Sure, these things should be done on an “as needed” basis, but they’re usually not, so having a daily Collection Time keeps things from getting out of hand.

Never Get In The Way Of The Working Man: Never, ever obstruct anyone who is working! My kids grew up around my print shop and they quickly learned that this rule is stringently, even violently, enforced. Wife-mate enforces this rule in the kitchen with a wooden spoon.

My Totally Gay Scarf

2007-12-14T17:24:00.000-06:00

So, we were riding in the elevator back-stage at Lyric Opera. It was me, Bean-Girl, Pod-Man, and three or four members of the Lyric Chorus (at least two of whom were gay). I was wearing a new scarf that I had found around the house. It was one of those Yashmags (Palestinian scarves), it was blue, and I was wearing over my shoulders because it can get chilly just sitting around in that big house and I had forgotten to bring a sweater.

Bean-Girl: Dad?

Dutchman: Yeah?

Bean-Girl: That scarf is totally gay.

Well, that really put me on the spot now, didn't it? Having your daughter calling something "Totally Gay" in front of at least two homosexuals was awkward to say the least. I realized, however, that this was a "teachable moment" and I promptly replied:

Dutchman: Bean-girl, calling something "totally gay" marks you as narrow-minded and provincial. I don't ever want to hear you use that expression again.

Immediately, I could feel the tension lift, so I went on:

Dutchman: The word you are looking for is "homoerotic." You should have said, "Dad, that scarf is very homoerotic."

Pod-Man: Dad! The lumberjack boots are homoerotic, the black jeans are homoerotic, but the scarf is just totally gay!

Pretty good sketch of Bean Girl

2007-12-05T15:39:00.000-06:00

Why I was Late To Work Wednesday (Sorry!)

2007-11-09T03:31:00.000-06:00

I was awfully late in getting to work on Wednesday. I’m not trying to make excuses, but there are a few mitigating factors. See, I got up a little later than I had planned and so I had Pod-Man iron a shirt for me while I took a shower. This probably saved me seven minutes, but it slowed me down on the way to work because, since I usually say my morning prayers while ironing my shirt, instead I had to say them while I bicycled to work. Naturally, praying cannot be combined with my usual high-speed method of cycling, and so I was, frankly, just poking along in the bike lane on Wells Street, praying for the health of a friend of mine with lupus, when I noticed that an SUV was cruising me.

That is to say, this huge SUV had slowed down to my extra-slow pace, and was keeping it’s windshield just parallel with my back wheel. Slowly becoming aware of this, I glanced back and saw two red-necks in full paramilitary olive drab gesturing wildly at me. (Why did I call them “red necks?” Think about it: who else but a pair red-necked gun-nut crackers would be wearing full dress BDU’s on any day except Halloween? Even bona fide hunters wear camo’, not olive drab.) To me this said trouble.

These were just the kind of jokers who would sneak up behind you and then shock-the-shit out of you by honking, or would pull an un-signaled right turn directly in front of you and then blame you for scratching their precious car, or would try to run you onto the sidewalk for fun: TROUBLE.

So, naturally, I took evasive action.

I waited until we were almost through the intersection at Wells and Institute, then I cut right on Institute, raced to wards the alley, and ducked in there. The alley is L-shaped, and I really hustled until I made the turn and then I ducked into the loading dock behind a large building. I figured if they were following me, I would
double back, but if there was no sign of them, then I would continue on to work. No sign of the red-necks but, just my luck, there was a police car with its siren blaring at the Franklin end of the alley. I figured this must be an accident, or a traffic stop, or just some kind of mess, and I thought I would wait a few minutes and double-back to Wells street and then get to work.

But just then, someone came running down the alley at me. It was one of the fellows in the olive-drab jump suits, pointing a hand-gun at me, yelling, “Get your hands over your head!”

Not that I’m a coward, or feel intimidated large-caliber fire-arms, but instead, being a naturally coöperative sort of fellow, naturally, I complied. No sooner had I done this, however, when a booming voice came from right behind me (no more than a dozen feet away): “Put your hands on your head!”

This presented quite a conundrum. Do I keep my hands over my head, and risk getting shot in the back, or do I place my hands on my head and risk the ire of the BDU commando to my front. A bit of quick thinking resolved this for me: if I put my hands directly on the top of my head they would be both over and on my head! [The moral of this dilemma is never to lose your head, but always to think logically!]

By this time I could not only see at least two sets of flashing lights at the end of the alley, but could hear several sirens in the distance. “Get off the bike!”

I got off the bike and let it fall.

“Get down on the ground!”

I sat down, but before I could lay fully back, the fellow pushed my chest with his foot. My head hit down with a thump and my glasses flew over my head to the cobblestones. One of the fellows then held a gun to my temple while the other searched me, grasping roughly at all the places where I might have concealed a weapon. By now I was aware of at least half-a-dozen uniformed (as opposed to BDU’ed) police officers, the flashing light of at least three squad cars right there in the alley, and at least two other guns pointed at me.

I was then rolled over. One of the fellows dropped his knee into the middle of my back, yanked my hands down to my waist, and put cuffs on them. He put them on very tightly, as every policeman has always put them on me, so that my fingers immediately began to tingle. At this point I got the nice homoerotic going over, with fingers around my balls and up my ass crack.

I was then yanked to my feet and the officers tried to find out who could take me to the station.

EXCURSUS: What they were discussing was who among them had a squad car with a “cage.” That is, had a squad car with the plexi-glass shield between passenger and driver’s seats, so that I could be transported “safely.” By inference, it occurs to me that this must mean that some police cars do not have this shield and are thus ostensibly useless for making arrests. Presumably they are okay for making dough-nut runs however, so the taxpayers’ money hasn’t been utterly squandered!

An older fellow, a sergeant with glasses, rusty hair around a bald pate, said that he had a “cage” and so he made me walk back to his SUV. The back seat was made of hard plastic, narrow, and offered very little leg room. I got in and sat down on the edge of the seat, so that the cuffs wouldn’t dig into my back. I was immediately told to sit back, so that I could be belted in. The belt was short, the officer made no attempt to lengthen it, and so I sat there braced in with the cuffs wedged against my back and my wrists turned into contortions by the twist of the cuffs. Even without my glasses on, I could see that the alley was crowded with people. Very soon I recognized Matt Wagner, a business associate for the last twenty years, and then I saw, just over my shoulder, Wife-Mate. She, evidently, could not see me through the tinted windows ofthe SUV. She appeared to be arguing with a cop over my bike. After a few minutes of this the cop went around to the back of the SUV to put my bike into the back. I yelled out her name, but evidently she couldn’t hear over the din in the alley.

Suddenly, one of the fellows in the BDU’s opened the door and shoved his face in. I could see now that the patch over his pocket read SWAT. (Yes! It took the SWAT team to get me ...) He barked, “Why did you run?”

Calmly (and I mean it, I’d been thinking this over ever since they bolted me in, so I was calm and ready) I asked, “Am I under arrest?”

“No!” he barked, “Why did you run?”

“Am I free to go?”

“Answer the question!”

“If I’m under arrest, then I want to call my lawyer. If I’m not under arrest then I want to go.”

“You’re in police custody; answer the question!”

“Am I under arrest or not?”

He slammed the door and walked away.

About ten minutes later, the sergeant with the rusty balding hair opened the front door and got in. He explained that I was suspected of being a bank robber who had been seen leaving the scene on a bicycle. They were going to drive me down to the bank and let them look me over. At this point they didn’t think I was the guy, but they had to be sure.

I asked if I were under arrest. He tried to dodge the question by telling me again what they were going to do. But then I told him that he wasn’t taking me anywhere unless I was under arrest. He admitted that, yes, I was under arrest. [Legal note: after this point nothing I said to them was admissible in court. Up until then I was just a witness, whose statements were admissible, but as of that moment I was under arrest and, until they read me my Miranda rights (either in front of witnesses or making me sign a form), NOTHING I said would be admissible. Just the same, I resolved to say nothing.]

I asked if he couldn’t loosen the cuffs because my hands had gone numb.

He explained that to loosen the cuffs he’d have to let me out of the van and that “there’s media here, and if you’re innocent it would be better if they didn’t film you.”

At that point I could indeed see a man video-taping our van. I replied, “I’m not ashamed! Let me out and loosen the cuffs!”

He ignored this, backed and filed until he was facing out of the alley, and left.

[IF I had been taken out and filmed, I would have faced the camera and said: “We live in a police state: no one is safe!” I would have repeated this simple message as long as I was on camera.]

So we got to the bank at Kinzie and Wells.

[Think about it: I was heading towards the bank when I was apprehended. Does this constitute ordinary criminal behavior, or do most fleeing malefactors attempt to get away from the scene of the crime?]

The BDU commandos from the SWAT team were there first and, as soon as we showed up, they headed into the bank. The sergeant got me out and, quite considerately, loosened the cuffs, commenting as he did so that the SWAT guys were rookies who had put the cuffs on upside down, making it harder for him to unlock them. [Question: whose idea was it to put the ROOKIES on the SWAT team?]

Nobody from the bank came out to look at me.

Nobody.

We just stood there, me in cuffs, plainly in “police custody,” out in the open, there at Kinzie and Wells, where any passerby could draw his own conclusions.

During this time a few other squad cars came up and the guys milled about or went in to the bank. Finally, the nice balding sergeant told me that he was going to take me to the station, book me, and release me. He said they were pretty sure now that I wasn’t the bank robber but, since “they had to take me down,” a full arrest report had to be made. If they had just stopped me to ask questions, then they could just let me go without a report.

I pointed out that the did not need to take me down, as I was coöperating fully, but chose to do so.

“All the same — they took you down, so now we have to make a full arrest report.”

[As I understand this then: if they make a small mistake, they need not detain you further, but can let you go right away. But if they make a BIG mistake, then they are forced to compound this mistake and punish you further by taking you to the station and wasting more of your time. So — the more right you are, the more you are made to suffer.]

So — off to the eighteenth district station we went. It was only marginally more comfortable than the drive down because, despite the cuffs being loser, I was still strapped tight against them. There were quite elaborate procedures for getting me inside the station, including the sergeant leaving his gun in a locker in the garage.

I was taken through several sets of doors into some kind of holding area. On one wall there were several “Interrogation Rooms” and running down the center of the room was a sort of double line of study carrels. The bottom of these three-sided stations was made of cinder-block, and the tops were thick lucite. I was put into one of these cubbyholes, sat on a steel stool that was bolted to the floor, one of my hands released, and the other cuffed to a steel handle on the wall. In the facing carrel was a computer where, presumably, my interrogator would sit.

Immediately upon being freed from the cuffs I pulled out my rosary and began to pray. You may scoff, but I ALWAYS say the rosary when I am arrested. By that time, I had already said it on my fingers in the squad car, and now I set about saying it again. Do not scoff. The battle of Lepanto was won by the rosary and Marshal Foch never neglected it for a day, even during the dark days at Verdun. It brings countless blessings to say the rosary, it clears the mind marvelously, and it infuriates the cops. DO IT!

Mr. BDU-SWAT sat in the carrel opposite me. He said they had many forms to fill out and that if I coöperated it would go faster. [Don’t let them fool you: coöperation = “talking”] He asked for basic information and I told him that he already had my wallet, which had complete identification in it. He gave me back my wallet and told me to give him back the ID, which I did.

“Is this address current.”

“All information on that card is, to the best of my knowledge, current and complete.”

“Social security number?”

“On the ID.”

“No it’s not.”

“Then you don’t get it.”

“Look, the sooner I get that number, the sooner you get out of here.”

“The sooner you let me call my lawyer, the sooner I get out of here!”

“All I want is your social security number!”

“By act of Congress in 1941 social security numbers shall only be used for the computation and disbursement of social security benefits. They do not and shall not constitute any form of national identification number and thus it is illegal for you to ask me that question!”

“If you don’t want to coöperate then this will take a lot longer.”

I am convinced that this was the single most important decision that I made. All records these days are kept under your S.S.# and by refusing to give them this, they probably never got to my records and were probably not able to file this.

“Are you married?”

“Am I under arrest?”

The SWAT guy might have been trained in weapons, but he was no better a typist than a detective. He used two fingers and, being a rookie and having never filled out an arrest report before, had to ask a b-zillion questions about “codes.”

At one point another fellow was brought in. A Negro fellow about thirty years of age, dragged right past me. He saw my rosary, pointed to it, and asked, “Is that Jesus!”

“Yes, sir, it is!”

“That’s righteous, brother!” he said as he passed me by, then as they dragged him further on he yelled, “You a righteous dude!”

More questions, and they went like this:

[question asked]

“Am I under arrest?”

“Yes, you are under arrest! Answer the question!”

“May I speak with my lawyer?”

“The sooner you answer me, the sooner you will be let go!”

“I would like to talk to my lawyer.”

The only question I answered eagerly was when he asked for my phone number. “Area code eight-four-seven!” I stated, “Three-three-six seven-eight-eight-eight!”

“Thanks!” he said, suddenly hopeful.

He wouldn’t have been so up-beat if he had known that was my lawyer's phone number.

Just then they brought in a very distraught looking Negress of about eighteen years. They put her in the “Interrogation Room” right behind me, but left the door open.

“Is that a cross?” she whispered to me.

I held it up and nodded.

“I wish I could pray now — but I can’t!”

“I’ll pray for you,” I said. I prayed my second rosary for her and have mentioned her in my prayers since then. I suppose I should mention the “righteous” dude as well and will try to remember to do so in the future.

At some point, while Mr. two-finger-typist was trying to fill out a simple form, the rusty haired sergeant came behind the carols with another sergeant with a profound double-chin. The sergeant who drove me there, unlocked my wrist, asking “Does that feel better?”

They told me that they no longer suspected me of being the bank robber and if the F.B.I. was satisfied that I was not the culprit, I would soon be released. The double-chin sergeant added that the Watch Commander wanted to talk to me before I was release, and the rusty-haired fellow, who had heard my numerous refusals to say anything, added that, of course, I was not obliged to say anything.

The double-chin sergeant came back even before the SWAT cowboy was finished with the form, and said we were going to see the Watch Commander. We went out into the “nice” part of the station to a conference room that was plain and institutional. He said the Watch Commander would be along in a few minute and asked if he could ask a few questions, “just to make conversation.”

I said sure, and he asked if I were married. I told him that I was married with three kids and we got into a discussion. I made sure that I got in that I have been married for more than twenty years, that my oldest daughter is on full scholarship at Vassar, that I owned my own house and business, and that my boy was a lot of trouble, even though he likes grand opera and works as an extra at the Lyric. I also managed to work in, when he mentioned that his kids had gone to Catholic school, that my son and I were both ushers at a Catholic church where we attended mass every week. And I did not neglect the officer, but drew him out. He has two kids. A daughter whom he is especially proud of, as she graduated from the University of Wisconsin (Milwaukee) and is a CPA, and a son who is a union electrician. This is was somewhat less eager to confide to me, but just the same I heartily approved, adding that I worked with my
hands myself. He is on his second marriage and is going through a divorce as we speak. He expressed great relief at not having children with his second wife.

Long before the Watch Commander got to us, the sergeant said, “I’d like to apologize for what happened. You know, everyone in every line of work makes mistakes and I guess this is one of ours. I’d really like to say I’m sorry that this has happened to you. I hope you feel better.”

“Well, I don’t feel any better about it, but I like you better for saying it.”

He smiled, “Thanx.”

The Watch Commander was a white haired man of about sixty years. He came in, and sat down. I knew immediately that he had been chosen for command because he was reasonable, wanted to work things out, and had good judgement. He wanted me to give my side of the story.

I considered the matter. Here I had a reasonable Watch Commander, a sergeant who had thought enough of me to apologize, I was under arrest yet had not been read my rights so anything I said was off the record, and so this was the perfect opportunity to tell my story. I began right where I did with you: absentmindedly saying prayers, cycle ride, yahoos cruising me, just trying to avoid trouble, taken down for no reason...

They looked at each other.

The Watch Commander said he would be right back.

The sergeant said, “You know, you hear the officers’ report and it sounds okay, but then we hear your version and we can see why you did what you did. I’m really sorry.”

I shrugged.

Pretty soon the Watch Commander came back and said, “Make sure he has all of his stuff and let him go.”

The sergeant and I had already ascertained that I had everything except for my chap-stick and nail-clippers (which we both figured were there on the cobblestones in the alley) and so we got my bike and he let me loose.

I got to work at about 3:10, about thee hours after I had planned.

Sorry.

Haloween 2007

2007-10-31T22:03:00.000-05:00

Dr. Atomic: J. Robert Oppenheimer, the Trinity Bomb, and General Leslie Groves.

Axiomatically Impossible

2007-09-24T15:27:00.003-05:00

So, Pod-Man was on the bus to school the other day when someone called him a "Motherfucking faggot."

Calmly, he turned around and confronted the fellow, asking, "Which will it be? If I were a foggot, then I certainly wouldn't be interested in fucking your mother. And if I were fucking your mother, then that would make me at lest a bi-sexual."

Who came up with this?

2007-09-03T11:27:00.000-05:00

Good To Grow is a program featured in supermarkets to educate children about healthy foods featuring Paz, a penguin "who teaches by example." Recently, Bean-girl and I saw a large display of Paz in the produce section urging children to eat vegetables five times a day.

Bean-Girl: That's stupid!

Dutchman: Why?

Bean-Girl: Penguins don't eat vegetables!

Don't let's offend the effete!

2007-08-24T15:55:00.000-05:00

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A fabulous company, Wholesomewear, is making swim-wear that does not offer a shocking display of feminine carnality! The original culotte swimmer is modest swimwear for the more active swimmer. This design has a body fitting undergarment made of Spandex for maximum flexibility. And the looser fitting taslan scoop-necked romper outer garment gives a stylish modest look.

At last I will be able to take Wife-Mate to Hollywood Beach without causing offense!

Catwoman's Secret!

2007-07-23T20:21:00.001-05:00

Pod-man and I were down at the supermarket the other day, when I saw this woman with a gorgeous tattoo of Catwoman across her upper arm and shoulder. It was really well done and she was definitly wearing an off-the-shoulder dress to show it off. So I commented:

Dutchman: Nice tattoo!

Cat-Woman: Thanx!

Pod-Man: Do you have one of Batman too?

Cat-Woman: Yeah — but not where you can see it!

Dutchman: I'll bet he's right next to the Bat-Cave, huh?

Cat-Woman: (Blushes scarlet.)
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What Would ________ Do?

2007-07-14T16:27:00.000-05:00

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A few years ago, when it was all the rage for pre-pubescent girls to wear WWJD (i.e. "What would Jesus Do?") bracelets, my daughter Pumpkin commented that this was stupid, since Jesus was a boy and boys did gross things. She wanted a WWMD bracelet, since she saw Mary Most Immaculate as her appropriate role-model.

This problem of role models is as old as time. Diogenes Laërtius reports that Xenophon, immediately upon meeting him, "took Socrates as his exact model." This is, of course, a rather easy choice for Xenophon to make, for not only did he actually meet the great man, but there were so many fewer potential role models known to him at the time. Today one might consider such luminaries as Henry Agard Wallace, A.J. Muste, William Rufus, Saint Arnulf of Metz,Gayelord Hauser, Arthur Flagenheimer, William Claude Dukenfield, Herschel Krustofski — the list of worthy personages just goes on and on!

Perhaps the thing to do is to look for different models for different modes of life? Just as we would be loath to take our ethics from Captain Ernst Röhm, so too would we be misguided to emulate the savoir vivre of Mohandas K. Gandhi.

But what are we to do when the experts differ?

Recently it came to my attention that when Benjamin Franklin visited Paris in September 1767, the French secret police searched his logings and luggage, and reported that he had "the whitest underwear they had ever seen."

For years I have followed the example of Elvis, who never wore underwear. What am I to do now that the experts disagree?
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This is Sick-Making!

2007-07-06T13:41:00.000-05:00

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Did you know that you can get really cool scrolling lyrics here?

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Hand In Glove Lyrics

The Dutchman’s NYT Sex Frequency Test

2007-05-17T21:24:00.002-05:00

According to a recent issue of the New York Times, the average American has sex 58 times per year. Several factors, however, have been found to reliably predict deviations from this mean. So take the Dutchman’s NYT Sex Frequency Test and see if it has predictive value for you!

Jazz Bonus:
+30% for Jazz Fans

Left Wing Bonus:
+10% for being a self described “liberal”
+33% for “Extreme Liberal”
+55% for “Radical”

Education Penalty:
-10% for each year of College education

Gun Owner Bonus:
+10% for male gun owners
+15% for female gun owners

Vice Bonus
+20% for smoking
+20% for “excessive” drinking

Television Bonus
+10% for watching Television

Working Class Bonus
+15% for earning less than $30,000 per annum
+30% for living in a trailer

Take your total percentage (100% plus or minus any bonuses or penalties) and multiply this by the normal mean of 58.

Does this match your actual frequency of coition? If not, what can you do about it? When my total was off I had to start listening to Jazz, buy a gun, and, since I couldn’t un-do those years of college education, move into a trailer. What radical changes will this test bring to you?

Rules of Thumb

2007-05-15T13:42:00.000-05:00

• The larger the car, the more inconsiderate the driver.

• Conservatives don't think greed is a sin, while Liberals don't think lust is.

• Most women would rather talk about a problem than solve it.

• Richard Roper’s Shopping Insight: Women will shop without buying / men will buy without shopping.

• Closeted homosexuals “pass” most easily in small cities where they can have the anonymity unavailable in a small town, while also not facing big city sophisticates who could spot them.

• First Rule of Dog Training: Until a dog is trained, never give an order that cannot be immediately enforced.

• A woman tries to anticipate what her lover will feel about something, a man wants predict what his lover will do about it.

• The more education a woman has, the fewer children she will want.

• The more religious a man is, the more children he will want.

• If a short guy is “feisty,” then he’s probably compensating for his height, but if a big guy is “feisty,” then he’s a scrap-happy psycho.

• Rhona Lichtenberg’s Gossip Rule of 3: Don’t repeat anything you haven’t heard three times. [NOTE: this is almost identical to Stalin’s Intelligence Rule: don’t trust any information unless it comes from three independent sources.”]

• People who talk about “blumpkins,” “Cleveland Steamers,” and “Nasty Sanchezes” have never actually done any of those things.

• Among Irish Whiskey drinkers, Protestants drink Bushmills while Catholics drink Jameson.

• Dan Savage’s Recovery Quotient: The recovery time after a break up is approximately half the duration of the relationship, less one month for every year you are over thirty.

• A white man named Jr. is most likely a failure, while a black man named Jr. is most likely a success.

Random Observations

2007-05-10T21:27:00.000-05:00

These are just some things I've noticed over the past 46 years. They are all drawn from my experience and may have no validity past that.

• An Asian with big, musclely legs is almost certain to be Japanese, never Chinese.

• I have never seen a full-blooded American Indian with a beard or moustache.

• Alcoholic women and male homosexuals are usually more promiscuous than non-alcoholics, while alcoholic heterosexual males typically lose their interest in sex and “womanizers” are almost always moderate drinkers.

• Alcoholics usually lose their appetites and, unless they are beer drinkers, are usually under-weight.

• Women with double-chins usually have larger breasts than the average woman.

• Nowadays, a balding man in his twenties is much more likely to shave his head than to comb-over his bald-spot.

• Since about 1980, only balding men and “outdoorsy types” grow a full beard.

• When gay men go bald, they just go bald. They don’t comb it over, shave their heads, or get a toupee, they just keep what hair they do have short and neat.

• African-American men are much more likely to wear toupees than others.

• African-American and Chinese women are much more likely to have thinning hair than others.

• Old ladies always sit at the front of the bus and never exit by the back door.

• Hip replacements have become more common than dentures.

• Even if you can’t hear what they are saying, you can usually tell just by looking when two people are conversing in a foreign language.

• When I over-hear immigrants talking in their native language, they often use English nouns (e.g., “cell phone,” “section eight,” or “State Street”) but never English verbs.

• African-Americans are much more likely to dress up for social occasions (e.g., attending church, going on dates, attending Jazz concerts). They will also wear brighter colored dress clothes, are more likely to match the shoes to the outfit, and often mix non-Western items (e.g., kente cloth, skull caps, or dashikis) with traditional Western clothes.

• I have never seen a black man wearing sneakers with a suit.

• You will never get a compliment on a new hat, but often on an old hat.

• Guys who like big breasts will date fat women just for their large breasts.

• Most long-term homosexual couples are matched personality types, not complementary types (i.e., both partners are either dominant personality types or passive personality types), while in most long-term heterosexual couples one partner is clearly dominant.

• In the grocery store “ethnic” means Hispanic (beans, salsa, etc.) while at the drug-store “ethnic” means African-American (usually hair-care products).

• Women are much more likely read books on the subway than men. Men often read newspapers, seldom books, and never fiction.

• A red bandanna hanging out of a back pocket usually means a man works around dust and blows his nose frequently. Dark blue could go either way. Any other color always means “cruising”.

• A “lip-stick lesbian” who decides that she wants kids will straighten up and get herself a man. A “no-makeup lesbian” will get herself a turkey baster or adopt.

• Middle aged lesbian butches in the professions usually have a Huey Lewis hair-cut and dress like him on the weekends.

• When a woman says sex is “over-rated,” is means that she’s non-orgasmic. When a man says sex is “over-rated,” is means that his partner is non-orgasmic.

I Have Become Pod-Man's Straight-Man Department

2007-02-15T21:39:00.000-06:00

So, we’re waiting for the subway at Chicago Avenue, when I spot an advertisement for the movie “Norbit.” I comment:

Dutchman: So — would you rather see Norbit or Battleship Potemkin?

Podman: Potemkin.

Dutchman: But Norbit has got fat jokes.

Podman: So? That’s not as gross as the maggoty meat in Potemkin.

Dutchman: I’ll bet there are naked women in Norbit.

Podman: And what’s more homoerotic than sailors?

Dutchman: Norbit has Eddie Murphy.

Podman: Nobody does a montage like Eisenstein.

Dutchman: I’ll bet there are lots of fart jokes in Norbit.

Podman: Lots of fart jokes in Potemkin, too.

Dutchman: There aren’t any fart jokes in Potemkin!

Podman: Sure there are! You just can’t hear them because it’s a silent movie.

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Too Much Opera!

2005-12-26T23:52:00.000-06:00

Bean-Girl loves rubber monster movies. You know the kind: Godzilla, It Came from Beneath the Sea, Fiend Without a Face, that sort of thing.
So, naturally, she was over-joyed when I gave her a DVD of THEM!, a 1954 film about ants the size of a Packard sedan that infest the sewers of Los Angeles. Naturally the huge bugs are the product of radioactive fallout, are slow-moving and phony looking, and are eradicated by the Army using flame-throwers. Suspense is built by the simple device of a sort of buzzing/twitching/clicking sound every time the ants are near. A perfect entertainment, n'est-ce pas?

So, Bean-Girl and I are watching this cinematic gem, when Wife-Mate comes into the room. The ants were making their buzzing/twitching/clicking sound and Bean-Girl was very excited, "The bugs are coming! That's their leitmotif!"

Haloween 2005

2005-10-31T22:00:00.000-06:00

Wotan Clan: Mime, Wotan, Brünnhilde, and Fricka.

The Savoir Vivre of American Heroes

2005-07-21T18:14:00.000-05:00

A recent news story disclosed that the typical entering college student could not name five American heroes. Typically, those entering less selective schools had trouble naming any five notable Americans, while those entering elite schools didn’t think enough of America to say that five Americans were “heroes.” Naturally, I wanted to see the state of affairs in my own household, so at dinner that night I asked my kids to name five American heroes. I was dying with curiosity as to who they might name: Smedley Butler? Klaus Fuchs? Harry Hay? Father Coughlin? Emperor Norton? At first I was not disappointed ...

Pod-Man: Dalton Trumbo, because he broke the black list.

Bean-Girl: Mother Flynn, because she’s a mom.

Pumpkin: Lucy Parsons, because she worked for justice all her life.

Pod-Man: Colonel McCormick, because he knew how to live!

Bean-Girl: Hey, Charles Gates Dawes’ Mansion is a whole lot nicer than the Cantigny!

Pod-Man: Is not! Cantigny has that cool Art Deco bar, and that machine that makes 650 ice cubes at once, and it’s own private landing strip!

Bean-Girl: Yeah, well the Dawes Mansion is right by the lake, and it has that cool library and that glass solarium, and ...

At this point the discussion broke down into an argument about which of these reactionary, Republican millionaires had the nicer mansion, so I would count the experiment as a failure: my children could not name five American heroes.

The Wrath of God

2005-04-06T01:19:00.003-05:00

My mom and I went to this lecture last Wednesday. The Reverend Barry Lynn was speaking on the importance of the separation of church and state at Temple Shalom up on Lake Shore Drive. My mom is a big liberal and secular humanist (so she’s kind of militant about this issue) and even though I’m staunchly Catholic I don’t think state sponsorship of religious initiatives is a good idea. So, as we waited in the audience for the program to start, we introduced ourselves to the person sitting next to us and chatted for a while. This was an older lady who sort of looked and dressed like Janet Reno, Jewish (though not practicing), and very worried about the overtly Christian bias of the Bush administration.

The lecture was okay. The guy was mostly right but, unlike him, I don’t think abortion is a religious issue. So when it was over, my mother turned to the Nice Lady and said:

Mom: You know, I think that having prayers in the schools will do as much to stop delinquency as having Gideon’s Bibles in motels has done to stop adultery.

Well, the Nice Lady laughed at this, and my mother said she had to use the ladies room and would meet me later, and so I ended up walking out with the Nice Lady and talking to her.

Dutchman: You know, I wouldn’t want my mother to find out about it, but — once I was in a motel room with a woman who wasn’t my wife …

Nice Lady: Oh?

Dutchman: Yes — and before I could fall into carnal sin, I saw that Gideon’s Bible on the table next to the bed, and I picked it up …

Nice Lady: Really?

Dutchman: Yes! And as I picked it up, the Spirit filled me and God put it on my heart to correct this fallen woman!

Nice Lady: Correct her?

Dutchman: Yes, I told her “Woman! The wrath of God has filled my heart with righteousness and has made me the instrument of his vengeance!” Whereupon I bent that sinful woman over and smote her upon the fundament with that Holy Book until she gat a great heat. And then we copulated like the dogs of Egypt!

Nice Lady: The dogs of Egypt?

Dutchman: Is it not written in the book of Strabo that the dogs of Egypt must drink quickly from the Nile?

Nice Lady: I wouldn’t know, I’ve never read the Book of Strabo …

Dutchman: Oh, there’s my mom! Remember, don’t tell her!

Nice Lady: Oh, I won’t!

The Big Schmuck

2005-04-04T01:21:00.001-05:00

I was backstage at Lyric Opera, watching Mime (Dennis Petersen) forging the sword of Sigfried in Das Rheingold, when I asked Eric (one of the stage managers):

Dutchman: Did he say “schumck?”

Eric: (Worried) I don’t think so.

(Just then, Dennis came off stage, and so I asked him.)

Dutchman: Were you singing about a schmuck?

Dennis: I was singing about a really big schmuck!

Eric: (now really worried) Oh!

Dutchman: What?

Eric: Do you know what that means?

Dutchman: In German? Yeah, schmuck means “jewel.”

Eric: Oh! Well, in Yiddish is means something else …

Dutchman: Really, what?

Eric: Just — something else.

It’s Not Exactly Like I’m Straight Either

2004-11-09T01:03:00.002-06:00

So I’m leaving work, heading towards the building door, when I spot this bike messenger. Now, maybe I’m doing a little conjecturing here, but I think he was about twenty, intelligent, probably taking a year off from college to “sort things out,” and bisexual. Though one day he’ll be a top, right now he’s just a boy and pretty much open to anything, and he’s gorgeous! He’s dressed in jeans and one of those black thermal jackets, he’s got tousled blond hair, pale dry skin, and big wide eyes and — keys hanging on the right.

So now I’m at the top of the stairs and I say:

Dutchman: Nice keys.

Delivery Boy: Huh? (Sees my keys and points.) Yeah, keys!

Dutchman: Wear them on the right, do you?

(About now, Mary Pat, from a big PR firm in the building comes down the stairs. She’s my age and has worked in the building and known me since Pumpkin was born.)

Delivery Boy: (Stands real loose, resting the package on one hip.) Sometimes.

Dutchman: I always dress left.

(So now Mary Pat can hear everything we’re saying and she kind of slows down.)

Delivery Boy: Look —uhm— this is my last delivery of the day.

Dutchman: So, you’re as good as off in five minutes?

(Mary Pat is staring right at me, as if to say “What are you doing?”)

Delivery Boy: Yeah —uh— want to go get a cup of coffee or something?

Dutchman: (Laughs.) I can’t. My partner’s got dinner waiting for me at home.

(Mary Pat has stopped dead on the bottom stair.)

Delivery Boy: You’re partnered?

Dutchman: Been partnered nineteen years.

Delivery Boy: Wow, you don’t look that old.

Dutchman: Thanx.

(The elevator’s there and the boy gets in. Mary Pat walks right up to me and asks:)

Mary Pat: Aren’t you married?

Dutchman: Yeah. (Steps to the door and begins to head out.)

Mary Pat: Well — then why did you say “partnered?”

Dutchman: That boy’s gorgeous; I didn’t want him thinking I was straight!

Mary Pat: (Stops dead.)

Dutchman: (Out the door.)

Fighting Fire

2004-08-22T01:17:00.000-05:00

It’s Sunday afternoon and I trying to take a nap on the couch when someone pulls up in a Hummer and begins to bark their horn. You know the story — too lazy to get out and ring the door-bell, this jerk is going to honk until everyone in the neighborhood (including the person they’re here to pick-up) is looking out to see who it is. So I tell the Pod-Man, “Go out and tell that ass-hole to cut it out.”

So my eager little boy runs out, and I hear the horn honk a few more times, then I’m knocked off the couch by a loud blast. I look outside and Pod-Man is standing by the open passenger window with his rail-road air-horn. (You know, the kind of compressed-air horn they use to warn track crews that a train is coming …)

The woman in the Hummer is furious and she starts to honk her horn in anger, but then Pod-Man gives another ear-splitting blast from the air-horn and she quits.

Wow — I love that kid!

Having a Side-Kick is Great!

2004-07-15T01:12:00.002-05:00

The other day I went to pick up Pod-Man. He attends the Columbia Collage Arts day camp and so we were coming back to Red Star on the Brown Line. At about Lake/Wabash he asked what I was reading:

Pod-Man: Are you reading the queer newspaper?

Dutchman: Yeah — it’s free.

Pod-Man: What are you reading that for? You don’t read everything that’s free.

Dutchman: Checking out this gay marriage thing.

Pod-Man: What about it?

Dutchman: Well, there’s got to be a grandfather clause.

Pod-Man: A what?

Dutchman: Do you think I would have married your mother, denied my true nature, and set myself up for nineteen years of living hell if I could have married Brian back in 1985?

[People start to look at us …]

Pod-Man: I guess not …

Dutchman: Shit no! Now, if they go changing the rules in the middle of the game, then don’t I get a do over?

Pod-Man: So — are you going to move to Vermont and marry Brian?

Dutchman: Faster than the wind out of a duck’s ass!

[Now they’re really staring …]

Pod-Man: Are you two going to dress like sailors?

Dutchman: In Vermont? Of course not! We’ll dress like lumberjacks.

Pod-Man: Do I get to live with you?

Dutchman: You don’t want to live with women do you?

Pod-Man: Will you let me smoke cigars?

Dutchman: When we’re not abusing you …

[At this point, I think everyone on the car was listening in …]

Pod-Man: What kind of abuse?

Dutchman: Now — If you had a word for it, then you’d go telling the authorities all about it, wouldn’t you?

Pod-Man [Evincing mock guilt]: I guess …

[The train pulls into Chicago Avenue.]

Dutchman: Our stop, let’s go!

[I pat his ass on the way out]

My Curiosity Punished

2004-05-17T01:09:00.000-05:00

So I’m sitting on the El train this morning when this girl gets on. She’s short, kind of plump, short haired, dressed in jeans and T-shirt. She passes right by me and she has this button on her shirt. It’s yellow on top and white on the bottom. The top says: “I want a President who …” and I can’t make out the bottom. So the girl sits down right opposite me and I’m staring hard at her trying to make out what the bottom of the button says and, evidently, this is a do-it-yourself button where you fill in whatever it is you want the president to do and this girl’s handwriting isn’t the best so I’m really staring hard at this, when she gives me a NASTY DROP-DEAD LOOK and I realize two things:

1] The button is pinned right on top of a really big hooter that I’m staring straight at …

2] The full text reads:“I want a President who SUPPORTS GAY MARRIAGE!”

So — I had to sit across from the bull dyke who thought I was staring at her tits from Belmont up to Howard. If looks could kill, I’d be a dead man …

Pop Quiz!

2004-05-04T16:29:00.000-05:00

Saturday I was at the public library with my son (checking out DVD’s of The Bank Dick w/W.C. Fields and Geisevus' Memoirs), and we're going down the escalator and I have this rip in my jeans, right at the top of the leg, about an inch and a half of leg-flesh shows out, no big deal, nothing you can't see at the beach, and this voice comes from behind us:

Lady: You forgot to wear underwear!

Now, the voice was kind of snotty, like Lilly Tomlin, so I turn around. It's a woman, about 35/40, wearing jeans and a sweat-shirt, mouse brown hair in a pony tail, no make-up, so it's not like she's dressed up…

And what does she expect me to do, wear underwear with jeans? So I try to answer her nicely, make a joke out of it …

Dutchman: I never wear underwear. Elvis never did, and I always ask myself "what would Elvis do?"

Lady: How do you know he didn't wear underwear?

Dutchman: Every biography says so …

Now we've gotten off the escalator and she's following me …

Lady: You can't always trust what you read!

Dutchman: Well, I guess you could always call up Priscilla and ask her!

Lady: She wasn't with him for very long.

I didn't answer this one, I just made a sharp turn and went off where I didn't want to go just so she wouldn't follow.

So here’s the quiz part:

1] What was that lady's problem? She didn't seem to care that I wasn't wearing underwear, she just seemed to want to talk and then she contradicted everything that I said. What the hell was on her mind?

2] In a civilized country, would she be in a Gulag, or what?

Some kids need Quiet, some kids need Storm

2004-04-01T01:58:00.000-06:00

Before I actually had a child, I was of a mind that they were born blank slates and that they were totally shaped by their environment. (This idea was probably a hold-over from my youthful indoctrination into communism.) About two weeks after my first child was born, however, I realized that my little Pumpkin had a personality all of her own and that I couldn’t shape her into an ideal Soviet Man, Modern Enoch, or whatever your ideal might be. I could only help her to become the Good Pumpkin, or the Bad Pumpkin, but she would always and only be Pumpkin.

After I had a second child I realized that, because Pod-Man was a different person, that I would have to treat him differently. He needed different things, must learn different lessons, responded to different incentives, and annoyed me in an altogether original way.

This caused a good deal of trouble, as my kinderen would frequently feel short-changed when they became aware of these differences and could point to my sister-in-law who scrupulously treats her two daughters exactly equally. None-the-less I stuck to my guns. Again and again I explained to them that Pod-Man got tickets to the opera because he was a born connoisseur, but that only Pumpkin could be left alone in the house because she was my responsible girl, and that Bean-Girl needed more alone time with Daddy because she was my shy girl.

They never bought it.

Finally an incident made my ultimate fairness clear to them. Pumpkin had to read Erich Maria Remarque’s All Quiet on the Western Front for her High School English class and write a paper on it. She was at a loss as to what to say or write, so she asked me. I tried to draw her out by asking “Well, what’s the book about?”

“It’s stupid! It’s just about how war is stupid!”

“Okay, Erich Maria Remarque was drafted into the Great War and saw all of its futility and carnage. But Ernst Jünger volunteered for war, became commander of a shock battalion, and wrote about how he loved war in Storm of Steel. Why don’t you read that and write a paper comparing them?”

She was baffled, “What’s to like about war?”

“Well, Junger said that ever-afterwards he only felt really alive when actually in combat. He said that ordinary life was tedious, and that only warfare drew upon the total man. He said that the comradeship formed among his fellow soldiers in the trenches surpassed any other human connection, even that of marriage. He writes about being under barrages as though they hold all of the excitement of a roller-coaster. He makes trench-raids come to life like an adrenaline rush. The affection of a comrade for his buddy, their devotion to one another, their willingness to risk all, makes mere romantic love seem pale and life-less ...”

As I was describing this, Pod-Man came over. At last he exclaimed, “Wow! I want to read that book!”

“NO!” I poked him in the chest, “You need All Quiet on the Western Front!”

This was so self-evident that it became a catch-phrase around out house. Anytime one of the kids objected to the way we were “favoring” one of the others, all I have to say is, “No, Pod-Man needs All Quiet on the Western Front.”

The Game of Life

2004-03-08T22:32:00.003-06:00

Last night I was playing the game of LIFE (by Milton Bradley) with Pod-Man and Bean-Girl and we had a few disagreements on the rules. As the auditors of the blog are well known for their impartiality, we are appealing to them now for a judgment on these rules:

— When I got to the “Get Married” space, I wanted to go to Vermont and marry by friend Brian. It’s legal there now and there’s nothing in the rules that says “heterosexual marriage,” so I contend that I am within my rights. Pod-Man disagrees, however, and claims that this is just a ploy on my part to avoid having children and the ruinous expenditures that they incur. Both Pod-Man and Bean Girl insisted that I marry a girl, but is it really fair to force me to live a lie just because of a an arcane set of “rules” that are no more than the codification of outmoded bourgeois proprieties?

— When it came time for Pod-Man to get married, he claimed a religious vocation. In fact he claimed that he had a calling from God and wanted to be a monk (thus avoiding both children and the purchase of a house). He said that his first amendment rights supersede the fiat rule of this so-called “Milton Bradley” fellow. Does the first amendment guarantee of free practice of religion allow him to do this?

— Bean Girl claimed that she wanted to marry me, and that we could then ride in the same car together and pool our resources. Pod-Man says this would be "incest" and disallowed it, but isn’t that just one more Bourgeois propriety that keeps people from living as autonomous persons?

— I landed on the space that said “Automobile Accident — pay $5000- for repairs,” and decided against fixing it. I proposed that I then walk for the rest of the game, dividing all of my spins by three to represent my slower pace. Pod-Man called this cheating, even though I’ve never owned a car in all my life, thus proving it can be done!

— Bean Girl got past all the spaces where you have children without landing on one and announced “If I can’t have children then life isn’t worth living! I’m slitting my wrists!” and she quit the game. Pod-Man said that she couldn’t, but I said all she had to do was write a note and inform the banker of her method of suicide because, after all, death is a part of life and we would just be burying our heads in the sand if we didn’t acknowledge this.

— Since Bean Girl wrote her note and specified that she was going to slit her wrists in the bathtub, she's legally dead for purposes of this game and, as next of kin, it’s self evident that I’m entitled to her money and property. Yet Pod-Man (who had earlier said it would be “incest” if I married her) claimed that this was just a cheap grab for money on my part. He just wants to have things both ways, doesn’t he?

— Later, I landed on the space that said “Fire Destroys House — pay purchase price to bank if uninsured.” Now, logically, why should I re-build that house when I’ve already inherited Bean Girl’s house and can simply live there? This really set Pod-Man off on a tirade about “cheating,” and “what sort of dad would manipulate the rules of a children’s game?” and “some Bolshevik you are!” Isn’t he just being petty? I think he was just jealous because I had two houses.

From "The Straight Dope" Column

2003-10-10T12:15:00.000-05:00

Cecil Adams answers my questions:

Dear Cecil:

Recently I purchased a 1957 Information Please Almanac just to see if I had missed anything of importance. And indeed I had! Its table of "Grounds for Divorce" shows a mystery category of "Indignities," which I had never heard of. What are these "Indignities"? They cannot be "Crimes Against Nature," for footnote number five reveals that this is grounds only in Alabama, Virginia, North Carolina, and Arizona. Hurry, Cecil--I would hate to inflict indignities on my wife out of negligence or ignorance. --R.M. Schultz, Chicago

PS: What exactly is the "Loathsome Disease" that is grounds for divorce in Kentucky? If it's hay fever I'm in trouble.

Silly boy. Prior to the introduction of no-fault divorce in the 1970s, "indignities" was the catchall term for whatever bugged you about the old battle-ax (or inconsiderate pig) your adoring spouse had turned out to be, and as such was the most common grounds for a split. Sample indignities, lifted from a Pennsylvania lawyer's Web site: "vulgarity; unmerited reproach; habitual laziness; studied neglect; intentional incivility; manifest disdain; abusive language; [and] malignant ridicule"--any of which can supposedly "render [the injured party's] condition intolerable and his or her life burdensome." Loathsome disease, a traditional grounds for divorce in many cultures, is commonly understood to mean something like leprosy--not your typical marital problem these days. Manifest disdain, on the other hand . . . if I were you, I'd be careful about leaving that toilet seat up.

--CECIL ADAMS

I guess that's pretty obvious ...

2003-05-03T14:40:00.000-05:00

I get home and, right after I close the front door, Bean-Girl runs up to me stark naked and gives me a big hug.

So I ask, "Why are you naked?"

"Because I haven't got any clothes on!"

Car Stuffed With Trash

2003-04-02T21:57:00.000-06:00

This car was parked on LaSalle Street in front of Sandburg Village. Only the actual driver's seat was not stuffed to the ceiling with garbage, mostly newspapers, Dunkin Doughnuts coffee cups, and Pepperidge Farm cookie wrappers.

Bean-Girl at War Protest

2002-12-15T11:32:00.001-06:00

An Unsolicited Offer

2002-04-11T16:36:00.000-05:00

Letter to Mr. Eugene Sunshine, Senior Vice President for Business and Finance, Northwestern University, Evanston, IL:

Dear Mr. Sunshine:

Recently, my son and I took a tour of the Charles Gates Dawes Mansion where the Evanston Historical Society is now housed. During the course of this tour, the docent mentioned that General Dawes had left the mansion as a bequest to Northwestern University, and that the Historical Society leases the premises from the university for an annual rent of one dollar.

Well, on the way home, my son made mention of how nice it might be to live in the former Dawes Mansion and suggested that we should offer the university a higher rent. While the sum of $1— might have reflected the market conditions of 1956, when the university took possession of the properties, let me assure you that conditions have changed. They have, in fact, changed so radically that I am prepared to offer the university twice this amount annually to lease the house! That’s right: $2— cash American! Think of what a wind-fall it would be if Northwestern could double its return on this investment! While I am not intimately familiar with the economics of running a major institution of higher learning, I should think that doubling your return might just prove sufficient to endow a professorship!

I know that this offer might sound too good to be true, but I am willing to sign a lease immediately! Given the tremendous financial pressures upon private institutions today, I am more than certain your board of regents will snatch up this offer post haste, so I have enclosed a check covering both the first month’s rent and a month’s rent as security deposit (i.e. 2/12ths of $200, or 33 1/3¢, rounded up to the nearest whole cent).

I look forward to hearing from you. Please let us know in your letter of reply how soon we can move in.

Yours For A Better World, R.M. Schultz

P.S. Rest assured that we are clean living, church going folks that have no pets and can supply the most reputable of character references.

Haloween 2001

2001-10-31T16:26:00.000-06:00

Glinda and Dracula

Spreading Christmas Cheer

1999-12-04T20:21:00.002-06:00

Wife-mate and I were downtown and deiced to have lunch at Marshal Field’s cafeteria. So we headed for an elevator up. In the elevator already were two middle-aged white women and a very tall black woman. I could tell immediately that the older women were there for their annual trip to have lunch in the Walnut Room right next to the justifiably famous three-story Christmas tree. Their mothers had probably taken them on just such a trip back in the 1950’s and now, even though they lived someplace like Schaumburg, they would drive downtown (despite the risk!), park as near to Field’s as possible (just to be safe!), and have their lunch, careful to leave the city before sundown. The black woman, on the other hand, was a transvestite. I suspected from the height, checked and saw the man sized shoes and the recent shave.

The transvestite got off on four and, as we began to ride up to seven, I commented:

Dutchman: Hey, he almost passed, didn’t he?

First Lady: Pardon?

Dutchman: Oh, that was no lady, that was a man. You can tell from the big shoes and close shave.

First Lady: Really?

Second Lady: Oh, I just don’t know why a person would do a thing like that.

Dutchman: Yeah, I don’t know either. I mean — unless you were going to dress up as a nurse.

First Lady: A nurse?

Dutchman: Yeah! Then you would have that white dress, and those white stockings with the lines down the back, and the white shoes that go squeak-squeak-squeak as you walk down the hallway, and the white starched linen hat ...

Wife-Mate (interrupting): You’re not giving me an enema!

Dutchman (stomping his foot): Damn!

So the elevator got to seven and we stepped out and headed for the cafeteria. I looked back and didn’t see the two ladies leave the elevator even though this was their floor. I’ll bet the went right back down and headed home to Schaumburg.

My Sausage-Pinch Problem

1999-09-15T23:27:00.000-05:00

I’ve got a problem and it all comes from a sausage-pinch.

I’m sure lots of you don’t know what a sausage-pinch is. Most women don’t, and most men with white collar jobs don’t know either. But I doubt there is a working class fellow who doesn’t know what I’m talking about.

A sausage-pinch is when the police arrest you for spite. They pick you up, book you on something trumped up (“disorderly conduct” usually), and throw you in the lock-up for a few hours until your friends can bail you out. Later, when the case comes before a judge, the whole thing is dismissed. You’re out the time and trouble, and the cops have a good laugh all around. It’s called a “sausage-pinch” because after they arrest you (the pinch) they usually keep you in the tank just long enough for you to get hungry enough to eat one of those jail-house baloney sausage sandwiches: the dread “choker.”

Now, this happens to young guys regularly. It happened to me once about fifteen years ago. I was riding the #36 Broadway bus. It had been a long day and I was on my way home from work. There was a girl sitting on the seat opposite me and she was arguing with an old lady. You see, the girl was playing her radio, not loud, but it’s not supposed to be on at all, and the woman wanted her to turn it off. The girl claimed that since this wasn’t actually a radio, but a tape player, it was somehow exempted from the CTA rule against “radio playing.” Well, after about five minutes of this nonsense, I just reached over and snapped the radio off for her. The old lady thanked me and the girl just sat there. Later, when I got off the bus, the girl got off too, and she flagged down a cop.

Clearly, the girl was in the wrong but, legally, I had assaulted her, I had touched her person. And when she told the cops her story they arrested me. They didn’t arrest me because I was a clear and present danger to public order, they arrested me because this girl was a cute young twist in a mini-skirt and they were all too happy to do her the favor.

And this played out just like any other sausage-pinch. I was arrested, booked at the precinct station, finger-printed, photographed, and left to wait in the lock-up with the drunks and pan-handlers. It was after mid-night before my buddy Pete was allowed to post bond for me.

The police report, as is usual in these cases, was a bit embroidered. Instead of just snapping off the radio, I was supposed to have forced it from the girl’s grasp, turned it off, and then refused to give it back until I got off the bus. Of course when the matter actually came to trial, neither the girl nor the arresting officer bothered to show up in court and the whole thing was dismissed.

See how it works?

A sausage-pinch is just petty harassment, other things are worse.

Sometimes being “Bounced” isn’t so bad. That’s when the cops decide they need to “question” you. They throw you in the back of the prowl car and maybe ask you a few questions. But mostly, they drive you as far out of your way as they can and then let you loose. Stranded in Hegewisch or Sauganash — E-gad!

Of course they could give you a Hard Bounce.

Like my buddy Travis, the bike messenger. One day a cop cut Travis off in traffic and so he flipped the cop the bird. So the cop threw him in the back of the squad car and drove him to the station house six blocks away before he let Travis loose. Of course, the cop didn’t take the bicycle. He left it right there on the corner of Rush and Elm and by the time Travis ran back from the station house, the bike was long gone. Think of it as a cop reaching into your pocket and taking three hundred and fifty dollars if you will.

Then there was the Hard Bounce in the newspapers about two years ago. Some police officers picked three or four black boys (they were like twelve or fourteen years old) out on West Madison. They drove them over to South Racine and left those West Side boys out on the curb. That’s where some South Side gang-bangers were ready to give them a good going over. If I remember correctly, one of those West Side boys is crippled now.

“Riding the Horn” is like one sausage-pinch after another. That’s where the cops pick you up and take you to station house “A” for questioning. But before it comes time to clear out the lock-up and bring everyone before a judge, precinct “A” is done with you. And so you get released before actually being booked or seeing a judge. But, ah! Now the boys from station “B” have some questions for you, so they take you to their lock up for “questioning.” At station “B” you rot in a cell for another twenty-four hours and eat three more chokers before they release you. And that’s where precinct “C” comes into the picture. As one can readily see, this could go on and on indefinitely. Now, while I’ve never actually met anyone who was taken to more than three lock-ups without actually being booked, it would do to keep in mind that there are twenty-five police districts in Chicago and they might all have questions for you.

Have you ever heard the phrase: “Two shots rang out and a man fell dead.”

One night, before we had children, my wife and I were walking someone from work to his car. It was twilight and as we rounded a corner, two kids, black boys about sixteen years old, collided with us. They excused themselves politely, but they kept going. We crossed the street to our friend’s car. Suddenly the two boys came doubling back, whipping around that corner and running off pell mell.

Two cops were running after them.

As soon as he was around the corner the first cop planted his feet, yelled “Stop, you nigger!” and lowered his gun to fire. I will believe until the day I die that he would have shot those boys dead, except that just then his partner grabbed his wrist and pointed to us, potential witnesses. My wife was so scared she trembled for an hour. She realized immediately that if we weren’t there the cops would have shot those boys, and that they would have got away with it.

Two shots rang out and a man fell dead; uh — warning shot second.

So, now you know the score.

And now, when I tell you that I was picked up on a sausage-pinch the other afternoon, you know it could have been worse.

And this sausage-pinch couldn’t have been more typical.

One fine afternoon I was about to cross Wells Street. I had the green, and I was about half-way across, when a car going the other way ran the red light. This happens all the time and, frankly, I am sick of it. So I yelled a naughty word at the people in the car. In fact, I called the driver an “ass-hole.”

As it turned out, however, not only was the driver a horse’s ass, but he was also an undercover police officer in an un-marked police car. So that car came to a screeching halt, a fat cop came bolting out, and I was jacked up against a lamp-post, hand-cuffed, and arrested. (Nowadays, police officers put cuffs on tight too, nice and snug, so that your fingers start tingling right away.)

Then I was taken to the station house office where the patrol-men do their paper-work. As I sat there, I could hear the policemen jovially calling each other “bastard,” “nut buster,” “hard ass,” “bitch,” and, yes, “ass hole.” Judging from the officers’ reparteé in that room, I would say that “hey, fuck you, ass hole,” answers just about any question one policeman might ask another.

I will confess it: as I sat on that hard bench, my fingers tingling and blue at the tips, I was really angry. When I’m angry, I often use a little trick to calm myself down: I say the rosary. I don’t need the beads, I just count on my fingers and trust God to forgive me if I skip a thing or two by accident. So I said the rosary to myself and it really calmed me down, but I think I broke a rule. You see, I was moving my lips, and so an officer asked me what I was saying. I didn’t miss a beat, I just kept on saying what I had been saying, only now I said it aloud: “…blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus…”

Well, I guess I broke that rule about keeping church and state separate, because the officer who had arrested me in the first place yelled across the room, “Shut the fuck up, you!”

Much later, after these officers had finished typing all of their reports for the month, I was taken down to the lock-up and booked.

First they take mug shots, front and side, and fingerprints, right and left. Nowadays they have this thing that photocopies your fingerprints. No messy ink, they just roll your fingers across a glass plate and instantly the prints show up on their computer screen. (I think that plate was two hundred degrees Fahrenheit, though I may be off by a degree or two.) All of this information is sent to the F.B.I. in Washington to make sure you are not a nazi saboteur or an escaped cannibal or something. In fact, the cops won’t let you loose until they get the high-sign from the G-men. (And if the computers are down in Washington you could end up waiting three days, like a friend of mine once did in Madison.)

Next you have to empty your pockets and turn over all of the contents. I asked if I could hang on to my rosary, but the jailer assured me that God would watch over me in there, even if my rosary was in here. I did get to keep my money, however. Thinking about it, though, this makes sense. After all, you can’t bribe a guard with a rosary or chap-stick!

Then they want to make sure you can’t kill yourself. So you have to turn over your belt and shoe-laces. This is not an attempt to strip you of your dignity! They just want to make certain that, if you die in custody, it won’t be your fault!

At last, two and one half hours after I said that naughty naughty word, I got to make my phone call. They led me to a cell with two pay phones and locked me in. (It’s a good thing I had exact change too, because I don’t think I know anyone who would accept a collect call from me.)

I called my wife.

Now, I’m sure you married guys know how tough it can be to make a call like that to your wife. It’s right up there with “I’ve wrecked the car,” though certainly not as bad as “I have a dose of the clap.” What made this call so extra tough though, was that I didn’t know what I had been charged with, I didn’t know if I could be bailed out, and I didn’t know how much the bail might be.

The wife was actually pretty square about it, (probably because she yells at dangerous drivers with even more verve and profanity than myself.) She said she would come down to the station and do what she could.

The phone call completed, I was left alone for another twenty minutes in the holding cell. I had some extra change and it amused me to think of people I might call. I could order up a pizza and see if it got to me. I could phone the precinct and complain to the desk sergeant about police brutality. I could call up the Psychic Friends Network and see if they knew what I was charged with. (Or, I could rip that phone cord out, wrap it around my neck, and hang myself from the window bars with it; thus proving that a resourceful man doesn’t need shoelaces to kill himself!)

Finally, they remembered about me and took me to the tank. There are about twenty cells in the tank, all of them in the center of the room with a corridor running around them. They are all iron, top to bottom, and paint, layer after layer from year after year. On a Wednesday afternoon, there is plenty of room and I got a little cottage all to myself. I am about six feet and, by laying down on the bunk, I estimated that my cell was a cube eight feet around. There were two bunks, made of steel lattice, a steel toilet that worked, and a steel sink that did not. The nearest light was in the corridor and left more than half of the cell in shade. There was nothing to read and nothing to do and, the worst part, there was no place comfortable to sit down. After a few hours in the tank your butt really hurts from sitting on steel.

Passing the time is tough, especially when you don’t know when, or if, you are going to be bailed out.

If you are lucky, there might be someone in the next cell to talk to. If there is, talk about TV, or movies, or take-out food; anything that you might converse about with a precocious child. Do not talk about the things that people hold strong opinions about, sports, politics, women, etc,. If your new friend wants to tell you his story, let him. (Do not discuss your case with him! He could be what we in the “big house” call a “song-bird” planted by the authorities to entrap and bedevil you!)

I had no luck. The cells I saw on the way in had occupants who were dead to the world. The cell just beyond mine had some fellow who was incoherent, alternating his talk between thoroughly garbled gibberish and five minute jags of yelling “Vannessa! That bitch! Vannessa!”

If you find yourself without a sparkling conversational partner, you could try to sleep, but the bunks are hard and you will probably be too angry to relax. (Also, do you want to risk facing a police grilling when you are still groggy from napping?) Pacing between the bunks is a good start, and, if your legs are long enough to span the gap, you can pace on top of the bunks. You can kill bugs; my score than afternoon was seventeen. If you have a nickel or something, you can peel up the gum stuck on the floor (But don’t chew it! Dispose of it in the toilet.).

I myself can say with pride that, between peeling up gum from the floor and exterminating bugs, I left that cell a better place for my having been there.

I was arrested at about half-past noon. I was booked between two and three. At six the guard came by with the chokers. I took one. It was seven-thirty when my wife bailed me out. I was beat. I had a beer with my wife at our kitchen table, and then went to bed.

My court date was four weeks later. I wore a suit and let my lawyer do the talking. The court room was a zoo. There had to be seventy people in the room, all of them having business with the court, all of the cases misdemeanors. Cases were disposed of promptly. Half of the cases were thrown out because the arresting officer wasn’t there: probably sausage-pinches. Some of the other defendants pleaded innocent and were assigned a trial date. One fellow pled guilty and was sentenced right there on the spot. I was the only person in the room wearing a suit who was not a lawyer.

We got the police report while we waited to be called. It turned out that I had been charged with disorderly conduct. The police account of the altercation stated that I had blocked a police car in hot pursuit, that the officers had identified themselves as law officers in hot pursuit and politely asked me to move out of the way. But instead of obliging them, I had willfully remained in front of the car, yelling obscenities at the officers, until they arrested me. As I mentioned before, these police reports are largely hyperbole. They have to be! If sausage-pinch reports were factual, they would constitute proof of false arrest.

Of course, the officers failed to show up and my case was dismissed.

A week and a half later, I got a check from the Clerk of the Circuit Court, Aurelia Pucinski, for $84- of my $100- bail. Presumably the office of the Clerk keeps the difference to compensate the government for the trouble I caused them.

I haven’t got the bill from my lawyer yet, but I’ll pay it when it comes.

So it ought to be over, right?

I mean: I’m a big boy and I am well aware than any cop having a bad day can pick me up on a sausage-pinch at will. I understand that this is no big deal. This is just one of the aggravations that comes with living in the city. This shouldn’t be any bigger a deal than losing a day’s wages for the day of the arrest, another for the day I had to go to court, and being out the bail-money for two months. It’s just one more reminder of why I resent cops. I’m a big boy now: I know the score. So I should just put this behind me, right?

Well, there’s more to it than a simple sausage-pinch.

Gœthe says that the two powers of peace are justice and propriety. And, since I cannot get justice, I should settle for propriety, right?

Here’s how propriety works.

When there were protests in Seattle last week, my eleven-year-old daughter asked me about it. Naturally, I lied to her. I told her that the cops were only arresting vandals and those anarchists who shot our President McKinley. I told her that the police would never assault peaceful picketers with tear gas. That only in Tsarist Russia would cops go after protesting workers with truncheons. Never admit to your children that we live in a police state! Lie about it.

When my father used to bribe a cop to keep from getting a ticket, Pop would explain to me that this officer was a nice guy, and that he let Old Dad talk his way out of a ticket. After all, you don’t tell your kids that you’ve been shaken down by a corrupt cop: you lie about it.

When someone I know is arrested for “driving while black,” we explain to our kids that “profiling” is a way of analyzing the demographics of crime and helping law-enforcement officers to identify possible law-breakers scientifically instead of just being the same old racist stereotyping. We lie about it.

You don’t tell your kids that the Bill Of Rights only applies if you have enough money to keep a lawyer on retainer. You just hope that they’ll go to college, get that good job, make those big bucks, escape from the working classes, and never end up on the wrong end of a night-stick.

Your kids will grow up soon enough. They will pick up enough cynicism on their own without your having to inoculate them with more. By the time they are old enough for the cops to harass, they will know the score. Until then, you let them be kids.

Now, here’s that sausage-pinch problem I started with.

You see — I wasn’t alone when I was arrested.

I had gone to pick-up my son at kindergarten. He and I were walking back to our shop. He was there when I was arrested. One of the cops yelled at him, “We’re the police! We can break the law!” He was thrown into the cop car with me. He had to walk into the police station with the whores and vagrants. The officers told him they were going to take him away from me and send him to D.C.F.S. (rather, I presume they said that to him. He remembers it as “D.F.S.”). It was only after cajoling and pleading with the desk sergeant that I got him to call my wife and have her pick up my little boy instead of taking him to D.C.F.S. And he was a brave little boy; he followed me closely, didn’t cry, didn’t say anything. Altogether, he was in police custody for about an hour.

My little boy had just turned six years old then, and he had only started kindergarten two weeks before. He likes steam trains, and Frank Thomas, and rough-housing like any tough little boy. But he’s also sensitive. You can’t give him anything without his giving half of it to his little sister. He can spend hours listening to Mussorgsky or Bach, looking at Japanese wood-block prints, or listening to me read history books to him. He remembers everything; the parts of a suit of armor, the logos of American railroads, what we had for lunch on that trip to Galesburg last year, everything we’ve ever said to him.

And now his memories give him nightmares.

He dreams that the cops arrest him for something, anything, nothing. That they trump-up charges, write them down in police reports, and turn him over to “D.F.S.”. That for J-walking, littering, saying bad words, he gets thrown in prison, that Jimmy Cagney prison with steel bars and striped uniforms, has to walk the last mile, is kept in solitary until he grows a beard down to his knees: who knows? Can there be anything as frightening in a real prison as there is in a child’s nightmare of prison?

What do I tell him?

Propriety demands that he never know I was arrested.

But he was there.

Propriety demands that if he finds out about the arrest, that I just take the fall and tell him it was my fault.

But he knows I didn’t do anything wrong.

Propriety demands that I agree with the police report.

But he knows that it is a complete fabrication.

Propriety demands that I explain to him that if the police do anything wrong they will be reprimanded.

But he knows that they were free to arrest me, lie about it, and never have to appear in open court to explain their actions.

Propriety demands that I deny that we live in a police state.

But he knows better than that.

What on earth can I tell my little boy to make his nightmares go away?

Justice has failed him.

Propriety had failed him.

Must he sink into the nightmares of Truth at so tender an age?

Telemarketing #2

1997-08-10T22:40:00.000-05:00

Schultz: Hello?

Second Telemarketer: May I speak with Mr. Schultz?

Schultz: That's me.

Second Telemarketer: Mr. Schultz, I have something to tell you about home owners and interest …

Schultz: (cutting her off) Everyone knows what homo's are interested in!

Second Telemarketer: I beg your pardon?

Schultz: Homo's are interested in sodomy and fellatio! [Note: this last is a paraphrase. I actually used "saltier" language.]

Second Telemarketer: (laughing) Oh, I didn't say "homo's" I said "home owners!"

Schultz: Oh — and you must be talking about interest like in mortgage rates!

Second Telemarketer: Yes!

Schultz: Oh, I won't talk about money: that's obscene! (hangs up)

Telemarketing #1

1997-07-15T22:38:00.000-05:00

Mr. Schultz: Hello?

Telemarketer: Mr. Schultz?

Mr. Schultz: Yes?

Telemarketer: We're calling home owners like yourself …

Mr. Schultz: (Interrupting) Did you call me a homo?

Telemarketer: Sir? I said "home owners."

Mr. Schultz: (yelling) There you go again! Look, I've been married seventeen years! I got three kids! Where the hell do you get off calling me a homo?

Telemarketer: But I didn't …

Mr. Schultz: Are you on your knees?

Telemarketer: Sir?

Mr. Schultz: You shall address me from a kneeling position. Are you on your knees?

Telemarketer: No …

Mr. Schultz: I shall not put up with such insolence! (hangs up)

A Key Misunderstanding

1997-06-03T20:32:00.000-05:00

Some years ago, when Pod-Man was about four or five, he was in a restaurant where the waitress made a dessert suggestion:

Waitress: Would you like to try the key-lime pie?

Pod-Man: Do you use real cats?

Waitress: Real cats?

Pod-Man: Yeah — in the feline pie.

True Story

1996-11-19T01:10:00.000-06:00

I had this lay-over in Louisville, two/three hours to kill between busses, and I knew of this bar + grill that was really nice, Zama’s. You know the kind of place, lots of C+W and nothing after 1971 on the jukebox, thin-patty Velveeta cheeseburgers and potato chips, water-damaged photographs of every Kentucky Derby winner since 1936 on the wall, omnipresent smell of stale beer, coin-op pool table, tin ceiling, old lady behind the bar who’s nice to you like an aunt, no two tables or chairs alike: a regular joint.

My problem is, I can’t remember how to get there from the Grayhound Station. So I go across the street to the Seelbach Hotel. The current Seelbach was built in 1905 in opulent Victorian style which it has maintained to the present day. The old Seelbach, which it replaced, is where they invented the Mint Julep back around 1830 or so. This hotel has so much decorum that people speak in a whisper in the lobby.

So I go up to the desk and I ask the clerk, “Can you help me find a place around here?”

“Why, of course!” She was a very gentile girl, about twenty-three and very well brought up.

“I’m looking for a bar called Zama’s.”

“Zama’s?” the girl was incredulous, “That place is a dump!”

“Oh,” I asked brightly, “You’ve been there?”

Totally Nebraska

1996-10-13T16:21:00.000-05:00

My grandmother lived in a small farming community in the bluff country of Nebraska. Everyone there had known her all their lives and, when she died, the neighboring families took turns cooking meals for my grandfather in the weeks following.

I went back for the funeral and saw this hospitality first hand. One evening at dinner, I commented to a nice young woman who had just brought over a dish: “Gee, we never have casseroles, and now I’ve had three in the last two days.”

“Oh — doesn’t your wife cook?”

Got penis?

1996-05-04T16:06:00.002-05:00

About a week after Bean-Girl was born, her umbilical chord dried up and fell off. This worried Pod-Man a great deal, since he had something that stuck out there that he very much did not want to dry up and fall off. We explained to him that nothing was wrong, that his umbilical chord had already fallen off, and that there was nothing “missing” from Bean-Girl. Pod-Man was only about two-and-a-half at the time, and he was very unclear of the concept that boys had penises and girls did not, so he took to asking people about it. One Sunday afternoon my friend Don came over. Pod-Man answered the door and pointed right at Don’s crotch, asking:

Pod-Man: Have a penis?

Don: No thanks, I already have one.

One Way?

1995-09-28T17:37:00.000-05:00

So, I'm walking past Moody Bible Institute when this kid comes up to me. He's probably a new student there and has the idea that passers by are interested in his message about Jesus. (You get guys like that every September, when classes resume; by October they've learned their lesson.) So he comes up to me ...

Evangelist: Jesus is the road to Heaven!

Dutchman: I-55 is the road to Joliet.

Evangelist: No, no! There's only one way to Heaven!

Dutchman: Yeah? Well there's lots of ways to Joliet.

Now You Know

1995-03-15T16:13:00.000-06:00

Wife-Mate’s little four-year-old nephew was over for the afternoon and had been left in my care. The kid never seemed to have an answer or an opinion about anything, answering every question “I don’t know.” Just to test to see if he had any thoughts of his own, I asked ...

Dutchman: What’s your favorite food?

Nephew: I don’t know.

Dutchman: Well, let’s go look it up!

So I took him to the kitchen and pulled out the phone book. He couldn’t read, so he had no idea that I was just making this up. After much earnest flipping of the pages, pretending to look for his name, I announced ...

Dutchman: Ah, there it is! Says your favorite food is pizza!

Nephew: Really? What else does it say?

Dutchman: Says that your favorite sport is basketball, and that your favorite movie is “Citizen Kane.”

Nephew: But, I’ve never seen “Citizen Kane.”

Dutchman: Well, young man, you’re in for a treat! It’s your favorite!

A week later I found out that my sister-in-law had been complaining to Wife-Mate. It seems that I had putt some fool notion about “Citizen Kane” being her son’s favorite movie into his head, and now he was pestering her to let him see it.

Parenting Lesson #1

1994-09-06T16:40:00.000-05:00

My sister-in-law had come by our shop to help out with a really big job and she had brought her little four-year-old son with her. Easily bored, the kid was soon asking ...

Nephew: C’n I go outside to play?

Sister-In-Law: No, It’s not safe to play on the sidewalk downtown.

Undeterred, the little boy kept asking ...

Nephew: C’n I go outside to play? — C’n I go outside to play? — C’n I go outside to play? — C’n I go outside to play?

So, my sister-in-law kept saying “no,” but at last she snapped ...

Sister-In-Law: Why do you keep asking me that?

Nephew: Because if I ask you again, and again, and again — you’ll say yes!

About half-an-hour later, he wanted something else and he asked Wife-Mate ...

Nephew: Auntie, c’n I have a Coke?

Wife-Mate: No.

Nephew: (Begins crying.)

Sister-In-Law: Now what’s wrong?

Nephew: If I ask Auntie again, and again, and again — she still won’t say yes!

Wild Jacobins!

1993-03-02T23:57:00.000-06:00

Wife-Mate and I were in Paris, walking along the Quai de la Tournelle, when we came across a store that specialized in Napoleonic memorabilia. Right in the store window, for instance, they had the Marquis de LaFayette’s sword and Bonapart’s ink-well. I knew full well that any store that could put artifacts worth millions of Francs right in the window had nothing that I could possibly afford, yet i thought that if I were to go in and ask to see something particularly obscure, they might just respect my erudition enough to indulge me. So we went in, and, being approached by a fastidious man in a black velvet suit, I presumed to ask:

Dutchman: I can’t possibly afford anything you have here but, just the same, do you have anything of Marshal Brune’s?

Fastidious Proprietor: [responding warmly to my esoteric request] Oui Monsieur! I have a poem by the marshal!

He then led us to the back, where he pulled open a drawer and, there beneath a pane of glass, was indeed a holographic poem by the Great Man.

Wife-Mate: Say, my husband is always talking about this Marshal Brune, just who is he anyway?

Fastidious Proprietor: Oh, Madame, Brune was a wild Jacobin! Why, when he was sent to suppress the royalist revolt in the Vendee, he rounded up all of the Whites, and he loaded them onto a barge in the middle of the Sevre river, and then ...

Wife-Mate: [interrupting] Then he sunk the barge!

Fastidious Proprietor: Oh, you know the story?

Wife-Mate: No, I know my husband; that’s what he would do!

The Bouncing Baby Boogie Song

1988-03-21T12:33:00.000-07:00

Bouncing baby boogie,
Bounce her up and down.
Grab her by the ankles,
and swing her 'round and 'round.

Bouncing baby boogie,
Bounce her up and down.
Throw her out the window,
at twice the speed of sound.

Bouncing baby boogie,
Bounce her up and down.
Leave her on the Clark bus,
the one that goes downtown.

Bouncing baby boogie,
Bounce her up and down.
Stuff her mouth with diapers,
so she can't make a sound.

Bouncing baby boogie,
Bounce her up and down.
Leave her in the bath-tub
and hope that she don't drown'.

Bouncing baby boogie,
Bounce her up and down.
She’s a happy baby
She never wears a frown!

(Baby sings along! She sings either: "Ooh! Ooh!" or "Aaaah-Owowowowow!")