Many attribute this to Watson’s smart move of saying he would “give huge corn subsidies to farmers– more money than they can possibly imagine, I’m talking fistfuls of benjamins, baby” and back a program for “100% ethanol– because the country needs more corn fuel and less Arab oil.”
Later, Watson proclaimed that “Iowa is the best four-lettered state in the nation in which three of the letters are vowels. And I mean that from the bottom of my motherboard.”
People in Ohio were upset at this statement and registered their complaints. A contrite Watson claimed he would have another statement to make after the Iowa caucus and before the Ohio primaries. He would not comment about what his statement might be.
The cute kitten from Canfield, Ohio leaves the presidential race in disgrace.
In a startling development, Mr. Tuggles, the cute kitten from Canfield, Ohio, has pulled out of the 2012 U.S. presidential race following recent allegations of “doing bad things, very bad things” to a mysterious cat.
Jerry Ossenwold, campaign manager for Mr. Tuggles, issued a prepared statement at the press conference held this afternoon in Walpole, New Hampshire, where the Tuggles campaign was promising residents “people who don’t live free should die a thousand pain-filled deaths” and those that vote for Mr. Tuggles in the primary “will receive gold Rolex watches, house boats and Florida time shares” for their support.
In his statement, a tearful Ossenwold said, “Mr. Tuggles has decided to withdraw his bid for the highest office in the land due to personal, prayerful considerations. This decision in no way reflects the recent outrageous wild allegations of sexual improprieties made by a cat of loose morals. Mr. Tuggles is pure as the driven snow that has never been violated by a footstep,” said Ossenweld sobbing. “He was a contender, Mr. Tuggles was. He coulda been king of the world, I tells ya– king of the world!”
Ossenwold then collapsed at the podium as bored reporters stepped over his convulsing body to get on to the next juicy political story.
“Look, lots of birds get done in by these cats with their anger issues,” said a visibly upset Sam Merchant. “I ain’t saying that Tuggles did gave this poor little birdie his angel wings, but then again I ain’t saying he didn’t or couldn’t. Fact is, even cute kittens have sharp teeth and quick razor claws that can kill. I think that the American public needs to remember that our great nation has never elected a cold-blooded killer into the oval office, and I for one couldn’t catch many winks at night knowing that I voted for a vicious murdering cat like Mr. Tuggles could very well be. We just don’t know what this baby wild beast is capable of doing. Let’s not elect a potential blood thirsty killer here! It won’t do our image diddly-squat.”
Merchant then announced that Santy Paws would hold a press conference tomorrow in an aviary in St. Louis.
An incredibly cute kitten in Canfield, Ohio is reportedly considering a run for the Oval Office.
Mr. Tuggles, an adorable mixed breed feline, is said to be contemplating declaring his candidacy in the 2012 presidential election race. Although the kitten is not close to 35 years old, a Constitutional requirement for serving as a U.S. President, his handlers say that he has the maturity and wisdom of a 55-year old human. “Plus, I know for a fact that Mr. Tuggles was born in this country because I saw it with my own two eyes– why, it happened right there, under the sink,” said Roger Bimplow who resides in the house with the cuddly furrball of love.
Jerry Ossenwold, an advisor close to Mr. Tuggles, says that he believes the kitten will be a very strong presidential contender. “No one can match him for adorableness and fluffability, and I believe those are the things all Americans are looking for in today’s bleak economy. Mr. Tuggles also does not believe in science, mathematics, art, history or biology. In fact, he told me that he thinks too much book learning and self expression is destroying the world. I agree!”
Ossenwold would not disclose which political party Mr. Tuggles is associated with, but said that he has already been approached by many corporate lobbyists bearing catnip and saucers of milk to curry the cute kitten’s political favor.
“Should he run, I believe Mr. Tuggles will be hard to beat. He’s just so darn lovable, he’ll win paws down!” said the chubby political adviser as he rolled on the lawn and asked for his belly to be rubbed vigorously.
As a kid, I attended St. Patrick’s Elementary School in Hubbard, Ohio. My uniform was sharp-creased navy blue dress pants with a crisp white shirt and clip-on tie. We had ‘lay teachers’ (ordinary civilians), but we were also taught by ruler-wielding nuns who smacked palms into submission. The pain told the brain and body to obey.
One tormentor-in-habit used to give me an open-hand whack across the chops because she thought I was tormenting her on purpose with my ignorance in math. I wasn’t– I really was that stupid with the ‘new math’, and her instilling fear in me certainly didn’t help matters. I’d laugh at her slaps (being class clown, I had to save face) which only get her angrier. But at least she’d let me sit back down again with one cheek out of four stinging.
I was subjected to some pretty inventive disciplinary actions by nuns: holding erasers with arms outstretched for long stretches of time or kneeling on the floor and placing my nose into a small circle that the nun had drawn on the blackboard. Gitmo had nothing on the good Sisters.
'Sister Smile' sang, and I swooned.
Regardless of my dark nun memories, I have fond memories of my angelic, idyllic nun: The Singing Nun, Sœur Sourire (Sister Smile), AKA: Jeanne-Paule Marie Deckers, a Belgian woman of the beads who recorded an international hit song “Dominique” in the teeth of Beatlemania. She appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show (I remember it and was captivated– it would be years later when nuns would subject me to their disciplinarian ways). They made a movie of her life where a younger, prettier woman played the good Sister–Debbie Reynolds.
The real Sœur Sourire had a guitar, a song and an angelic voice. The song “Dominique” would occupy a warm cubbyhole in the corridors of my consciousness. Years later, when the real nuns disciplined me, I would hear the joyful song of The Singing Nun and feel comforted. I believed She of the guitar would never have subjected me to pain. But I could have been wrong in my assumption, after all, she never had to teach me math.
Enjoy the song from the movie and let it take residence in your psyche. If you have a nun tale to tell, do tell. I harbor no ill will at the good nuns, they’re all saints to me. Some of the saints had a mean right cross to the head.
He chased the snakes, now in honor of him, we chase the blues with green beer.
I got my under-under-under graduate degree from St. Patrick’s Elementary School in Hubbard, Ohio. It was back in the days when nuns scoured classrooms in search of children under the influence of Satan. They wielded rulers of punishment and itched to dispense swift corrective discipline to evil wrongdoers. I still have the red palms to prove their mighty swings.
At St. Pat’s, St. Patrick’s Day was a big deal. Although the student population was probably 80% non-Irish kids, everyone wanted to be Irish on St. Patrick’s Day. I was Irish on St. Paddy’s Day, and pretty much every day, and I resented these freeloaders hijacking ‘our’ holiday. All the Italian and Slavic kids sported lots of green on St. Patrick’s Day. In protest, I never wore green on the sainted day.
“Hey, Scullin,” Bobbie Vespucci would accost me dressed in green necktie and shamrock lapel pin, “you’re Irish, right? Where’s your green?”
“I don’t have to wear green,” I’d say coolly, wishing I had a shillelagh to clobber his skull, “I don’t have to pretend to be Irish–– I am Irish.” This would cheese off all the wannabes in their green. I’m sure they’d have liked to pummel me until I wore red dripping down my shirt. Let’s face it, nothing is more threatening to kids than the one who won’t succumb to peer pressure (“you’re all jumping off the cliff? No thanks, I’ll pass.”). Rebelling was a beautifully Irish thing to do.
St. Paddy's celebration is enough to make you vomit green.
Today I still rebel against St. Patrick’s Day. You won’t find me in some faux Irish pub trying to swim upstream through the sea of oppressive flesh to get my jar of Guinness. I shant drink the black love until the foam seeps up my gullet and back up my gob (your body’s subtle way of saying it’s “FULL”) and have my innards projectile onto some stranger’s Timberlands. It’s amateur hour, the whole St. Paddy’s Day bar-hopping-pub-crawling-beer-guzzling-puke-encrusted-shirt affair.
St. Patrick’s Day has grown in importance and popularity thanks to the marketing efforts of beer companies and booze distillers. The holiday is now an alcoholic tidal wave that the masses gladly surf. As an adman, I don’t begrudge these marketers anything (I do have contempt for the florists and greeting card people, though–– the shameless money-grubbing hucksters). St. Patrick’s Day has grown in popularity because adults just don’t seem to have much fun anymore. At least not sanctioned fun.
Like Halloween, St. Pat’s is a holiday where it’s fine for adults to get silly and let their inhibitions down (the liquid courage comes in handy). It’s Christmas without the presents. The growing popularity of St. Patrick’s Day proves that society is pretty uptight and could stand to let off some steam.
Maybe we need to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day year ‘round. This doesn’t mean we have to get blasted and stumble home. But perhaps we could loosen up, have a wee bit of the fun a wee bit more often, without beer companies telling us it’s time to do so.
Maybe we could not be so slavish to our Blackberries or iPhones. Perhaps we could try and resist being in a perpetual state of frantic pandemonium; dodging deadlines and covering our arses with voicemail and e-mail crumbs.
Imagine actually slowing down a tad, not living by a self-imposed over-scheduled schedule of kiddie activities and obligation to our TIVO as it gathers gobs of entertainment for our escape from reality.
Imagine stopping, for just a moment, breathing deeply and exhaling slowly. Maybe stretching, sitting and doing nothing but letting your mind wander (a free range brain is a beautiful thing).
Indulge, babes. Take a nap. Call an old friend. Write a letter and thank an old teacher, mentor, client or associate. Listen, actually listen to some of your favorite music. Re-live those moments of your life when you heard those songs for the very first time and let the movies of the past play inside your head. You don’t need popcorn or Junior Mints.
Visit the priceless vaults of your memories. They’re yours and they pay handsome dividends over time.
Rebelling against the norm-- what a beautifully Irish thing to do.
St. Patrick earned his chops for chasing the snakes out of Ireland. This St. Patrick’s Day, try to chase some of the snakes out of your hectic life. Enjoy your life more.
Stop running full bore trying to keep up with your life. Slow down and enjoy your life and all those in it who make it worth living. Try and celebrate with them more often, not just on the sanctioned holidays but every day.
That’s my message of good cheer–– given like a nun whacking your sweaty palm.
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