*In case a piece of a bone gets stuck in your throat, don’ t panic: get your dog to fetch it. Invariably he does it.
If more than three or four bones have become stuck, it is pretty serious. Lie down quietly for help to arrive.
(To the next of kin: Phone for your undertaker. He shall know what to do with a bag of bones.)
*If you are in the habit of rubbing hands in glee it can often leave an unpleasant impression on others. Here is a cure: wring hands in counter clockwise for a week. Or try this: If you find one with the name Roth you wax him forthwith and see how it develops (caution: may prove at times rather inconvenient. I tried this on one Philip Roth and I heard Portnoy complaining on his behalf. I could only reply: Jerk off.)
*I have a book full of such simple remedies.
All the entries are by courtesy of my grandma who lived till 103.
Her secret? A plateful of spinach for lunch, she said. Even when died she kept her good eye open. For those who are exacting her last word was ‘popeye.’
Did she mean the sailor or her good eye blinking open? I can’ t say.
After these 20 years I am still mystified. Any remedy for mystification, which is a chronic case? If any of my readers have one let me know. I shall add it to my list. What shall I do with it in the end? Blimey! I am mystified.
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How We Make A Mess Of The Message ©
Monk Anselmo once received a monk of exceptional parts and he spoke eight languages and had translated the Holy Writ in each. I was present the time he explained to the yokels of The Pie-In-the Skye the manner God had blessed him. He was sure it was to spread the word of God to people of all tongues all over the earth.
After all the excitement died he said with a very woebegone expression that it set off a bitter feud among nations as to the day when the Lord God rested from his labor. ‘Eight times I have been burnt in effigy’ said the visiting scholar monk, ‘and it makes me sad.’
After a week he asked Monk Anselmo pointing to me and Master Crapper, “This two have been idling for a week.” The venerable monk asked his host, “Are they sick or something?”
Monk Anselmo called me and asked me to answer the monk. I explained.
“ We got the Holy Writ by all accounts on Sunday. The day our Good Lord rested after creation. On Sunday, the Lord enjoins us to take rest. So we refuse to work as matter of principle.”
“One cycle of cosmos is one day in Lord’s calender,” added Master Crapper, “Come next cycle we shall work our butts off.”
We, if endowed with some sense shall use our heads according to our best knowledge and abilities. So don’t go on trying to drive some sense into me how to think or make meaning out of what I see as crystal clear. Tomorrow perhaps I may find out something else and change my opinion I hold today. In other words teaching a dog old or young what you think as new tricks is quite useless.
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