Skip to content

Tag: silliness

Published on Leave a comment on Uncle Melvin and His Niece Share Favorite Expressions

Charlie Brown and the disappearing football 

Oh good! More wit and wisdom from Uncle Melvin! “Wit and wisdom” – what a wonderful expression! But you’re early. You weren’t supposed to darken my door again until Memorial Day or my birthday. But that’s OK. The Federal Reserve Board has designated my birthday the nation’s new Memorial Day. “Darkening my door” – what a wonderful expression! Are you hard of hearing? “Hard of hearing” -- . . . . I know. What’s so wonderful about clunky expressions? 

If you were a German learning English what would you make of “darken my door?” That I was mad at her for perfuming my door with Eau de Town Dump. Do you have a favorite expression? Yes. “Don’t darken my door.” It’s what always comes to mind when I think of Uncle Melvin. I have a favorite expression too. Dare I ask? “It’s none of your business.” How rude! What’s none of my business?  My favorite expression. Well, then, why bring it up? To share one of my favorite things with one of my favorite people. Well, then, go ahead and share it. “It’s none of your business.”

I get it. You’re tricking me into a game of one-upmanship. You should know that I always win. Yes, I’ve noticed. But I still managed to fool you when we played Goats. Filling the beast in me with a lust for vengeance. I darkened your door. Losing makes me feel that way. Especially when I’m tricked into asking for something that’s not there. So cruel (sob!). Yes, when mean Lucy tricks her nice brother, Charlie Brown, by yanking the football away just as he’s kicking it. OK then. I’ll let you know my favorite expression. Finally! “It’s none of your business.”

Uncle Melvin’s new real estate investment

Time out! For what? For me to tell you what I’m thinking without you putting words into my mouth. I’m all ears. And I’m all mouth, so listen up, Uncle Melvin. Get ready for a dose of your talented niece’s wit and wisdom: 

[Talented niece’s wit and wisdom in her own words]

Well. Now I know what Essence of Town Dump smells like. Take that! Consider my door suitably darkened. By the way, what’s that dripping from your fangs? Lust for vengeance! Now, for the last time, what is your favorite expression? I can’t tell you. It makes you mad. It won’t make me mad. I promise. Maybe if I think of another expression. I’m coming apart with rage. “Get your act together.” Hey Uncle Melvin, how about “You just bought the farm”?

Published on Leave a comment on A Sculptor’s Tool and a Dog’s Salvation

Norton, darling, what’s all that racket from the back yard?
I’m sculpting something for Fido.
How nice! What is it?
A wooden miniature Sistine Chapel for his dog house.
And you’re doing it with an ax?
No. My adze. 

That’s not the sound I usually hear from your ass.
I haven’t used it in a long time.
How creative! Is this how other sculptors create works of art?
The ones who work with wood. They’d be lost without their adzes.
Goodness! I wouldn’t want you wandering off without your ass.

I keep it in a special place.
In your pants, of course.
No. It’s way too big for that. I keep it in a drawer.
Oh. Your underdrawers.
The drawer on top where my adze will be secure. 

Your big ass isn’t secure?
It caught on fire once.
From standing too close to the fireplace?
I was heating iron and my adze fell into the forge.
Horrifying! What did you do?

Soaked it in a special fluid.
Melted butter?
An exotic oil that sculptors use to treat wood.
And that’s how you saved your ass.
It saved my career. We couldn’t pay the mortgage without my adze.
Or enjoy our special moments together.

Someday, it could wind up in the Smithsonian.
Dear me! With you, of course.
With my immortal sculptures and other artifacts.
People will flock to Constitution Mall to admire my adze.

It will need to be packed and shipped carefully.
Yes. We mustn’t break your ass.
And insured. I’d recommend Lloyd’s of London.
That makes sense. If they insured Lou Groza’s big toe why not your big ass?

What price should they put on it?
An appraiser said it’s worth a quarter of a million. Maybe more.
What should I tell the shipper?
You’ve got a big adze to ship and it’s valuable. A lot of people would like to get their hands on it. 

Maybe now we can pay for Fido’s surgery
Poor Fido!
Yes. We can apply for a loan and use your ass for collateral.
Why didn’t I think of that? I’ll get right on it.
So kind of you! How can I ever repay you?
You can kiss my adze.

Published on Leave a comment on Uncle Melvin’s Creative Writing Exercise for Adolescents

Great birthday gifts for girls

So where are the books? I dropped by Patrick Malloy’s on the way home from work and left them under the bar stool. My birthday present! Yes. I’m so sorry. But they’re still there. Third bar stool from the end. You can pick them up anytime because nobody wants them. Gone with the Wind! Mr. Malloy said he’ll put them on the curb in case a junk dealer comes by. Or he could put your books and essays in a pile and set it on fire. That would draw a massive crowd of cheering customers. 

What are the books about? Great birthday gifts for girls, like railroad time tables. One thousand uses for Elmer’s glue. You’re hopeless. There’s another book. Two thousand wascally wabbits for Elmer Fudd. A creative writing exercise that’s made for your unique talent. I do have the makings of a great writer. That’s, uh, not the talent I meant.

Rick relieves the suspense

Think of a movie with one of those emotional scenes that puts everyone on the edge of their seats. Like when I have to go pee and can’t. Like when Ilsa pulls a gun on Rick and he says, “Go ahead and shoot. You’ll be doing me a favor.” How come? Ilsa had to dump Rick and it broke his heart. Now Rick had something that would save her and Victor, her war-hero husband, from capture by the Nazis. Letters of Transit signed by General DeGaulle, and they were desperate to get them.

The suspense is unbearable. What relieved it? Rick farted. How rude! If he’d done that to me I would have shot him. Ilsa still loved him. And she was nice. When she pulled a gun and demanded the Letters of Transit, somebody in the film crew farted and she didn’t do anything. She’d be in trouble if she shot the director. What about a production assistant? She’d probably get star billing and a new contract if she did that.

Back to the Ice Age

They had to re-shoot the scene and this time it was Ilsa who farted. So deafening it made the gun go off by itself. And shatter the crystal? Worse. It brought Captain Renault barging into the scene. Uh oh. He was the French poo-bah responsible for maintaining decorum in Casablanca. And he came to put Ilsa in jail for farting? Worse. He came to blow his whistle and announce that Rick’s Café was closed until further notice. 

Shocking! Very. And he magnified the effect by ripping off a really good one. The screen went blank. Did it come back? No one knows. The theatre projector guy was knocked out and they couldn’t revive him for days. That was it. What a terrific ending! So heart-rending! Yes. You could imagine Rick and Ilsa dancing while the soundtrack played “Dancing in the Dark.”  

Can I pick a film and make the script Oscar-worthy like you just did? That was so cool! Of course! How about “Ice Age?” A huge extinct woolly mammoth would be a creative challenge. I’m sure with your talent you could handle it. Thank you for the compliment.

Published on Leave a comment on Tales of Uncle Melvin’s Nieces: Valentine’s Day and the Keys to the Imperial Bathroom

Melvina 

Hi Heart Throb! 

Hearts and flowers

Hi Freckleface Q. Diddypuss. What’s the Q for? I’ll have to ask Alexina. Who’s that? My electronic servant. This morning I programmed her to give me a shampoo. I think the soap crossed her wires. Well, yeah. Any dimwit knows. . . Can we change the subject? Sure! Yesterday a funny thing happened. . . Can we change the subject? Uh, the day before nothing was going on when all of a sudden. . . Uncle Melvin, I didn’t mean to be rude. That was Alexina. I turned her off. Please continue. All of a sudden the most important event in my entire life happened. . . Uncle Melvin, can we change the subject? 

Will U be my Valentine? Of course! Will U be mine? Absolutely! XOXOXO

Furdian psychoanalysis 

I have an electronic servant too. My servant just writes essays for school. I made that up about shampoo. Are you making it up? I’m not, and I can prove it. How? From now on when I ask what you’re up to I won’t put words in your mouth. My electronic servant . . . Does it have a name? Furd.  Furd will put words in my mouth? No. Furd does mental telepathy. You’ll be putting words into Furd’s mouth. Gee, that’s terrific! When can we start? Whenever you’re ready.

Melvina’s exact words

My water polo team put on an end-of-season party for our coach, Meghan Melvin. While I was bringing food I tripped and a custard pie flew into Meghan’s face. Furd is smiling. One thing led to another and it broke into a food fight. Furd is laughing. A nice pizza delivery boy came and accidentally got hit in the face with a couple of Hostess Twinkies. It happened while someone was dumping a bowl of spaghetti on his head. 

We were scraping glop off each other’s faces when, just like that, we fell in love. Furd stopped laughing. The deviled eggs did it. No, I think it was the pizza. They put too much hot pepper on it. So, Uncle Melvin isn’t your one-and-only. You’re not happy for me? I’m thrilled for you! But Furd. . . Can we change the subject? 

Alexina + Furd

Maybe Furd and Alexina can be Valentines. Sure, as long as there’s a food fight. Furd needs cheering up. I’m off to the grocery store. What can I get? Lemon meringue pies and soft, creamy cakes with lots of icing. Oatmeal and tapioca pudding. Calves liver, raw fish. Egg salad, tuna casserole, macaroni and cheese – anything from Deli. Lots of possibilities! What do you think, Alexina? [Can we change the subject?]

Melvina’s Ultimate Qualifications for Employment 

Ruthlessness 

What’s with the purple robe and gold trim? I’m trying out outfits for my new job. Ha ha! Queen of the Universe. How did you guess? Uncle Melvin knows all, sees all. I was bored, looking for a little excitement, when I saw an ad. An ad for Queen of the Universe. Maybe I should add you to my retinue. That would keep me from being bored for sure. If you don’t mind flattering me with praise all day. Would I qualify for that? Sure! The applicants just have to be witless boobs. 

What made you the winning applicant? They were looking for a young female artist who’s also a terrific athlete. So far, so good. Yes. But the qualification that blew them away was my softball batting average. Huh? The Queen of the Universe must command respect by being above questioning. Dismissing my Uncle Melvin’s friendly advice how to raise my abysmal average showed that I can be as mean as the most ruthless tyrant. Yes. By being cruel to a kindly old man, a helpless innocent victim.

Emblems of supremacy

Then you’ll have to be mean to your sister too. Definitely! It’ll be so delicious when she discovers that she’s only the ruler of a piddling little galaxy. I rule trillions of them. Bwah! Then I have the perfect outfit for you. Oh goody! A black cape instead of a purple robe, with a few accessories: Darth Vader’s helmet, jack boots, light saber, and the keys to the imperial bathroom. And one more, if you please: a cute little locket to wear around my neck with a red heart that says, “Will U be mine?”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Mervina 

The sad fate of Vaudeville 

Hi Valentine!

Don’t you Valentine me, you two-timing bum! Who was that lady I saw you with? That was no lady. That was my wife. Ha ha! What’s so funny? That was a surefire laugh in Vaudeville. Everyone thought it was funny. Wives didn’t. That’s why Vaudeville’s motels all went out of business. Right. And why Vaudeville’s visitor center welcomed spiders with flies instead of people with maps. Vaudeville was depopulated because it was all husbands and no wives.

Where do you suppose all the wives went? To Kansas City. Uh huh. So they could make fools of themselves over Number 87. And I could make a fool of myself over Number 87’s Valentine. Uncle Melvin, she wasn’t making a heart with her hands for you. She wasn’t? You’ve broken a poor old man’s heart (sob!). Alright, I’ll be your Valentine. Anything to stop your blubbering. Oh thank you thank you! (weeping with sniveling gratitude).

The sad fate of the Anthropocene

What’s that sound? My soundtrack. Huh? It’s only fitting that the deeply moving trials and triumphs of my story be made more compelling by a Hollywood soundtrack. Like weepy music when America’s Sweetheart shows compassion for a pathetic boob. But then why am I hearing “Three Blind Mice?” Oh wait! I forgot to program my soundtrack for Valentine’s Day! It thinks you’re the Three Stooges. How could it do that? I’m only one stooge. It can distinguish between levels of intellect as well as emotion. It can even tell the difference between good and bad. It thinks you’re well-meaning but totally clueless. A three-for-one Stooge. Amazing!

My days start with a rousing John Phillip Sousa march. “The Stars and Stripes Forever” plays when I salute the flag. And when I need to flex my muscles at school it plays the soundtrack for the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht. Nobody objects? Some do like it better when it plays “Despicable Me.” Ah – Balthazar Bratt! If I’m annoyed by a Balthazar bully it plays ominous stuff. Like what? “The Terminator” is my favorite. But sometimes it takes “Jurassic Park.” What happened to gunfire and explosions? Blood-curdling screams from horror movies? It all part of everyday life. Nobody pays attention anymore. A sign of the times. The Anthropocene transforming into the Bullyocene.

Attack of the Gelatinous Alien Life Form LVIII 

Maybe I should get my own soundtrack. . . . Is that snarling dogs? It’s my soundtrack warning you to stay away from my food dish. America’s Sweetheart isn’t running a charity, you know. She needs to protect her proprietary assets. The wiles that make her demure and irresistible. And rich. Yes. Watch the stock market when I go public with my invention. It’ll make Taylor’s $1 billion look like chump change. Wow! 

All her fans will flock to me. Yes, and you can steal her boyfriend and pretend to be passionate about football. . . . What’s that? The soundtrack from “The Blob:” people fleeing for their lives from a gelatinous alien life form that engulfs everything it touches. The Kansas City Gelatins vs. the San Francisco Aliens. At the National Blob League’s premiere event: The Engulf Everything Bowl.

Schmaltz

Actually, I was hoping to use her fans to replace football. America’s Sweetheart taking away America’s favorite sport?? With something better: Valentine’s Day every Sunday with friends exchanging stuff that tells them how important they are instead of enemies trying to make the other side lose. Like “I love you soooooo much! Will U be my Valentine?” Of course! Will U be mine? [Soundtrack from “High Society:” Bing Crosby and Grace Kelly singing “True Love.”]

Published on Leave a comment on A Stem-Winding Bedtime Story for Uncle Melvin’s Niece

The Torrid Romance with a Tragic Ending

Don't show off against gravity

Oh good! A bedtime story! It begins with a giant ape who fell for a dame. She didn’t fall for him at first until she realized he could be her meal ticket. To what? Stardom and lots of dough. Really? They teamed up and made it big on Broadway. They were on everybody’s invitation list. All the glitterati listed in Manhattan’s Social Register competed for invitations to their glamorous parties except for one thing – BYOB. Bring Your Own Beer – how tacky! No. Bring Your Own Bananas. Everywhere they went to get bananas they heard “Yes, we have no bananas.”

But the setting was part of the draw, not just the glamorous hosts. Where was that? On top of the Empire State Building. What?  That’s where the ape and his squeeze set up housekeeping. That’s ridiculous! You’d think so. But while King Kong was swatting at World War One biplanes in the movie Ann Darrow was smitten by the image of this mighty male warrior. She looked terrified. Yes, but she was also starting to think about curtains.

The moral of “King Kong” was “beauty and the beast?” Hollywood baloney. The beauty didn’t bring down the beast. The real moral of the story is it’s OK to show off swatting at World War One surplus but not showing off against gravity.

And don’t leave home without your vine

Not exactly the moral of our story but pretty close. The ape and the dame were attacked again? Nothing like that. The friendly real estate appraiser asked for their help measuring their property. The ape tried to measure height by timing how long it took to make it from the top down to the sidewalk. By elevator? By swinging to the bottom without a vine. He forgot that he wasn’t ruling the jungle from the top of a tree anymore.

How awful! Yes. But his arm candy was timing the fall and the appraiser got what he wanted. Ten seconds = exactly 1250’.  So it wasn’t all bad. And the moral of this story is. . . ? Don’t take any calls from the real estate appraiser. Surely this torrid romance with a tragic ending means more than that! Don’t leave home without your vine.

1

Published on 1 Comment on What Did Uncle Melvin’s Niece Do at the Sound of the Gong?

In Pauperem Saporem 

A record-smashing performance 

Uncle Melvin! Hi precious! I do hope you’ll mention me in your Christmas letter. Oh no! Now your brain is pushing up daisies and your body is in a jar! I want everyone to know that I’m a celebrity! Whoo hoo! To what do we owe this? After my record-smashing performance I used my prize money to buy something incredible. Record-smashing performance? At the 2023 Feast of Flatulence Farting Fest.

You’ll never guess. This is so exciting! OK. You bought a new tee shirt with Uncle Melvin's family crest. With a family motto? “In pauperem saporem.” Latin for “In poor taste.” Oh no! You’ve done something awful! A one-horse sleigh fell into my fireplace overnight with a donkey. A donkey?  Yes, and with the shiniest red nose. Rudolph! Rudolph the Red-Nosed Jackass. My listeners will be interested to hear that. Listeners? Subscribers to the Galactic Pedo Network. Huh? 

Getting around Nebulosus Galaxia

You persuaded me that ruling the Galaxy is a bad idea but you didn’t say anything about owning it. So I used my prize money from the Farting Fest to buy the Galaxy. I’m now owner of the Galactic Empire and Editor of its social media network racket. A celebrity! But what’s that to do with Rudolph? My listeners always want advice on how to get around the Galaxy on foggy nights. What?

Duh! Didn’t you know? It’s worse than London. That’s how it got its name. Isn’t it the Milky Way? No. It’s another galaxy long ago and far away and all that Star Wars baloney. It’s Nebulosus Galaxia. Foggy Galaxy. When I open up my foggy night guide service with Rudolph the Red-Nosed Jackass I’ll get my prize money back overnight. 

No Laughing Matter

Do you have any more exciting news to share in my Christmas letter? After passing gas at the sound of the gong. . . What? The traditional start of the Farting Fest. They strike a huge oriental gong. A dignified sound that lets everyone know this is serious business. Yes. Passing gas is no laughing matter. Why, just the other day. . . Shut up! 

Too much of a good thing 

So, you reached the pinnacle of success with your special talent and then what? A new challenge. Winning the Palme d’Tree at the next International Belching World Cup. You should hear me, Uncle Melvin. You’d be so proud! Doing your part to carry on the family motto. So good at it that none of the bars on Bigelow Boulevard want me back. But the library does? Books are boring. I took up drinking instead where the action is. Yes. Hanging out in bars.

Drinking beer and belching. Where you got your start, showing off your new talent in bars. Following Uncle Melvin's family tradition. A long line of male ancestors can vouch for that. My competitors complained to the bartenders that I was getting too big for my belches. One bar lost its liquor license. Why? It was violating Whiskey Hollow's noise ordinance. Neighbors were complaining from a mile away. 

The Gift of Christmas: a big noise 

So who shall we say is calling? A big-time celebrity. No longer Delilah the One-and-Only Flatulant but Delilah the one-and-only Belcher. 

That’s it, ladies and gentlemen. Another edition of Uncle Melvin’s Christmas letter. Putting everyone in the Christmas spirit with lifestyles of the rich and ridiculous.

Merry Christmas, Uncle Melvin! Merry Christmas to you, sweetie. Ho ho ho!

Published on Leave a comment on Million Dollar Baby: The Talented Niece Who Took Uncle Melvin’s Advice Literally

A cautionary tale of piano abuse, fractured skulls, and impersonations gone terribly wrong in the shadow of Albert Einstein. Told to Uncle Melvin in conversation with his adolescent niece. Or with her brain. Whatever! [Her voice in italics.]

_________________________________________________________________________________________

A new variety of Miracle Gro 

Uncle Melvin! Guess what!  What? I’ve taken your letters to heart. Wonderful! I’m so glad they’re useful. Very! You mentioned we have an important choice: whether to think of ourselves as minds or bodies. And why it matters. Yes. It can make a big difference. After careful consideration and much reflection, I stopped letting my body tell me who I am. Wow! That’s remarkable! I’m all mind now. No more body. You’re a role model! You could build a fantastic career out of traveling and sharing what you’ve accomplished.

Well, not exactly. Why? I don’t have a body. Huh? I’m a brain in a jar. OK. Timeout! No. I’ve been having a ball. I can’t wait to tell you all about it. But I need a favor first. (This can’t be happening. My precious niece!) What can I do for you, sweetie? Come rescue me. What happened? Where are you? Caltech. In a dumpster behind the house where Einstein’s papers are stored. How on earth. . . ?

I was intrigued by your ideas and got an operation where they preserved my brain in a jar. I didn’t mean to be taken literally! Where’s your body? Fertilizer. They’re using me to beautify Los Angeles with plants and flowers and stuff. Landscaping. Landscaping? Next time you take the Expo Line to Santa Monica you’ll be going right by me. We all wind up pushing up daisies but this is ridiculous! My darling niece – Miracle Gro!

The very best brain food

It went really great at first, being in a jar. They set my brain and the jar inside an electromagnetic force field for my protection. Anyone would be zapped like Luke was by Palpatine if they tried to grab my jar. I’m so relieved! Then they rigged my brain so its thoughts displayed on a giant monitor. With sounds too. Aren’t thoughts quiet? Sure, but emotions can get pretty loud. Brains like background music. . .  And, of course, applause. When I took over the Galaxy it was deafening! 

Don’t brains need nourishment? What did they feed your brain so it could produce stupendous thoughts and reshape the world? A steady diet of your letters. So packed with brilliance and wisdom that my brain gained weight. They had to repot me in a larger jar. Poor thing! Yes, but getting bigger with your wisdom gave me a remarkable talent. Really? For telling people where they can find a million dollars. Or anything super valuable lying around waiting to make someone Powerball rich. Whoa!

What pianos are for 

One day, the maintenance guy. . . Where was this? In a secret bunker beneath the Smithsonian College of Musical Knowledge. Of course! The maintenance guy joked that maybe if I was so smart I could tell him where he could lay his hands on a million dollars. I told him to take a shovel to the South Coast Botanic Garden and dig under the ladies’ rest room. He did and found a million dollars. Lucky guy! Not quite. He had to pay it all back to get out of jail. They thought he was digging a tunnel. 

Word got around. Next thing I know there’s a horde of people stampeding into my room like crazed Walmart shoppers on Black Friday. Wanting to have me all to themselves and make them rich. Terrifying! Actually it was fun. When the paramedics arrived the floor was stacked high with people knocked unconscious. You were loving it. Yes. Watching people get zapped by my electromagnetic force field was so entertaining! 

But the best part was when it turned into a saloon brawl like an old Western. No, really? With guys bashing each other over the head with chairs and tables? Crashing through railings and breaking stuff on the way down? Cool! Even better. There were musical instruments lying around. One guy had a piano dropped on his head from the third floor. No one was left standing. 

Payback time! 

Lucky you. What a great experience! For a little while. But the College of Musical Knowledge didn’t want me around after that. I had to take my act somewhere else. To Caltech? To Dave and Buster’s. Of course! Customers paid to guess what I was thinking. If they got it right they got a suitcase full of little yellow tickets they could exchange for worthless junk. I was in a display case where they could operate a clamshell and scoop up more worthless junk. 

How humiliating! It didn’t last long. Word about my special talent got to Dave and Buster’s. How? The guy I sent to retrieve a rock that fell out of Neil Armstrong’s pocket on the moon blabbed on cable TV when he got back. First thing in the morning here comes another crazed Black Friday mob. How awful!  Not really. Watching Dave and Buster’s worthless junk get piled up and set on fire, you know – payback time! It felt soooooo good! 

Putting Humpty-Dumpty back together again 

But I got kicked out again. To Caltech? The dudes in charge of Einstein’s papers thought having a brain in a jar around would attract more interest. Make it less boring. Yes. Definitely one of your special talents. My act went over well at first. It was fun fooling nerdy academics who thought they were communicating with Einstein. You impersonated one of history’s greatest minds?? I made principal’s honor roll, didn’t I? Dear me, I must have forgotten! I was on a roll. But a guy showed up who’d communicated with Einstein’s real brain in a jar. I was toast. 

You couldn’t talk your way out of it? I told them that it was all Uncle Melvin’s fault. I meant to project a photo of you graduating with honors at Harvard but accidentally showed you falling on your face outside the Galleria. That’s what got me into their dumpster. Where you belonged after betraying your kind Uncle.

I’ll rescue you but I want a favor too. May I have a word with your brain? Of course! What stop should I get off when I look for your body on the Expo Line?