I keep an ideas notebook in my mindflaps where I take notes of ideas. Some of the ideas are for awesome inventions like: mindflaps and ideas notebooks! Other ideas include topics that I can write about either here or in other writing places (e.g., bathroom stalls, bedroom walls, and other people's foreheads). Every once in a while I get out that notebook and look at those ideas that I have been keeping. This time a couple of them stood out to me: PBS television and butter spray. I would like to say a few words about each.
Of course, we will begin with butter spray (I dedicate this section to all things Schmahn).
Well, actually, it's official name is I Can't Believe it's Not Butter spray. You may remember the I Can't Believe it's Not Butter products from their 1990's ad campaigns where couples showed varying degrees of belief that they were or were not eating from a tub of butter. Then, the good people at ICBINB invented a process which allowed them to harness the awesome power of suspending human belief about butter in a spray. For advertising purposes they, of course, added Fabio. Fabio's job was to say in a very thick where-ever-Fabio's-from accent, "spray."
Now, there is something about being able to spray butter-ish liquid that diminishes the suspended belief that non-butter butters create in the consumer. No one, living in reality, would ever use the following sentence, "I can't believe it's not butter spray!"
Why, you ask? Because butter spray is not a thing that one believes in. As far as I know, no one has invented butter spray made from butter. Butter milk, sure. Butter spray, no. So, not believing that something sprayed out of a pump action, non-aerosol, hair-spray-type bottle is not a thing that doesn't exist is crazy. Almost as crazy as the use of triple negative in sentence you just read. The product's real title probably aught to be one of the following:
I Can't Believe it's Not Hairspray
or
I Can Believe it's Not Butter
or
I Don't Believe it's Butter, Because It Isn't
or
I Can't Believe I Spray This on Things I Used to Put Butter On
Now that we have it labeled correctly, have you ever tried it? It is awesome. Try it today. Right now. You won't be able to believe it. It will suspend your belief about butter-related things. Our butter universe changed in the 1990s and many of us didn't believe it, but we should have.
Now, let's move on to PBS Television. I have fallen in love with nerd TV (no offense to the nerds reading this posting through their coke-bottle lenses). Specifically, I have fallen in love with the BBC offerings that PBS Television airs on the weekends, which means I am a female nerd. My favorite: Lark Rise to Candleford. Please, watch it, it is wonderful, then we can talk about it (while laugh-snorting, taking puffs from our inhalers, and speaking in the elfin tongue).
Other great PBS/BBC shows: Downton Abbey, Lost in Austen, Sherlock, and Doc Martin (and that is just the scripted stuff).
Monday, February 7, 2011
Monday, January 31, 2011
Dear Ol' Schmelta Schmigh
I had the great pleasure of spending this last weekend at home. By "home" I mean my mom's home in Schmelta Schmutah. Even after almost two decades of living elsewhere, the brick rambler half a block from the high school is, in many ways, home--probably because I left a hat hanging there.
While there, I realized that sometime this summer I will have completed my 18th year living away from home. I also realized that I left home at age 18. The math is reletively easy: I have been gone for as long as I was there (18=18).
Even after all these years, I can't help but compare myself to that fresh-faced 18-year-old, have I become the 36-year-old version that that kid expected himself to become?
There is really only one answer. Who cares? His 36-year-old counterpart certainly doesn't.
However, I have to commend that boy. As I sat in his mostly unchanged bedroom, and thumbed through his writings and rumaged through his belongings, he clearly was a good boy. He was full of potential, spirit, belief, hope, humor, and unrefined talent. He tried hard to do good things. He had a reletively large collection of cassett tapes.
He was a good foundation to build a second lifetime upon. He didn't do it by himself. He was helped and refined along the way by loving and smart parents, and by friends and neighbors who were kind and caring. All of it in a place (both home and town) that was safe and comfortable. So, thank you to the providers of my "home."
Much love,
The 36-year-old version of Wilson Culpepper (Schmick Schmurdock)
While there, I realized that sometime this summer I will have completed my 18th year living away from home. I also realized that I left home at age 18. The math is reletively easy: I have been gone for as long as I was there (18=18).
Even after all these years, I can't help but compare myself to that fresh-faced 18-year-old, have I become the 36-year-old version that that kid expected himself to become?
There is really only one answer. Who cares? His 36-year-old counterpart certainly doesn't.
However, I have to commend that boy. As I sat in his mostly unchanged bedroom, and thumbed through his writings and rumaged through his belongings, he clearly was a good boy. He was full of potential, spirit, belief, hope, humor, and unrefined talent. He tried hard to do good things. He had a reletively large collection of cassett tapes.
He was a good foundation to build a second lifetime upon. He didn't do it by himself. He was helped and refined along the way by loving and smart parents, and by friends and neighbors who were kind and caring. All of it in a place (both home and town) that was safe and comfortable. So, thank you to the providers of my "home."
Much love,
The 36-year-old version of Wilson Culpepper (Schmick Schmurdock)
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
A Whole New Year (Don't you dare close your eyes)
Welcome to one of the newest years ever!
This year is definitely the most recent of all years ever to be. And, even 11 days into it, it feels like a whole new year. It feels like a group of days based on our planet's circling of the sun. It feels like a group of four seasons setting out to make another run at whatever seasons make a run at.
Did you know that March used to be the first month of the year? I wonder why they changed it to January? Anyone know?
September, October, November, and December make more sense with March as month one, though. After all, Sept = seven, Oct = eight, Nov = nine, and Dec = ten. Plus, February should be the last month of the year because it has the leftover days (28 or 29, depending on, you know, whatever leap year depends on).
Plus, doesn't March sound like a great way to start a year? "March, buddy! I mean it! Move it! You've got weight to lose and books to read! Those trips to the gym aren't going to take themselves, ya jackwagon! Pick 'em up and put 'em down!"
The only reason August isn't called Sextember and July, Pentember is because they were re-named after Caesars Augustus and Julius, respectively. I probably should site a source or two here, but I have no remembrance of where I read this and I don't feel like looking it up.
Besides, this next part is made up:
June was re-named after a certain Mrs. Cleaver;
May is the beginning of the eternal question;
April is a transliteration of the olde English phrase, "Apes for real!" This was a warning shouted down from watchtowers to travelers, imploring them to watch out for Apes. There weren't any apes, usually, almost never. This is also where we find the first use of the term April Fool.
I like this idea for the order of the months: March!, Biember, Triember, Quadober, Pentember, Sextober, September, October, November, December, Eleventeen, and Halt!
Who's with me?
This year is definitely the most recent of all years ever to be. And, even 11 days into it, it feels like a whole new year. It feels like a group of days based on our planet's circling of the sun. It feels like a group of four seasons setting out to make another run at whatever seasons make a run at.
Did you know that March used to be the first month of the year? I wonder why they changed it to January? Anyone know?
September, October, November, and December make more sense with March as month one, though. After all, Sept = seven, Oct = eight, Nov = nine, and Dec = ten. Plus, February should be the last month of the year because it has the leftover days (28 or 29, depending on, you know, whatever leap year depends on).
Plus, doesn't March sound like a great way to start a year? "March, buddy! I mean it! Move it! You've got weight to lose and books to read! Those trips to the gym aren't going to take themselves, ya jackwagon! Pick 'em up and put 'em down!"
The only reason August isn't called Sextember and July, Pentember is because they were re-named after Caesars Augustus and Julius, respectively. I probably should site a source or two here, but I have no remembrance of where I read this and I don't feel like looking it up.
Besides, this next part is made up:
June was re-named after a certain Mrs. Cleaver;
May is the beginning of the eternal question;
April is a transliteration of the olde English phrase, "Apes for real!" This was a warning shouted down from watchtowers to travelers, imploring them to watch out for Apes. There weren't any apes, usually, almost never. This is also where we find the first use of the term April Fool.
I like this idea for the order of the months: March!, Biember, Triember, Quadober, Pentember, Sextober, September, October, November, December, Eleventeen, and Halt!
Who's with me?
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Christmas Story 3
Christmas Story 1996
I walked the crooked highway, I’d walked it a thousand times.
When I was young my father had sheep and I’d watch them for him at night.
Leading sheep along the highway, I knew the road by heart,
Every tree and gully, every bend and rock.
As I grew I got restless and I left for a life on the sea.
This was my first trip back to Jerusalem; I came for the Passover feast.
The road stretched out before me, only a few more miles, and I’d be to Golgotha
a hill overlooking the city walls.
As I arrived at the hill a crowd was gathered around
Some were laughing, some were weeping, there were beams coming out of the ground!
“A crucifixion,” I said to myself I turned my head and I quickened my pace.
Then, I saw an older lady with a very familiar face.
I knew her face.
Memories flowed to my sea-washed mind of years and years ago.
Tending sheep I saw a star and a baby this woman had borne.
Her face was worn and wrinkled; yet the same look gleamed from her eyes.
I turned and saw her baby hanging on a cross, barely alive.
What had happened in those years of my wandering?
What had he been through—the child for whom the angels sing?
Someone help him! I knew he’d done no wrong.
His gaze moved to his mother, “Woman, behold thy son.”
Minutes turned into hours, his face twisted in incredible pain.
The sky darkened the earth shook as if to hide her shame.
The man cried, “Father, why has thou forsaken me?”
Some thought he called for Elias (Elijah), but that didn’t seem right to me.
Unbelievably, peace came to his blood-drenched brow.
“To Thy hands I commend my spirit, it is finished!” He cried aloud.
I walked the crooked highway, I’d walked it a thousand times.
My mind was on that long ago night when angels came to my fold
saying, “unto you is born this day a Savior which is Christ the Lord.”
I walked the crooked highway, I’d walked it a thousand times.
When I was young my father had sheep and I’d watch them for him at night.
Leading sheep along the highway, I knew the road by heart,
Every tree and gully, every bend and rock.
As I grew I got restless and I left for a life on the sea.
This was my first trip back to Jerusalem; I came for the Passover feast.
The road stretched out before me, only a few more miles, and I’d be to Golgotha
a hill overlooking the city walls.
As I arrived at the hill a crowd was gathered around
Some were laughing, some were weeping, there were beams coming out of the ground!
“A crucifixion,” I said to myself I turned my head and I quickened my pace.
Then, I saw an older lady with a very familiar face.
I knew her face.
Memories flowed to my sea-washed mind of years and years ago.
Tending sheep I saw a star and a baby this woman had borne.
Her face was worn and wrinkled; yet the same look gleamed from her eyes.
I turned and saw her baby hanging on a cross, barely alive.
What had happened in those years of my wandering?
What had he been through—the child for whom the angels sing?
Someone help him! I knew he’d done no wrong.
His gaze moved to his mother, “Woman, behold thy son.”
Minutes turned into hours, his face twisted in incredible pain.
The sky darkened the earth shook as if to hide her shame.
The man cried, “Father, why has thou forsaken me?”
Some thought he called for Elias (Elijah), but that didn’t seem right to me.
Unbelievably, peace came to his blood-drenched brow.
“To Thy hands I commend my spirit, it is finished!” He cried aloud.
I walked the crooked highway, I’d walked it a thousand times.
My mind was on that long ago night when angels came to my fold
saying, “unto you is born this day a Savior which is Christ the Lord.”
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Christmas Story 2
Christmas Story 1995
Yitzhak and I had been working together for three years as sheep herding partners for the Lone Star Ranch.
He had been born in Russia but remembered little of that time in his life. He had been raised in one of the burrows of New York City. His Jewish-Orthodox views were well implanted.
I guess you could say he was devout in the practice of his religion, at least as devout as a person living in the Western United States as a sheepherder could be.
One thing about the Law of Moses, it makes a man into a hard worker, and it worked out pretty well, I would work all day Saturday and he would work Sundays. At the end of the herding season we would usually stay busy with feeding and helping the other hands maintain the ranch.
By the time December came along I was looking forward to the break the old man Henderson gave us for Christmas.
This year was to be different from the other years though. On December 23, Henderson came into the bunkhouse, “Davis, Rabin, come with me.” He took us to the pasture where we kept the sheep.
“Boys,” he said, “Doctor Davidson was here this morning and he ran a test on the sheep. He said that they have intestinal worms. It could be serious. He says he can treat them, but he can’t be over here enough. So he’s offered to put them in the clinic pasture ‘til spring, and get them all taken care of. So I need you boys to herd them over to Bethingham, to doctor Davidson’s place.”
“When?” I asked.
“Tomorrow morning.”
“That’s Christmas eve.”
“Doc says the sooner the better, these sheep are our livelihood.”
I looked at Yitzhak. He was staring at the ground. “It will be hard for the sheep.”
“I know. Just take ‘em slow and easy and they’ll be all right.”
The next day Yitzhak and I were on our way. Yitzhak was more of a shepherd than I was. He had names for almost all of the sheep. Instead of pushing them along, like I did. He usually just walked along and they would follow him.
We decided to get to Bethingham as quickly as possible so we chose an old trapper’s trail. The quicker we get them there the more sheep we would save. So we left early.
By about five miles out of town, snow was falling; the clouds had rolled in and sat right on top of us. By six o’clock the snowfall had turned to blizzard. Blinded by the snow and not wanting to lose any of the sheep, we decided we had better find a place to camp. Yitzhak picked up Yoshebel one of last year’s lambs, and called the other sheep to follow him.
We found a glen, blocked by the wind on one side by a sheer cliff. This would provide enough shelter until morning. I counted the black sheep, five. “They’re all here!” I cried to Yitzhak. Yitzhak’s face told me something was wrong.
“No,” he said, “Jeshua is missing, we must find Jeshua.”
“Well, he’s probably down, lying in a thicket somewhere. We’ll find him in the morning.”
“I’m going to find him, you may stay or you may come.”
It was hard keeping up with him. He was practically running through two feet of snow.
After two hours of searching and calling, Jeshua was nowhere to be found. I convinced Yitzhak that we should probably start the search again in the morning and began back toward the camp. The storm had settled down a bit and through the darkness I could see light. Yitzhak said he could hear music.
“Let’s go see what it is,” I said.
“Yes, perhaps Jeshua is there.”
As we approached the little church, we were met by three men wearing white coats. They said, “Don’t be afraid. We bring good news. Your sheep is fine. Why don’t you go in and warm up?” I didn’t think to ask how they knew we were looking for a sheep.
As we walked into the church it became clear that the little parish was holding a Christmas pageant, complete with a nativity scene—the kind of nativity scene with real people. They even had a little lamb.
“Jeshua,” Yitzhak whispered.
He began to walk closer until he reached the place where Jeshua was laying. He crouched down next to Jeshua and ran his fingers through the sheep’s thick wool.
Yitzhak’s attention suddenly changed as he looked to see where Jeshua’s eyes were held. Then, he saw.
It was the babe wrapped in white cloth and laying in a makeshift manger. Yitzhak began to weep as he realized there was more to this baby than just a legend of yore, more than a different Sabbath, more than a Christian watchword.
He beheld the long awaited messiah. He didn’t know how but he knew it. It was Jesus, Wonderful, Counselor, the Mighty God.
Yitzhak sat in this modern nativity and took his rightful place as the shepherd.
The choir sang, “Wise men seek him still.”
“And so do shepherds,” I whispered.
Yitzhak and I had been working together for three years as sheep herding partners for the Lone Star Ranch.
He had been born in Russia but remembered little of that time in his life. He had been raised in one of the burrows of New York City. His Jewish-Orthodox views were well implanted.
I guess you could say he was devout in the practice of his religion, at least as devout as a person living in the Western United States as a sheepherder could be.
One thing about the Law of Moses, it makes a man into a hard worker, and it worked out pretty well, I would work all day Saturday and he would work Sundays. At the end of the herding season we would usually stay busy with feeding and helping the other hands maintain the ranch.
By the time December came along I was looking forward to the break the old man Henderson gave us for Christmas.
This year was to be different from the other years though. On December 23, Henderson came into the bunkhouse, “Davis, Rabin, come with me.” He took us to the pasture where we kept the sheep.
“Boys,” he said, “Doctor Davidson was here this morning and he ran a test on the sheep. He said that they have intestinal worms. It could be serious. He says he can treat them, but he can’t be over here enough. So he’s offered to put them in the clinic pasture ‘til spring, and get them all taken care of. So I need you boys to herd them over to Bethingham, to doctor Davidson’s place.”
“When?” I asked.
“Tomorrow morning.”
“That’s Christmas eve.”
“Doc says the sooner the better, these sheep are our livelihood.”
I looked at Yitzhak. He was staring at the ground. “It will be hard for the sheep.”
“I know. Just take ‘em slow and easy and they’ll be all right.”
The next day Yitzhak and I were on our way. Yitzhak was more of a shepherd than I was. He had names for almost all of the sheep. Instead of pushing them along, like I did. He usually just walked along and they would follow him.
We decided to get to Bethingham as quickly as possible so we chose an old trapper’s trail. The quicker we get them there the more sheep we would save. So we left early.
By about five miles out of town, snow was falling; the clouds had rolled in and sat right on top of us. By six o’clock the snowfall had turned to blizzard. Blinded by the snow and not wanting to lose any of the sheep, we decided we had better find a place to camp. Yitzhak picked up Yoshebel one of last year’s lambs, and called the other sheep to follow him.
We found a glen, blocked by the wind on one side by a sheer cliff. This would provide enough shelter until morning. I counted the black sheep, five. “They’re all here!” I cried to Yitzhak. Yitzhak’s face told me something was wrong.
“No,” he said, “Jeshua is missing, we must find Jeshua.”
“Well, he’s probably down, lying in a thicket somewhere. We’ll find him in the morning.”
“I’m going to find him, you may stay or you may come.”
It was hard keeping up with him. He was practically running through two feet of snow.
After two hours of searching and calling, Jeshua was nowhere to be found. I convinced Yitzhak that we should probably start the search again in the morning and began back toward the camp. The storm had settled down a bit and through the darkness I could see light. Yitzhak said he could hear music.
“Let’s go see what it is,” I said.
“Yes, perhaps Jeshua is there.”
As we approached the little church, we were met by three men wearing white coats. They said, “Don’t be afraid. We bring good news. Your sheep is fine. Why don’t you go in and warm up?” I didn’t think to ask how they knew we were looking for a sheep.
As we walked into the church it became clear that the little parish was holding a Christmas pageant, complete with a nativity scene—the kind of nativity scene with real people. They even had a little lamb.
“Jeshua,” Yitzhak whispered.
He began to walk closer until he reached the place where Jeshua was laying. He crouched down next to Jeshua and ran his fingers through the sheep’s thick wool.
Yitzhak’s attention suddenly changed as he looked to see where Jeshua’s eyes were held. Then, he saw.
It was the babe wrapped in white cloth and laying in a makeshift manger. Yitzhak began to weep as he realized there was more to this baby than just a legend of yore, more than a different Sabbath, more than a Christian watchword.
He beheld the long awaited messiah. He didn’t know how but he knew it. It was Jesus, Wonderful, Counselor, the Mighty God.
Yitzhak sat in this modern nativity and took his rightful place as the shepherd.
The choir sang, “Wise men seek him still.”
“And so do shepherds,” I whispered.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Christmas Story
For about ten years, starting in 1994, I wrote an annual Christmas Story. The first two were written while I was a missionary. I'd send them home to be read on Christmas Eve and in that way I would participate in the family's Christmas festifities. The only rule (self-imposed) was that the story had to revisit the nativity in one way or another. These are not the best writings ever made, but they are heartfelt. I will post several of them over the next few days.
Christmas Story 1994
The spirit representing my Christmas future left me at the side of the headstone with the hideous inscription. It read, Ebenezer Scrooge. It was without mistake my own resting place.
My heart was broken. My life had been vain. Tears came unsuppressed. The grief of a wasted existence flooded into my soul.
Then, when I thought I could not endure another moment, a glimmer of light stuck. It was not too late. I had been given a second chance to change my life. Joy filled my heart replacing the entire void. It was the thrill of rebirth. I fell to my knees and again wept.
When I had closed my eyes to blink away the tears, I felt the familiar blast of wind that comes with the spirit’s mode of travel. My stomach jumped, I didn’t open my eyes for I knew in a moment I would, as with the other spirits, be within my bedchamber.
But, when my flight had ended I knew that I was not home. For the smell was not familiar to me. I opened my eyes and beheld sheep, dozens of sheep.
I was still kneeling and as I stood a small voice said, “what’s your name?”
“Ebenezer…”
“You’re named after a rock.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“My papa always tells me stories about the old prophets. Ebenezer is the rock that Samuel put in that valley down there.”
“Where is your Father?”
“He went to see the Messiah.” The boy’s face was stone as if he understood the sacredness of such words.
“Where might I find him?”
“Bethlehem, on the other side of this hill, at Eleazar’s stable past the inn.”
My eyes were opened; I saw where the child was and how to get there. I ran the most part of the distance. Even at my age the import of reaching the Babe superseded any need of rest. As I came upon the stable, I slowed in order to catch my breath. The crowd noticed me, a new face, and separated to let me through.
I saw him. My Savior, Creator, and God was the most beautiful baby I had ever beheld.
I had seen the child’s gaze before. Bob Cratchet had it. It was in my lost love’s stare. Oh, and Tiny Tim, especially Tiny Tim.
I fell to my knees again, and again I was weeping. I have never claimed to be a visionary man, but in that moment I saw his life, from that night in the manger until he hung on the cross, and even beyond that.
The baby‘s gaze seemed to say, “For you Ebenezer.”
Once again I felt wind against by face and I was in my bedchamber. I rushed to the window and flung it open.
“Boy, what day is it?”
“Why, it’s Christmas!”
In allowing my dear friend Charles to write my story I asked him to withhold the most poignant part in order to share it with you my self.
Although not as eloquent as Dickens, these few lines are meant to remind us that it was Jesus Christ who came and died for us that we might experience this mighty change. It happened to me. May he change you in such a way that you might substitute your name for mine when he says, “for you Ebenezer.”
copyright 2010 Rick Murdock (please do not use without permission)
Christmas Story 1994
The spirit representing my Christmas future left me at the side of the headstone with the hideous inscription. It read, Ebenezer Scrooge. It was without mistake my own resting place.
My heart was broken. My life had been vain. Tears came unsuppressed. The grief of a wasted existence flooded into my soul.
Then, when I thought I could not endure another moment, a glimmer of light stuck. It was not too late. I had been given a second chance to change my life. Joy filled my heart replacing the entire void. It was the thrill of rebirth. I fell to my knees and again wept.
When I had closed my eyes to blink away the tears, I felt the familiar blast of wind that comes with the spirit’s mode of travel. My stomach jumped, I didn’t open my eyes for I knew in a moment I would, as with the other spirits, be within my bedchamber.
But, when my flight had ended I knew that I was not home. For the smell was not familiar to me. I opened my eyes and beheld sheep, dozens of sheep.
I was still kneeling and as I stood a small voice said, “what’s your name?”
“Ebenezer…”
“You’re named after a rock.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“My papa always tells me stories about the old prophets. Ebenezer is the rock that Samuel put in that valley down there.”
“Where is your Father?”
“He went to see the Messiah.” The boy’s face was stone as if he understood the sacredness of such words.
“Where might I find him?”
“Bethlehem, on the other side of this hill, at Eleazar’s stable past the inn.”
My eyes were opened; I saw where the child was and how to get there. I ran the most part of the distance. Even at my age the import of reaching the Babe superseded any need of rest. As I came upon the stable, I slowed in order to catch my breath. The crowd noticed me, a new face, and separated to let me through.
I saw him. My Savior, Creator, and God was the most beautiful baby I had ever beheld.
I had seen the child’s gaze before. Bob Cratchet had it. It was in my lost love’s stare. Oh, and Tiny Tim, especially Tiny Tim.
I fell to my knees again, and again I was weeping. I have never claimed to be a visionary man, but in that moment I saw his life, from that night in the manger until he hung on the cross, and even beyond that.
The baby‘s gaze seemed to say, “For you Ebenezer.”
Once again I felt wind against by face and I was in my bedchamber. I rushed to the window and flung it open.
“Boy, what day is it?”
“Why, it’s Christmas!”
In allowing my dear friend Charles to write my story I asked him to withhold the most poignant part in order to share it with you my self.
Although not as eloquent as Dickens, these few lines are meant to remind us that it was Jesus Christ who came and died for us that we might experience this mighty change. It happened to me. May he change you in such a way that you might substitute your name for mine when he says, “for you Ebenezer.”
copyright 2010 Rick Murdock (please do not use without permission)
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Some Old Jokes
Hey,
I was looking through some old files and found some old jokes that I wrote for a beauty pageant that I MCed many years ago, and I have posted them below. These were meant to be spoken to an audience from a very small town.
Enjoy!
Movie trailers are all the same, the movie could be the least exciting thing in the world and they can make it at least seem exciting.
(in movie trailer voice): “One Man. One Mission. To watch television – all – day – long. This summer Tommy Frankel will take his life to a new level of laziness. The Couch-Potato rated R – some material may not be suitable for people who actually like to do stuff.
Anything sounds exciting when you use that voice:
“Mary had a little lamb, whose fleece was white as snow, and this summer, anywhere that Mary is that lamb is sure to go. Baaa, (explosions gunfire) Rated G, some material may not be suitable for adults.
Musicals are making a comeback, Moulin Rouge, Chicago, I heard that there are 12 more musicals in the works. What kind of effect is that going to have on society? We’ve been worried for years about violence, kids acting out what they see on the screen. Just imagine those punks at the Junior Highs and Middle schools singing and dancing.
Sometimes I wish my life was a musical, unfortunately, it’s way too boring. The biggest number of last year would be entitled “Hey I found five bucks in my jacket pocket!”
I haven’t worn this jacket in just about six months,
It’s not because I don’t like the jacket
It just hasn’t been jacket weather
(spoken) let me tell you about what happened when my jacket and I got back together.
It was a moderate day, not too cold or too hot.
Just right in the middle believe it or not.
I knew I’d be outside for the next few hours
The weather report called for intermittent showers.
So I went to my closet and I found an old friend
My jacket from Walmart that was stained with a pen
(spoken) just a little spot.
I pulled the jacket on and put my hand into the pocket
I felt something funny like my tongue was in a socket
(spoken) ok not really like my tongue was in a socket, but pocket’s not an easy thing to rhyme. Can you imagine, (pantomime hand in pocket, tongue in socket)
I pulled out the object from its hiding place
And to my great surprise Abraham Lincoln sat staring me in the face.
Other songs from my life if it were a musical, “Cereal for breakfast,” “Chips, I like Chips,” “Today’s gonna be special, insert date here.” (Take off and inspect glasses) and obviously, “cleaning my glasses.” (begin to clean glasses)
I have been wearing glasses for more than half my life. My whole family wears them, sometimes I wish they were mutes.
Have you ever noticed how movie actors rip off their glasses in intense situations?
“(as if an actor) Situation too intense, must impair vision.”
Or maybe they’re trying to channel some of their seeing ability into their thinking ability. “Situation too intense, must increase thought skills. Not working must impair taste buds (put glasses in the corner of mouth). Still not working, (plug nose) no olefactory sense. Still not able to think clearly enough. (Plug ears) Working, working."
That’s not me at all, if there is an intense situation the last thing I’m going to do is take off my glasses. (pantomime an intense situation hold glasses on to your face) When I take them off and try to see I look like this. (Pantomime you without glasses)
I dislike job interviews, I really am not good at them. My least favorite question, “what is your biggest fault or weakness?”
Why do they ask that, what are you supposed to say to that?
“uhh, I’m lazy.” “I’m really not very smart.”
Brown nosers say things like, “(nerdy voice) I think my biggest weakness is that I’m a perfectionist.”
My answer: “I’m a backseat driver.” or “I don’t eat the crusts on my peanut butter sandwiches—it's just wasteful.”
Then there’s the forms you have to fill out when applying for jobs, I tend to over explain:
Date of birth?
(pantomime writing on a form) “I don’t remember that time in my life. I was busy concentrating on other things. I've been told that my birthday is June 26, 1975, but I don’t remember that either, could be Oct. 5, 1982, for all I know. I know I was around by 1984, because I remember Van Halen’s album 1984, and that BYU won the national championship in football, and that the Olympics were in Los Angeles. Oh and Reagan beat Mondale, and Geraldine Ferraro was the first female Vice-Presidential candidate to run as a male."
You know you’ve been watching too much TV when you wake up reaching for the remote trying to change your dream. “I wanna watch a dream where I’m wearing pants.”
My wife watches “Lifetime, television for women.” How is that network television for women? In every single movie a woman is either beaten or in some other way oppressed. That network should really be called “TV moms from the 80’s oppression Network”
“Meridith Baxter, Judith Light, and Joanna Kerns star in ‘Remember Me?’ on Lifetime television for women.
I was looking through some old files and found some old jokes that I wrote for a beauty pageant that I MCed many years ago, and I have posted them below. These were meant to be spoken to an audience from a very small town.
Enjoy!
Movie trailers are all the same, the movie could be the least exciting thing in the world and they can make it at least seem exciting.
(in movie trailer voice): “One Man. One Mission. To watch television – all – day – long. This summer Tommy Frankel will take his life to a new level of laziness. The Couch-Potato rated R – some material may not be suitable for people who actually like to do stuff.
Anything sounds exciting when you use that voice:
“Mary had a little lamb, whose fleece was white as snow, and this summer, anywhere that Mary is that lamb is sure to go. Baaa, (explosions gunfire) Rated G, some material may not be suitable for adults.
Musicals are making a comeback, Moulin Rouge, Chicago, I heard that there are 12 more musicals in the works. What kind of effect is that going to have on society? We’ve been worried for years about violence, kids acting out what they see on the screen. Just imagine those punks at the Junior Highs and Middle schools singing and dancing.
Sometimes I wish my life was a musical, unfortunately, it’s way too boring. The biggest number of last year would be entitled “Hey I found five bucks in my jacket pocket!”
I haven’t worn this jacket in just about six months,
It’s not because I don’t like the jacket
It just hasn’t been jacket weather
(spoken) let me tell you about what happened when my jacket and I got back together.
It was a moderate day, not too cold or too hot.
Just right in the middle believe it or not.
I knew I’d be outside for the next few hours
The weather report called for intermittent showers.
So I went to my closet and I found an old friend
My jacket from Walmart that was stained with a pen
(spoken) just a little spot.
I pulled the jacket on and put my hand into the pocket
I felt something funny like my tongue was in a socket
(spoken) ok not really like my tongue was in a socket, but pocket’s not an easy thing to rhyme. Can you imagine, (pantomime hand in pocket, tongue in socket)
I pulled out the object from its hiding place
And to my great surprise Abraham Lincoln sat staring me in the face.
Other songs from my life if it were a musical, “Cereal for breakfast,” “Chips, I like Chips,” “Today’s gonna be special, insert date here.” (Take off and inspect glasses) and obviously, “cleaning my glasses.” (begin to clean glasses)
I have been wearing glasses for more than half my life. My whole family wears them, sometimes I wish they were mutes.
Have you ever noticed how movie actors rip off their glasses in intense situations?
“(as if an actor) Situation too intense, must impair vision.”
Or maybe they’re trying to channel some of their seeing ability into their thinking ability. “Situation too intense, must increase thought skills. Not working must impair taste buds (put glasses in the corner of mouth). Still not working, (plug nose) no olefactory sense. Still not able to think clearly enough. (Plug ears) Working, working."
That’s not me at all, if there is an intense situation the last thing I’m going to do is take off my glasses. (pantomime an intense situation hold glasses on to your face) When I take them off and try to see I look like this. (Pantomime you without glasses)
I dislike job interviews, I really am not good at them. My least favorite question, “what is your biggest fault or weakness?”
Why do they ask that, what are you supposed to say to that?
“uhh, I’m lazy.” “I’m really not very smart.”
Brown nosers say things like, “(nerdy voice) I think my biggest weakness is that I’m a perfectionist.”
My answer: “I’m a backseat driver.” or “I don’t eat the crusts on my peanut butter sandwiches—it's just wasteful.”
Then there’s the forms you have to fill out when applying for jobs, I tend to over explain:
Date of birth?
(pantomime writing on a form) “I don’t remember that time in my life. I was busy concentrating on other things. I've been told that my birthday is June 26, 1975, but I don’t remember that either, could be Oct. 5, 1982, for all I know. I know I was around by 1984, because I remember Van Halen’s album 1984, and that BYU won the national championship in football, and that the Olympics were in Los Angeles. Oh and Reagan beat Mondale, and Geraldine Ferraro was the first female Vice-Presidential candidate to run as a male."
You know you’ve been watching too much TV when you wake up reaching for the remote trying to change your dream. “I wanna watch a dream where I’m wearing pants.”
My wife watches “Lifetime, television for women.” How is that network television for women? In every single movie a woman is either beaten or in some other way oppressed. That network should really be called “TV moms from the 80’s oppression Network”
“Meridith Baxter, Judith Light, and Joanna Kerns star in ‘Remember Me?’ on Lifetime television for women.
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