Foolery

Naps Are a State of Mind

Oh, to be that carefrree again. Not to mention flexible.

Paging Dr. Lipschitz . . .

Got this message yesterday:

"I have a Chicken Poop delivery for you.
Don’t argue. Just give me
your chicken coop shipping address
and no one gets hurt."

How could I argue with that? Of course, by the time I checked my messages I was already late for the Chicken Poop Assasin's delivery schedule, so I got this second message:

"What?!?
The cat’s got your tongue you say?
Cough it up Sister."

I obeyed. You don't mess with someone who claims to have chicken poop and knows how to use it.

When I got home from Yet Another Longest Work Week Of My Life my children were excitedly directing me to the mysterious box on the counter.



Which, of course, they had already opened.

Inside was a note, addressed ATTN: CHIEF HENHOUSEKEEPER & HER FLOCK:

"Sage advice:
Grandpa says,
'If ya got dry lips,
put chicken poop on 'em
so you won't lick 'em!"

And the there was this:



The note continued,

"That's why those displays
are called IMPULSE DISPLAYS.
I know it. You know it.
Everybody knows it -- IT WORKS.
And I love it."

The culprit was, of course, Chicken Fran, one of the funniest, most creative people I know. Here she is at Prom:



A huge thank you to Franny Lipschitz for the big laugh and the chapped lip medicine. You may expect a delivery from the Cow Pie Bakery soon.

Don't Give Her Too Much Credit

Chas told me what had happened with wide eyes. "She got onto the internet, found the site, and made the purchase in no time at all, with my credit card."

"Oh no."

Oh yes. Smedley bought movie tickets for the group on-line because the available adults could not have gotten it done.



Life as we know it is OVER.