THE STERN MARTINET AND THE LAX MARTINET
S.M: Straighten that line!
L.M: Looks straight enough to me, fellas.
S.M: Suck in that gut, Simpkins!
L.M: As if you could, eh, Simpkins?
S.M: Corporal, this is a disgrace!
L.M: Well, there’s disgrace and there’s disgrace.
S.M: Double time! Now! Forward …. HARCH!
L.M: Or time and a half. Whatever.
WHEN ALIENS LANDED
QUEEN VICTORIA KWIZ
Queen Victoria knew:
a. that Disraeli wrote sonnets to his rooster.
b. how to make Belgian waffles.
c. two radically different ways to skin an otter.
d. the difference between snow and parliament.
e. an awful lot about peaches.
O’TAN’S GARDEN OF DIMENSION
FROM DOC’S LOON FABLES 19
The Buckwheat Pancake and the Fox
The buckwheat pancake, after escaping the pursuit of the astonished cook, rolled to a stop at the edge of a lake and looked out with a modest stirring of passion at a comely little island there.
“Oh, what a splendid island! I long to get to it in the worst way,” said the buckwheat pancake.
“I can help you,” said a fox, springing nimbly from nearby undergrowth. “Sit on my nose and I’ll swim you across.”
“Well now, that surely would be the worst way to get there, wouldn’t it? On the nose of a fox. What are you waiting for? Come on. Let’s do it!” said the buckwheat pancake.
The fox grinned at the ease with which he had secured an unexpected snack. It was his final grin. Had he been alive a few moments later, he would have been surprised to find himself fashioned into a sort of a raft and being oared toward the island. But he wasn’t alive.
Moral: Always be wary of sentient foodstuffs.
A SIMPLE TRUTH
MY IGNORANCE LACKS BOUNDARIES. IT’S A TRAIT I SHARE WITH EVERY OTHER HUMAN BEING.
CARTOON FRIDAY 35
MOMENTS PRIOR TO THE YOUNG LADY’S ERROR
The professor’s cat moved with lark-like civility down the hallway. Plel Lolman smiled with his wooden mouth. Widow Chirp, the landlady, ladled dollops of treason pie onto broken dishes. The professor remained in his room twirling a mackerel in anticipation of Crimson Bloodhound Day. Mavis, the parlor maid, sat in the boiler room eating a feather duster while reading the autobiography of B. Tipton Stallworthy, Tentacle of Death. Henry, the handy man, crawled on his belly like a spewing monk across the basement floor. Bindings erupted through his door and flailed from room to room, weeping. In the attic, Clever Ricky hid. Standing on the steps outside, young librarian’s assistant Jane Littleheart was in the process of making the worst decision of her up until then industrially flexible life. She was about to inquire within.







