I am in favor of preserving the French habit of kissing ladies’ hands–after all, one must start somewhere. –Sacha Guitry, French actor, playwright and film maker
The title of today’s post is THE KISSING POST– not to be confused with THE HITCHING POST, which would be a post about the ceremony of getting hitched (after kissing went to the hand-kisser’s head). Alternatively, THE HITCHING POST could be a post about a post to which you tether your horse….as opposed to your spouse (pardon my horse play).
Be that as it may, it may interest you to know that anthropologists believe kissing is a learned behavior. But they believe above all in science, so what competence could anthropologists possibly have in the field of kissing….with the likely exception of Parisian anthropologists, who are said to have French kissing down to an art….in the interest of science? C’est une bonne planque!*
Knowing that many of my readers are serious about science, you would no doubt like to know where I came up with what “it may interest you to know” — so, just so you know:
Hatch later apologized for his fowl apathy, but he needn’t have. After all, a number of other non-peons down through the eons haven’t given a hoot about one thing or another, including these warblers:
No doubt the Nuthatch in the White House thinks Orrin Hatch is a sage Grouse. Not to crow, but I don’t give a tweet….and from heron, never let it be said that I never write posts that are for the birds.
December 4 is SANTA’S LIST DAY. Yours truly having been a good boy this year, what better time than now to make out my Christmas wish list and tell Santa that I deserve everything on it? That gives me three weeks to be naughty while the old fart is busy browbeating and driving his elves to peak toy production before D-Day (Delivery Day) — or should I say, before Delivery Night. The way I see it, it’s not my fault that Santa won’t have time to check up on me — he should be a more adept despot.
Just kidding,of course. I don’t really plan on being a bad boy from now until Christmas…. and to prove it, my list will consist entirely of wishes for someone much more in need than I — a child so spoiled and naughty, he may soon be locked out of his WHITE HOUSE (depending on who holds the key to the outcome). The name of that over-privileged child is Don-Don (known as THE DONALD by those in awe of him — and who isn’t?).
But why leave to chance the chances that my wishes for Don-Don come true?
If not upon a star, maybe I could wish upon a STEYER: Tom-Tom STEYER, the billionaire liberal activist, philanthropist, and Trump ingrate, for help in suggesting gifts that Santa (perhaps with coaxing from Mrs. Claus, who could probably use a Steyer-donated fur coat) might deliver to the needy Don-Don. But it seems Tom-Tom is too-too busy donating to causes instead of Clauses, so I’m stuck doing the dirty work all by myself. Fortunately, I have a pretty good idea of the toys it will take to get little Don-Don to straighten up and fly right, see himself for who he really is, and mend his lying ways:
Here, then, is my Don-Don wish list to Santa (additional suggestions welcomed):
1. A self-administered lie detector kit which gives $ for every truth and an electrical shock for every lie.
2. Smelling salts and a first aid kit to recover from daily attempts (which Don-Don can never resist) to sneak lies past #1.
3. A game of Trump Monopoly, which is just like regular Monopoly except: only Don-Don and family can play, there are numerous GO-TO-JAIL spaces, and there are no GET-OUT-OF-JAIL-FREE cards.
4. A bully pulpit, complete with a bully who calls Don-Don a “loser” whenever something doesn’t go Don-Don’s way.
5. Don-Don finds Jesus on Fox News, has a revelation that he’s supposed to do unto others as he would have them do unto him, takes the Golden Rule to heart, astounds the world, and gives Sean Hannity a heart attack.
6. A new law permitting any President named Trump to be above the law (but only with the approval of any Special Counsel named Mueller).
7. A Presidential pardon for himself, enough enablers to keep him in office two more years, and a country gone to moral indifference and re-electing him in 2020. Hey, how did that wish slip in here? Could it be written in the stars?
When I was young, the above was one of the first truisms I remember coming upon which took me beyond the surface of its simple truth….a proposition, if you will, that by any other name would be as true. After all, what is a name but a representation of what must be named because how else are we to picture in common what is being referred to? For example, if my name were Mister Muttonhead, I would still be me, though my name would be Mister Muttonhead, not Mister Muse (and I would still smell as sweet).
With that in mind, I thought I’d try my hand at furthering the Bard’s example by expounding on his original paradigm, to wit:
Flour by any other name would smell as wheat.
An alert cat by any other name would smell a rat.
An antique by any other name would cost far less.
The God of man by any other name would smell like WHAT’S UP WITH THAT.
Time by any other name would smell like a flier on life.
A duck by any other name would quack like the other name.
A Donald Trump by any other name would quack like an amuck Donald Duck.
Thanksgiving turkey by any other name would smell like a thankless (but not tasteless) turkey.
One must never miss an opportunity of quoting things by others which are always more interesting than those one thinks up oneself. –Marcel Proust
The idea for this post was born of the mating of the above quote (which came from a book I’m reading about Marcel Proust) with a play on words from the title of this old song:
The next step was to come up with nine quotes based on the above premise. Almost by default, I chose quotes about quotes. I hope the result isn’t born stillborn — if so, de fault is yours (or mine, if you want to be petty about it). Let’s begin and see how it works out:
Those who never quote, in return are never quoted. –Isaac D’Israeli
Pretty things that are well said — it’s nice to have them in your head. –Robert Frost
I have made it a rule that whenever I say something stupid, I immediately attribute it to Dr. Johnson, Marcus Aurelius or Dorothy Parker. –George Mikes
Asked to describe his most recent play, a playwright (who Dorothy Parker felt had been copying her) said, “It’s hard to say — except that it’s a play against all isms.” She replied, “Except plagiarism.”
I always have a quotation for everything — it saves original thinking. –Dorothy L. Sayers
To be amused at what you read — that is the great spring of quotation. –Charles Edward Montague
While reading writers of great formulatory power — Henry James, Santayana, Proust — I find I can scarcely get through a page without having to stop to record some lapidary sentence. Reading Henry James, for example, I have muttered to myself, “C’mon, Henry, turn down the brilliance a notch, so I can get some reading done.” –Joseph Epstein
If you want to be quoted, say something you shouldn’t say. –Evan Esar
I really didn’t say everything I said. –Yogi Berra
So that makes me a quoter of nine, unless one counts the opening Marcel Proust quote, which doesn’t count as ten unless you’re keeping count, in which case, count it instead as a bonus which would only count if you don’t count Yogi, who said he didn’t say what he said if he didn’t say it (but don’t quote me on that).
“I don’t see it as a safety issue because it isn’t.” –Bill Kaeppner, president of Ohio Motorized Trails Assn., speaking in favor of the State Division of Forestry’s proposal to allow all-purpose vehicle trails to cross hiking trails in Ohio State Parks
Reading the foregoing quote in a local newspaper article a few weeks ago, the possible applications of its incontrovertible logic struck me like the twaddle in a Trump tweet. Think of the implications for settling all manner of opposing positions. Think of all the cross-purposes which could be brought to a screeching stop, like trail traffic in a forest, by a simple red light at a crossing intersection. Friends, Romans, Fishermen, the solution is as obvious as the nose on your face: IT ISN’T BECAUSE IT ISN’T. End of de bait.
Let us take a look at a few of of Trump’s favorite declarations as examples of settling matters by simple fiat (it is or isn’t, because he says it is or isn’t):
WITCH HUNT — which is to say, do I look like a witch? (well, he’s got us there–no self-respecting witch would look like him)
THERE’S NO COLLUSION — and even if there was, it ain’t illegal. (just ask Putin–your Russian to judgment)
FAKE NEWS — any news not viewed through the fair and balanced lens of Fox News. (not to crow, but the allegory here is a piece of cake):
CHOKED LIKE A DOG —in other words, a loser. (spoken like a man who’s the only President never to have owned a dog since McKinley)
BELIEVE ME — would I lie? (like a sleeping dog, Donald–like a sleeping dog)
July 3 is both STAY OUT OF THE SUN DAY and the official start of the DOG DAYS OF SUMMER, the period (July 3-August 11) during which Sirius, the Dog Star, rises at the same time as our star, the sun. The Dog Star, for your information and mine, was so named for its prominence in the constellation cluster Canis Major, which was in turn named for its prominence in the constipation buster* Cannabis Maximus.
The point is, this is one smokin’ hot season, when (assuming you’re not a mad dog or Englishman) you’d best stay indoors all day with an ice chest full of cold ones within reach, and drink to mistermuse’s posts. What could be cooler than that?
Friends, by staying inside, I’m not prescribing letting yourself go to pot, but the clime this time of year in the Northern Hemp-isphere isn’t fit for a dog (mad or not). It’s simply….
How hot is it? Today I saw two birds using potholders to pull worms out of the ground…. not only that, but after the birds swallowed their prey, I could swear I saw steam coming out of their rears….er, ears. Talk about being madder than a birddog in heat–those birds were so steamed, the eggs they laid were hardboiled.
Speaking of laying an egg, all booed things must come to an end; however, for those fans who think my yolks weren’t so hot, I leave you with these:
