The Religiously Ignorant Fruit Basket

The banana bent over and pleaded the pear for a little more space.  During shipment, the banana had become wedged between the pear and an apple and it could no longer feel it’s stem. 

‘Excuse me, madam”, the banana gently urged.  “Might you be kind enough to scrunch over just a tad?” 

The pear tightened her face and boldly wiggled her hips forward to create more space.  “I’m sorry sir”, she anxiously replied.  “It’s just that I have been cursed with this damned pear shape my entire life.”

The plum grunted and juicingly grinned from the back of the basket. “Curse?  More like a blessing in my book!  There hasn’t been a single supermodel that has begged her trainer for a more curvaceous plum shape.”  

Banana unpeeled his eyes from the bickering fruity divas and peered out the cold, frosted window. He wondered aloud where their end destination could be.  “You fruits have any idea where we are heading?” he asked.

“Not a clue, but given that it is early in December, I assume we are headed somewhere Jewish.” The grape whined.  “No way in heck we’d last until Christmas.”

The peach turned glum.  “I can’t go somewhere Jewish.  I’m tropical!  And there’s no way I’m kosher.” 

“I don’t think that matters” replied the banana.  “I think Jewish folks can eat whatever they want.  I’m pretty sure the whole kosher thing only applies to salted meats.”

There was a gasp from the wrapped salami that was hiding at the bottom. 

“No, salami!  I’m sure you are safe.  There’s no way any self-respecting Jewish man or woman would ever waste their time on you.”

The banana forced itself into trying to sound convincing.

“Well, if we are not headed somewhere Jewish, maybe we are bound for a Catholic baptism?” the apple exclaimed in a hopeful, saucy tone.

There was a low, lamenting moan produced from the produce.  “Not this again!” the banana wallowed.  “What is it with you and your incessant need to get eaten by a Catholic person?”

The apple blushed.  “I don’t know.  I hear they circumscribe.” 

“Don’t you mean circumcise?” pined the apple. 

“What?  No.  Circumscribe.  Circumscribe!”

The banana shrugged.  “I think you are both confused.”  They were clearly plum crazy.

The grape looked a little sour and stared into the distance.  “What if we are headed to a Mormon household?”

Pineapple had heard enough and chimed “I am pretty sure Mormons only eat carrots, Jello and fake potatoes smothered in cheese. Fruits are forbidden.”

“I hear they can’t even pierce their navels” tarted the orange.   “And grape, you better pray that it takes a long time.  If we are headed to a Muslim mosque, they can only eat fresh grapes.  Raisins are a huge no-no.”

Salami was once again heard from the bottom of the basket.  “What about salted meats?  Can Muslims eat salted meats? “

Banana split the answer into two.  “Mormons no.  Muslims, yes.”

Salami prayed for the Mormons.

Just as the basket was about to rock with worry, the delivery van pulled into the parking lot of a Kingdom Hall of the Jehovah’s Witnesses.

“What is this place?” the pineapple asked.

The banana froze as a man lifted them from the back.  He whispered to the others, “I don’t know, but I’m a little concerned by the lack of windows in that place.  It is no place for a fruit to spoil.”

My apologies for the lack of posts lately.  Hopefully this semi-offendable post will make up for it.  I also apologize that I have not been around to visit your blogs.  I will shortly.


Finally, I rarely if ever do any blog pimping, but I have a friend that is just getting into it and could use some love.  Check out Silk Road here.

Jimmy and the Magic Stick - A True Story, Part II: Jimmy's Shoe. Episode 2: Magic Beyond the Clouds and into the Rainbows.

"A MAGIC SHTICK, A MAGIC SHTICK!"  Jimmy screeched as Mr. Y walked out the first grade doors and onto the playground.

"Another one?  Haven't we gone through this?  I thought we determined that our school's magic sticks were broken?"  Jimmy's teacher was adamant that this charade stop.

Jimmy was determined to prove his magical powers. "But Mr. Y, this one worch.  It really worch!"

Mr. Y decided to give him a chance.  "Alright Jimmy.  Let's see what you've got."

Jimmy looked around frantically, searching for something he could make disappear.  Finally, he stared at his feet.

"Mr. Y., I am going to make my shoe disappear.  MY SHOE!"

"Now you've got my interest, Jimmy.  Let's see it."

Jimmy took his new and improved magic stick and swung it around his head like an monkey that has just been given 32 ounces of Rock Star.

"BIBBIDY, BOBBIDY, BOO!"

Jimmy then kicked his shoe high in the air - across the swing set and over the climbing bubble.

"SHEE MR. Y!  MY SHOE.  DISAPPEARED!"

Mr. Y laughed a hearty teacher laugh and then replied, "Jimmy, I don't think so.  I can see your shoe right over there."

Jimmy looked confused and looked around as if he had no idea what happened to his shoe.  "Whatcha mean, Mr. Y?  I made it disappear.  A MAGIC SHTICK!"

"I can see your shoe, right there." Mr. Y said as he pointed at the shoe that was lying helplessly in the grass.

Jimmy's eyes finally found his kicked shoe.  Suddenly a look of amazement and bewilderment spread over his face. 

"MISTER Y!  YOU ARE MAGICAL.  YOU MADE MY SHOE... REAPPEAR!"

Ah, Jimmy.

Jimmy and the Magic Stick - A True Story, Part I: The beginning. Episode 1 - Magic in the Clouds

Not Jimmy. I googled "boy with stick"

Once upon a time (in the year 2007), there was a First Grade teacher and a very strange boy named Jimmy. Jimmy liked to follow the teacher around at recess and tell him bizzarities like, "I renamed our dog Ranger because he was always angry, so I just added an R."

His teacher responded, "Shouldn't that make him Rangry?"

He laughed, "Rangry?  That's not even a word, Mr. Y!"

One day Mr. Y had recess duty and as always, Jimmy trailed him around the playground like a childlike, sloppy Ryan Seacrest - only slightly taller.  This time, Jimmy had found something.  Something fantastic.

"MR. Y!  MR Y!  I FOUND A MAGIC SCHTICK.  A MAGIC SCTICK!"

Jimmy had a slight speech impediment.

"A magic stick, eh?", Mr. Y replied.  "I haven't seen one of those in ages."

Jimmy could hardly contain his excitement.  "I know, Mr. Y!  And it was just lying over there under that twee!"

"That is quite a coincidence, Jimmy because that is where you were just a few seconds ago."

"I know.  Wanna see what it can do?" asked Jimmy, waving his the stick around like a conductor trying to conduct his orchestra to an ACDC tune.

Mr. Y was intrigued.  "Yeah, let's see what that bad boy can do."

Jimmy held the stick high above his head and spoke loudly for the gathering audience of peers to hear.  "SEE THAT CLOUD OVER THERE?  I WILL MAKE IT DISAPPEAR."

The 7-year-old audience gasped in disbelief.

"BIBBIDY BOBBIDY BOO!" Jimmy squealed as he pointed the stick at the lone cloud on the horizon.

Mr. Y stared at the the mid morning sky and chuckled.  "Uh, Jimmy.  I think your stick is broken.  That cloud is still there."

"Oh, did I shay THAT cloud, Mishter Y?  I meant that cloud over there."

The audience turned to the spot in the sky that led from Jimmy's pointed finger.

"There's nothing over there, Jimmy.  There's not a cloud in site."  Mr. Y was stated disappointingly.

"YEAH, MISHTER Y!  That's because I made it disappear!"

Mr. Y was not amused. "Jimmy, there wasn't a cloud over there to begin with."

"Well, there were clouds there yesterday.  A MAGIC SHTICK!  IT REALLY WORKS. A MAGIC STICK!!!"

Ah, Jimmy. 

Tomorrow: Jimmy and the Magic Stick - A True Story, Part II: Jimmy's Shoe. Episode 2: Magic Beyond the Clouds and in Rainbows.

Saturday Graph: Things that may offend you on Facebook - by Cheeseboy

A week in Cheeseboy Facebook status updates. (And Song of the Day.)

I put a lot of time and effort into my facebook status updates.  Nothing makes me happier and more fulfilled than a well crafted update.  The only things that I can think of that comes close are the births of my children and maybe the time I appeared in a major local television commercial at the age of 12.  Anyway, here are my last ten updates:


1. I have total and complete respect for Vegans. What I don't have respect for are cows and that is why I eat them.

2. Let it be known that on this, the 17th day of November, in the year of our Lord 2010; with my two boys screaming at each other in the back seat of my car at the top of their lungs, that I, Abe, threatened to convert the entire family to Jehovah's Witnesses and that I would be notifying Santa of our conversion via text message.

 

3. Grateful for grateful facebook status updates that inform me of what you are grateful for. Especially if that thing you are grateful for is me and my awesomeness.

 

4. If they really wanted to sell more Diaper Genies, they would make it so every time you opened it, Robin William's voice would yell, "GOOOOOD MORNING POOP BOMB!"

 

5. If I were the cab driver that picked up the losers that were fired on The Apprentice, I would totally rub it in their faces. Not because they lost, but because they were on 'The Apprentice'. And if they tried to make fun of me for being a cab driver, I'd tell them that I am actually a millionaire that owns a cab comp...any and I am on an episode of 'Undercover Boss'.

 

6. If the Nazis really wanted to get Indiana Jones to talk, they would have had him teach first graders on an "inside recess" day.

 

7. As a guy first grade teacher this year, I don't know how many times I have wondered if I could strangle myself with those darned silly bandz!

 

8. I swear that the old lady that gave me my voting card today is the same one that gives me free toothpicked sausage at Costco on Saturdays. I know this because she was wearing plastic gloves, smelled of Kilbasa and glared angrily at my starving children.

 

I'd also like to reboot an old Blog O' Cheese feature: the Song of the Day.  Today's song comes from a little band I have taken a liking to from Brooklyn.  They are known as "The National" and the song is called "Bloodbuzz, Ohio".  I can promise you this: listen to this song while running and you will run an average of 4-5 MPH faster. 

 

An Open Letter from the Glee Club Jazz Band members to Will Schuester.

Dear Mr. Schuester,

As Glee Club Band Leader, I have been nominated by the rest of the band to write you a brief letter of concern to outline our feelings of discontent.  I have chosen this method of communication due to your insane and unjust rule that Glee Club band members are NOT allowed to speak or use their voice in any way when in the presence of the all-holy, singing Glee Club members.

First, we do not appreciate our pathetically anonymous contributions to your little club.  Do you have any idea what we go through as Glee Club band members?  The regular Glee Clubbers get slushies thrown in their faces. Slushies?  We'd kill for slushies! Last week I came home and my mom asked me if I had been looking for my trumpet in the Humane Society's dumpster again.

Secondly, we would like to address the issue of music selection.  Look, we realize we are amazing musicians, but we can not continue to be expected to be able to play any musical number in the history of mankind on a second's notice.  You do realize that it takes some time to actually practice and learn the music, don't you?  Maybe your "gifted" 28-year-old-high school students with chiseled bodies can learn a song in 20 seconds, but we actually need to see the sheet music.

Our third concern is the perpetual habit that you have of yelling "HIT IT" and expecting us to simply know what song it is that you want us to play.  Although Chang swears that he can read minds and that's why he is such a great percussionist. Most of us in the band do NOT have this superhuman ability. 

Fourthly, we are tired of Quinn taking over the drum set.  Just because he is the starting quarterback does NOT mean he can just commandeer our drums.  We have a classically trained drummer.  His name is Chang. Chang tells us that Quinn thinks he runs the place.

Fifth: The above goes for the kid in the wheelchair and his desire wheel over and play Jamie's Gibson guitar whenever he feels like it.

Finally, we as a band would appreciate a little credit now and again.  Do you realize we had to learn every single Britney Spears song in a single week along with FIVE Journey songs?  And the very next week we had to learn how to "mash up" Neil Diamond's Cracklin' Rose and Coolio's Gangster's Paradise!  We bust our butts and what do we get in return?  Not even a nod of approval. 

Thank you, Mr. S. We look forward to working with you under new, improved conditions.  We also look forward to soon making out with Rachel and Mercedes.  We know that you can make this possible.

The Glee Club Band

PS: Just as an FYI, Mr. S: We as a band think that it is a very, very BAD idea for your female students to be meeting you alone at your house to talk about their "feelings".  We are actually a little surprised you are still employed as a teacher.

Waldo shares his vacation pictures.

The following scene takes place at Waldo's home, where he has invited some close friends over to see a slide show of his year's travels.

Waldo: Ah yes, here I am at the bottom of the Eiffel Tower.  What a lovely day that was.

Kenny: Now where are you Waldo?

Waldo: I am in the left hand corner.  I am wearing the same red and white striped shirt I wear on all my vacations.

Beatrice: Hold on, I don't see you.  I'm looking in the left hand corner.

Kenny: Oh, I can see you now, Waldo.  It helps if you squint a little, Beatrice. 

Waldo: Okay. Let's just move on, shall we?  [flick] Now here I am at the St. Louis Arch.  As you can see, I was exhausted at this point from hiking up all those stairs.

Rick: Are you the one at the top there, Wally?  Right behind that man wheeling those chickens in a crate?

Waldo: NO, NO!  I'm right there!  Dead in the middle.  I'm wearing that dopey hat and that striped shirt and hat again.  We go through this every year, folks!   I wear that bright, tacky stuff on vacation SO YOU CAN SPOT ME IN THE PHOTOS! 

Rick: Well Wally-boy, I tell you, it's just not working.  I can't see a danged thing. 

Kenny: I told you Rick, it helps if you squint a bit.  Make yourself go all cross-eyed and goofy. 

Beatrice: I think you are thinking of those 3D books, Kenny.  Waldo, you aren't in those 3D books are you?

Waldo: FOR THE LOVE OF PETE!  Will you all please just look a little closer? I'm in all these pictures for crying out loud!  Let's move on...

Beatrice: Yeah Waldo, the thing is, I really should get going.  I have a sitter waiting and all.

Waldo: But I've only shown two pictures!  Here, take a look at this one. [flip] Here I am on a serene lake in the mountains of Wyoming.

Kenny: Seriously Wally, why are there all those people there? I didn't know there were that many people in Wyoming. And where are you?

Waldo: I don't know!  It seems like no matter where I go, there are always thousands of people.  It's like they are following me or something. 

Randy: Yeah, I really need to get going too.  What with traffic and all.

Waldo: What traffic?  It's 8:30 at night.

Randy: Yeah... well, I think they announced some bridge construction last night.  I'll see you later Waldo.

Kenny: Me too. The bars aren't open all night, you know.  Later Wally.

Beatrice: My sitter just texted me.  She said I am needed right away.  Something about the diaper genie getting stuck in the disposal. Great pics, Wally.  I'll see you at work.

Waldo: Yeah guys.  Thanks for coming.  Same time next year?  Guys?  Guys...

[Door slams]

If I were these famous people...

If I were Neil Diamond I'd go get free samples from Costco and when the old ladies told me what aisle the food was on, I'd look at them in disappointment and say, "Do you even know who I am?"

If I were Britney Spears, I'd ask Justin Beiber over.  We'd shave our heads, have him get a butterfly tattoo on his lower back and force him to watch his own music videos. (*This may or may not have already actually happened.)

If I were Oprah, I'd get those strange lines on my cheeks fixed.

If I were Matt Damon, I would make a public statement that I am in fact NOT Abe and that any resemblance is purely coincidental.

If I were Snooki, I'd try out for the part of DJ Lance's wife on Yo Gabba Gabba.

If I were DJ Lance, I'd start wearing a different color jumpsuit.

An open letter to my beloved followers that still remain...

Dearest followers and wannabes,

I am in the midst of a very busy time.  Not only do I have parent teacher conferences, but I am also in the process of getting my idea for waterless Bobbing for Apples game patented.

It's a long and winding road, but if I am to get this waterless idea off the ground and onto Target's shelves, I can finally rent that cabana boy and his giant, cooling leafs from the isles of Cabana.

What I am trying to say is PLEASE DON'T UNFOLLOW ME!  I've lost 4 followers in 12 hours! Most likely because they realized I was a complete moron, which is undoubtedly true.

I promise I'll be back on Friday with a post of hilarity, or at the very least, a post worthy of a small, gruntlike chuckle.

With love and big ups,

Abe

PS: While you are awaiting a new post, please enjoy this photo of a small elephant chained to the back of a public toilet.

Saturday Graph: Questions I'd want answered if I were selecting a cruise ship for our next vacation.

Next year's ADORABLE response to being "ghosted".

I don't know if they do this in other states, but in Utah, a horrible tradition has begun in October called "ghosting".  Essentially, you make baked goods and anonymously put them on your neighbor's doorsteps.

Next year, before I receive one of the following cutesy letters with a load of mystery brownies on my doorstep:

I'm putting this signs on my door:

FYI to "Ghosters":

If you leave your sweet smelling snacks

You should probably also leave a garbage sack

It's not that I want to be rude 

It's just I don't eat mystery food!

Your kitchen might be coated with buckets of cat urine

And the milk you used might be as old as Martin Van Buren

And maybe you are a famous chef and you like to bake

But that is a risk I would NOT like to take!

Perhaps if you told me who you are, I would eat

Or maybe I'd be puking through the hole in our toilet seat

Not only will you leave worthless food at my door

But now you have given me a crappy chore

Now I have to leave someone my mystery cake

That will likely give a fool a belly ache

Yes, I know I'm going to hell.

But unless it's store-bought, it's going in the pail.

Adorable, right?

It's a world of laughter, a world of tears... the tears of a parent riding this ride.

The following is a transcript from a 1963 Disney meeting. Walt Disney  is speaking to his ride designers.


Here's what I have in mind boys...

We're going to need plastic people.  LOTS OF PLASTIC PEOPLE! I mean, a brigade of plastic people.  A plethora of plastic.  But they can't be normal sized people.  And not even midget sized people.  I'm talkin' smaller than a midget, but bigger than a doll, or around that size.  If you've gotten to midget size, you've gone too big!  If you are at the size of a Barbie, you're way too small. It's as simple as that.

And boys, these plastic people, they need to move.  There needs to be some that can move just their arms.  We'll call these the "arm benders".  And there needs to be some that kick their legs.  We'll call them the "leg kickers".  And some need to spin around in circles.  We'll call these the "revolving revelers".  

Now boys, this new ride, it's going to need a song.  A song so vexing that it will not leave your brain for hours or even days.  It needs to be something that the kids will shout all the way home from the back seats of their dad's Chevy. 

The annoyance level of this song will be our little joke, fellas. Please, do not let those rags out there get a load of this.  It's an inside joke and we don't want the press on our insides.

Here's the thing boys: I need you to make these plastic people SING THIS ANNOYING SONG!  The song needs a driving, repeating chorus that is easy to remember and is like a nail of harmony being pounded into your head.  The little plastic people need to sing this song.  It should probably be a song about love; a song about love that you love to hate. 

All these plastic people, they need jobs.  For instance, the kickers could dance and the arm benders can bang drums.  They are going to need costumes.  Costumes from around the world! But they'll have to be doll sized costumes because adult sizes are just not going to fit them.  We can bring some midgets in to do the sizing.  Or wait, maybe some toddler midgets.

JILL, CAN YOU GET THAT TODDLER MIDGET MEASUREMENT AGENCY ON THE PHONE?  YOU KNOW THE ONE WITH THE TINY HAND HOLDING THE MIDGET HAND IN THE LOGO.  PRONTO!

Okay fellas, back to work.  Now this ride, I want it to be as slow moving as possible.  I want these parents to have to endure every last ounce of this horrific song.  I want it to be boats... yes, boats that move so slowly you could walk faster than they are moving.  These boats need to have tiny benches and hard seat backs.  WE'RE GOING TO MAKE THIS THING UNBEARABLE FOR THOSE PARENTS!

Finally boys, these uncomfortable, slow boats need to float straight through these singing plastic people.  It would be nice if you could make these boats occasionally bump into each other, but that is not really required.  But I do want these boats to go through those plastic, singing midget toddlers.  You boys need to make that happen. 

Alright boys, you have your orders.  Lets get to work.  I want this thing done by the 1964 World Fair.  I want to see the pain on those parent's faces as they get off the wretched thing.  I want to see how long we can make this torture chamber of a ride last.  Think of it as a social experiment of sorts.  I mean, how long will put up with such a ride?  2 years?  5, max?

Alright, that is all.  Now get to work.  By the way, I have decided to start calling you all "Imagineers".  It's cute.  Get used to it.  GET TO WORK!