Dear Aunt Sassy

 

by Glen L. Bledsoe 

Dear Aunt Sassy, There is a man who I am madly in love with, but he pays no attention to me. He drools over a red-head at lunch who doesn't care about him in the least. How do I get him to notice me?

Frustrated

Dear Frustrated, If he ain't paying attention and you're sending signals, then leave a tack on his chair. Keep doing that and he'll try to figure out who is doing it. If you get caught just give him, you now, The Look. He'll get the idea. Moral: the way to a man's heart is through the seat of his pants.

AS

The Mystery of Dorothy Schmidt Solved?

 

by Glen L. Bledsoe 

You may remember during the mid-1980's the mysterious disappearance of soap opera star Dorothy Schmidt, thought at first to be a publicity stunt. When several weeks passed with no sign of the actress police began to take her case seriously. Further investigations revealed several reliable witnesses including her co-star Buddy Frank who said Dorothy had been abducted by Little Green Men who offered them potato pancakes in exchange for Ms. Schmidt who at the time was apparently paralyzed by a beam of purple light. The police dismissed the story as a hoax until just last month astronomers studying Betelgeuse received a radio signal which decoded into the image accompanying this report.

The image does bear something of a resemblance to the TV star. Speculation as to its meaning varies from she's being honored with an award in her likeness to she's been turned into an inanimate statue of uncertain materials. Whichever the case it appears that the Betelgeusians wanted us to know.

Hand Lotion

 

by Glen L. Bledsoe 

"I don't suppose nobody has got any hand lotion around here, Frank said with an impatient look on his face. "My hands are as raw as raw rawhide."

Becky Johnson who had been trying to cozy up to Frank for years said, "Why don't you help yourself to some of Buster Hand Creme right behind you?"

"I'm not smelling like no pansy florist shop," Frank retorted. "Just because the Sheriff smells like a lady's hanky doesn't mean I want to."

"Oh no, Frank," Becky said batting her eyes at him. "This lotion will make your hands smell like leather. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Leather?" Frank said in surprise. "Why don't you squirt me a handful in my palm? I'd like to give it a try."

The Mick Award

 by Glen L. Bledsoe 

Each year an award ceremony is held in a private club where reporters are never invited and the invitees hail from an exclusive group of musicians who have been on a first name basis for decades. The purpose of the meeting is to determine who must "host" the dreaded life-sized Mick award and hang the Mick plaque on their wall for an entire year. The group is small enough (and getting smaller year by year) that the odds of having to house the monstrosity grows ever greater. The method for determining who is bound to provide shelter for the excrescence has never been revealed to the public. Insiders only suggest "you don't want to know." I guess the people don't get no satisfaction.