Betsy Devine: Funny ha-ha and/or funny peculiar

Dateline: Washington, November 17, 2023

The President was having a tiring day. Washington was in the throes of another blackout, and despite the White House’s massive bank of emergency backup generators, the air conditioners in the nursery wing were no longer working. Ten of the fifteen presidential children, with their nannies, their personal aides, and their drama coaches, were milling about the Oval Office.

President Jenna Bush gave a sigh of frustration. “Even in Texas we didn’t need air conditioning in November,” she complained to Vice President Cheney.

“Global Climate Improvement,” said a computerized voice from the massive respirator where Cheney lived these days.

“Global warming,” said Bush a bit crossly, as a toy bazooka bullet bounced off her ankle.

“Global Climate Improvement,” said Cheney’s computer, a bit more forcefully. Rumor had it that the computer itself now handled most Cheney responses.

“Whatever,” sighed the President. “Look, you said you wanted to see me. You asked me to cut short my six-month summer vacation. I had to cancel two golf games and a massage. You guys are supposed to take care of that government stuff.”

“Of course we do.” The computer’s voice was soothing. From speakers around the Oval Office came soothing music, a pop orchestration of Jewel’s Hands song. A light spritz of vanilla and cinnamon from vents in the floor masked the odor of airborne tranquilizer. A hush descended on the president’s children, and several curled up on the carpet to take a nap.

“I don’t want to waste a whole hour in this dump,” said Bush with a yawn.

The rest of the story…

Anti-Bush protesters are now relegated to what are euphemistically called Free Speech Zones. These areas are cordoned off as far as a mile away from the president and the main thoroughfares, so that Bush cannot see the demonstrators, or their signs of protest, nor hear their chants.

The free speech enclosures are only for those who disagree with the administration’s current policies. Those citizens who carry pro-Bush signs are allowed to line the street where the president’s motorcade passes.

Charles Levendosky of the Casper (Wyo.) Star-Tribune

After due consideration, I have decided to accept David Weinberger’s nomination as Howard Dean’s running mate.

Since JOHO mentions only two of my qualifications, let me add a few more ways I could help Dean win:

• By running a daily Feedster search on karl+rove,* I can help Dean keep track of what Bush’s brain is up to.
• My NH roots should help with that vital primary.
• Dean will look tall standing next to me for photos.

If elected, I pledge to keep blogging and trying to make people laugh. This will keep me out of a lot of trouble Dick Cheney seems to have gotten himself into.

Many thanks to David for bringing this unusual job opportunity to my attention!

* Funny story I just found via Counterspin Central: Conservative students try to pass themselves off as disgruntled Democrats attacking Dean.

Feedster search on shawl

Elaine

PHP for Dummies now sits on my bedside table–but it’s way too shocking for any late night reading.

Coming to PHP from the genteel, dignified world of C++ and Java is like walking into a room and discovering–Mrs. Robinson! What are you doing?

In Java, defining a variable is something that happens only after long, dignified courtship. Not even porcupines mating are so careful. The imports, the classes, the public static void main (String args [] )–and then finally, after many a bouquet of roses, you’re ready to beg the favor of, please–let me define a variable or two.

Then you have to spell out what you want, to Java’s complete satisfaction:

int number1 = 1;
String dontSayNo = “please”;
String beggingYouNotToSayNo [] = {”pretty”, “pretty”, “please?”};

Wooo–PHP doesn’t care about stuff like that:

$one_variable = 5;
$another_variable = -2.55;
$yet_another_variable = “Just show me that dollar sign, I’m there!”;

OK, that was my shock yesterday–this is today. Today I told Scott Johnson, who’s teaching me this stuff, “Mrs. Robinson just took off her skin and showed me her skeleton–I’m declaring arrays!”

In Java or C++, you have to set aside all the space you need before you start filling arrays. But PHP has that same “Hey–why not?” attitude. You can start an array, throw a couple of elements in it, and then decide later you want to add several more.

What a whole new world of freedom–it’s like being able to say, “Mom, I’m bringing a friend for dinner…” Then you show up with 7 friends, a puppy, plus (Scott adds) a parakeet and a goldfish–and Mom says, “Hey, no problem, who ever runs out of spaghetti?”

When I grow up, I want to be PHP!

THE sun descending in the west,
The evening star does shine;
The birds are silent in their nest.
And I must seek for mine.
The moon, like a flower
In heaven’s high bower,
With silent delight
Sits and smiles on the night.

from “Night,” William Blake. (1757–1827)

“Okay, let’s see… In mellow-speak, that would be… ‘Oh, wow, look at the moon.'”

“Doonesbury” translation of the above, May 16, 1979.

In the two years plus since my mom died of cancer, I’ve been haunted by
dreams where I struggled in vain to save her. Sometimes she was sick,
and I had to wade through rivers, searching for medicine I couldn’t
find. Sometimes she was lost, and calling me on the phone, again and
again, asking me why I didn’t come rescue her. Sometimes–but, never
mind, I’m sure you get it.

Then one night, in one dream, I knew–she had died. Half knowing that I was dreaming, I looked for her
anyway–and my dream let me find her, looking as if she were sleeping.
I woke up still feeling so happy, and so sad.

I want to be free of remembering my mother as if her whole being was
wrapped in the sickness that killed her. I want to remember the many
trips she and I and my daughters took together.  I want to remember her rooting up weeds in the garden and
lobbing sticks for her dogs–Hilde, Annie, then Puppy. I want to remember her pleasure when I was
a kid over every poem or picture  I made for her. I want to
remember her sure knowledge, long ago, of everything that I wanted to know for myself–for example, how to hold a puppy so
that it feels safe in your arms.

So it seems that my mother is no longer dying–not even in my dreams. I
look forward to spending some dream-time, maybe even having some
dream-time fights, with the hundreds of other mothers I remember.

Wait, let me get my breath here–it’s Ahnuld and Tricky Dick–no, wait, damn, I’m trying to type here. Sorry, I have to go peek at it again.

Thanks for the link, Pen-Elayne! Whew, okay Betsy, stop laughing now and get yourself back to work!

Remember a billion years ago–maybe last month–when critics of Bush kept protesting, over and over, we didn’t hate US soldiers or love Saddam? It’s funny how dodging those negative cliches gives more power–not less–to people who want to hurt people just like us.

Am I getting in touch with my own inner “Dainty Lady“? Ewww, I hope not. I don’t want to be suddenly scared of mice. I’m a billion times more scared of being perceived like that than I would be if 25 mice climbed up over my sneakers.

But you know what? I don’t have a magical business card that proclaims “Don’t judge Betsy Devine by whatever ugly cliches you believe about women in general.” I suppose I could print up some business cards like that, but…

(And you too–yes, you men as well as you women–if I had a magical business card franchise going, what would you buy? “I’m NOT too old!” No? Then maybe “I’m NOT too young”–“too big”– “too male”–“too lonely.” Guys, if I had those magical business cards, I’d give you all plenty, for free.)

The “Dainty Lady” made me laugh with her pretense of superiority. But there isn’t a woman on the planet who couldn’t be caricatured as a “Dainty Lady” by some man or woman she dared to criticize. (A man criticizing the same person would be some other cliche, but not a Dainty Lady.)

So my point–and I do have one–is this: When people like you are accused of being just too darn “bleeargingledly”, figure out which side you’re really on.

Your instinctive response might be, “But I’m not bleeargingledly at all–they might be bleeargingledly, but not me!”

A far better response is “What are you trying to prove by calling a lot of my friends bleeargingledly?”

It’s a lovely eleven morning
I heard eleven worms yawning (yawn)
I saw eleven cows sleeping ‘midst the buttercups
I said, How’s the cottage cheese?
And they said, Oh, dry up!
Oh!

Eleven little birdies in the trees
Bright yellow beaks and pinky knees
Eleven chicks hatching
Eleven cats scratching
Eleven’s the number for me

Eleven ducklings quacking
(quack-quack-quack)
Eleven pigs, lips smacking
One two three four five six
Seven eight nine ten eleven
Eleven’s the number for me
Don’t you see?
Eleven’s the number for me!

(Then the cartoon shepherdess tumbles into a pigpen.)

Sesame Street song, circa 1980.

This morning I heard myself humming “It’s a Lovely Eleven Morning.”

Good grief–why *that* song?

The Sesame-Street cartoon featured a shepherdess a la Marie Antoinette–long-gowned, wasp-waisted, and swoony–you laugh when she ends up by tumbling into a pigpen.

She moved and talked and sang like the kind of woman no tomboy wants to grow up to be. I used to make my friends laugh and roll on the grass with my scabby-kneed imitation of a fictional woman I called “The Dainty Lady.”

“A mouse, eeee! Oh, teddible, teddible. Oh Jeeves, help me climb up on this antique table. Oh Jeeves, bring me my smelling salts–no, not those, the ones in the silver bottle…..”

When my daughter Mickey first heard the Eleven song, she turned from the TV and said, “Look, Mummy, she acts like the Dainty Lady.”

So, for the record, I’m not a Dainty Lady. I might be singing her song, but she’s not me. I’ve rarely been stopped by scary or dirty or hard from going the hundreds of places I wanted to go.

Today, I feel like singing her silly song.

And if I fall into a pigpen, feel free to laugh, because I will.