The Doctor’s Secret Waiting Room

A visit to the doctor’s office is always a bit frightening. Even if you are just going in for a checkup, you have that twinge that perhaps they will find something terribly wrong with you.
After a checkup a few years ago, when my doctor phoned me at home that night, just hearing his voice aged me four years. He told me my blood sugar was 499, which, if you know about such things, means that I was walking around in a coma. (Yesterday it was 99, thank you.)
The doctor’s waiting room ought to be divided into hermetically sealed sections: one for disease-ridden patients who are flaking off germs and other living organisms which will attach themselves to your otherwise healthy self; and one for me: The Tim Nicholas Waiting Room, sprayed down with Clorox, Pledge, and Raid.
I don’t mind waiting an hour past the appointment time, contractually locked in by me and the receptionist months ago. In fact, I can understand the idea of overbooking.
But I do believe that the doctors and staff get together, pick at least one hapless patient each day, ignore him or her completely, and bet $10 on low long it takes for the patient to complain.
When I finally get the invitation to “come on back” by the nurse, I falter again. The nurse asked me to be weighed. Of course, you know that each of my shoes weighs at least three pounds.
The stuff in my trouser pockets is another four pounds. Add that to the three or four pounds the rest of my clothes weight and I’m doing pretty good.
My bathroom scales are even better. Just after my shower, my scales apparently weigh me about eight pounds under my doctor’s office adjusted weight. I’ll sell them to you for $300.
Back at the doctor’s office, the nurse lately has been adding to the insult by checking on my height. Why do you think she does that to a full-grown man?
Now that I’ve reached a ”certain age,” apparently my bones have begun to settle, and I am now getting shorter. At my current rate of shrinkage, I will be three feet tall in two years.
Then she sends me into yet another room to wait. This is the room they should have put me in first. There are rubber gloves to play with, a defibrillator to disassemble, and time to restock my home first aid kit.
Plus, it’s fun checking out the needle container and licking all the tongue depressors. By the way, what goes through your mind when you think of running your tongue along a tongue depressor or popsicle stick? Goose bumps? Worse?
The examining room also has those full color pictures of a detailed part of the human anatomy. I’ve often wondered if they put you in the room that has a picture of what they think is your real medical problem in case the doctor must verify where those parts are.
My deepest belief if that someday, I’ll be put into that special secret examining room, the one with the plasma screen cable TV, free snack bar, and massage.
They tell me I’m on the waiting list for it. They said they’ll call me when it’s time. They even have table games, like Operation.
The other thing I have wondered about was what is on my chart. I’m sad to say I finally sneaked a look. It consisted of a single page with only a few words. The message was, “Gold mine! Tim’s parts are wearing out on a regular basis, so be creative.”

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The Super Supremes

The only people in America who have permanent, no-take back jobs, are members of the Supreme Court. (And those guys who are always eating in their car at Sonic.) That basically means that they can do just about anything they wish because no one can retract their work. They decide something, even if only with a 5 to 4 decision and, like Captain Picard, say, “Make it so.”
Some are champing for a larger court. I generally agree. My idea comes from Pizza Hut. Remember when they came out with their Supreme pizza? It should have had more stuff on it than any regular pizza. But, no, there were spaces on the pizza that were just cheese, or even just bread. Not acceptable to me.
Then they came out with the Super Supreme pizza. That one was supposed to be even more loaded with stuff. Try one. It is a pretty good pizza, and one of my faves, but you can see many places with no stuff. And they don’t always put stuff back near the edges. Can you already see where I am going with this?
American law is often decided by a single vote on the Supreme Court. I believe that is not a reasonable result. My offering is that the Supreme Court needs to operate like a criminal trial jury. It only takes one juror to hang it. And either the defendant is let go or gets another trial. Only Oregon does not require unanimity for most felonies. But it does for first degree murder.
Therefore, I propose a Super Supreme Court. I do not care how it is convened. But here is a possibility: Any Supreme Court decision which is not unanimous must go to the Super Supreme Court, made up of, perhaps, the justices of all the U.S. District courts. We have 94 of them. And if they do not render a supermajority vote (such as 75 percent), the case is dismissed and the previous court’s decision stands.
While we are at it, changing names of things, I have some suggestions. That musical trio that included Diana Ross had a pretty good name. They were Supremes. Most groups’ names of that generation were whimsical, but I do not recall others that told us how good they thought they were. I think I would have even listened to a group called the “Pretty Goods.” And, I’ll admit, the Supremes would have been great no matter the name.
How about other descriptors that might be over the top? Super models, for instance. Yeah, they are skinny and get lots of money, but Super? A better moniker would be Overpaid Models. Not Super. They can’t even fly.
And how about those people who are bosses of drug sellers? Drug Lords? Somehow calling them Lords also seems too much. How about Purveyors of Misery?
One thing I will never buy is anything called “designer.” Designer jeans, for instance, cost a lot more than undesigned jeans. But aren’t all clothing items designed by someone? Let’s call that stuff “Jacked-Up-Price Jeans.”
Also, be careful of European cut shirts. Americans won’t fit.
Then, we come to the term Trophy Wife. I have conflicting ideas about that one. Probably there are guys who marry extremely young, beautiful women because of the money the women hope to get someday soon. In my heart of hearts I believe that I won first prize when I married my wife. But I wouldn’t call her a trophy, I just call her honey.
And I’d make Pizza Hut change that “super” pizza’s name to Just Pretty Good Pizza.

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Fresh and minty

I don’t have complaints about everything, just stuff that the manufacturers decide not to produce after I’ve been hooked on it.
When I was a kid, mom found an instant coffee by Maxwell House that tasted like it was fresh brewed. Mom bought several jars and we enjoyed the heck out of it. Suddenly, it disappeared from the shelves. We were told that companies sometimes test market new products. Apparently, not enough people gave it a thumbs up. But they didn’t ask us!
Forward to 2015. I noticed that my favorite toothpaste was getting harder to find. That flavor was Crest citrus splash. (Note the foreshadowing with the word “was.”)
Yes, Crest had decided to discontinue my raison d’brush. I looked it up on the internet and discovered that a number of forward-thinking souls had grabbed large quantities of citrus splash and hiked the price. The 6.2-ounce tube was running about $8 on the re-selling sites.
I wrote Procter & Gamble, the maker of Crest toothpaste. They wrote back saying that they appreciate my opinion and would take it into consideration. They had already killed off the lemon ice flavor before I had ever heard of that one. What were the chances of a return? Slim to none.
I gave up and went back to my cinnamon flavor. Then, a month later, in my Christmas stocking, my sweet wife had inserted three tubes of my dream flavor. She had found a special deal on the internet where she traded in the older of our two cars for them.
They lasted nearly three years. I have probably four squeezes left on the last tube. I just looked up a sales site. Someone is selling citrus splash in 4.4-ounce tubes at two for $30 with a $6.99 shipping charge. I ain’t gonna do it.
Instead, I went to the toothpaste store and wrote down all the choices we have left in toothpaste flavors. Here they are sans manufacturer. (I am not kidding.): radiant mint, arctic fresh, deep clean mint, fresh mint, fresh mint gel, cool mint gel, cool mint, clean mint, fresh mint stripe, icy fresh, and frosty mint stripe This is not likely an exhaustive listing.
By the way, they had children’s toothpastes of varying flavors including strawberry burst, watermelon burst, and silly strawberry.
I did buy the outrageous orange mango for kids. It tastes like someone ground up sheetrock and squeezed four drops of orange juice into it. I use it about once a week.
A few months ago I had my six-month checkup at the dentist. Instead of dropping them off, I decided to sit in the chair for a cleaning. The hygienist asked which one I wanted. I asked what she meant. She said she was talking about their tooth cleaning flavor. I asked what were the choices. “Spear or pepper … mint,” was her reply. “Just use the sandpaper,” I told her.
Severely disappointed, I went to the source of the problem. I called the Mint Industry Research Council. A total of 45 percent of all the mint oil produced in the USA is used in toothpaste.
Folks, they have a monopoly on toothpaste flavors.
I told them I was going to expose their vile plot to eradicate all other toothpaste flavors. They said, “We know where you live.” I hung up the phone and that night, I saw someone in a trench coat leaning against the lamppost by my house.
So, if I don’t return to this venue next week, please consider carrying on my quest for toothpaste variety. And don’t settle for the sheetrock flavor.

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“I can’t sit down,” is the name of a gospel song about someone who just got to heaven.
But there’s now a new reason for not being able to sit down: Pockies. This is the name of boxer shorts with pockets. The possibility of unwarranted exposure is highly possible if you sit down while wearing only a pockie.
These guys in Amsterdam apparently decided that putting on trousers was a real drag, so they marketed underwear with pockets. It seems that once every several hours they needed to put their cell phones down. “Why should trousers have all the pockets?” asked one entrepreneur.
Makes sense to me. For that reason and the fact that they mostly cost 30 bucks (each), I sewed my own underwear with pockets—that’s two in front, two in back, and for sentimentality sake, a watch pocket.
Then I put the stuff that goes in my regular trousers into my ho-made pockie. My pockie went directly to the floor. And because I was live streaming the experiment on Facebook, I have become an internet sensation, my post has seven million hits so far after only a few days.
Apparently, the need for trousers is fading fast. Already, a significant portion of Americans, male and female, are appearing in pubic, dressed only in their crocs and a pair of pajamas. I have wondered if folks are expecting to drop off to sleep at any moment in any place. It is already so in the college classroom.
While teaching, I usually allowed my pajama-clad students to sit in the back in a section of the room that has recliner chairs behind a sound baffle that prevents their snoring from disturbing the couple of students who were trying to listen to my mellifluously-delivered lectures.
Pockies are probably a boon to a certain segment of the population–those who sag. That is, those who, on purpose, slide their trousers down their hips, leaving their underwear to show. Since they cannot reach into the pockets of their trousers, if they wear pockies, they can get their cash or credit card out to pay for their purchases.
Here is the segue: When I was younger, parents tried to control their children’s hair. Some of the guys in my school were suspended when they came to school with mohawk cuts. Some strange guy came up to me in a small town once, unbidden, and told me to “Get them sideburns cut. I’d cut ‘em myself if I had my knife.” I immediately left that town, never to return.
Then came earrings and other penetrations of the body (I did have my clavicle pierced once). Adults adopted such accoutrements. And many young people stopped penetrating themselves.
After that, I think, came tattoos, some discrete, others bodacious. Older adults also decried, then began making their own bodies into canvases. My opinion of tattoos is that I can change my shirt.
After the tattoos, came outdoor pajamas and, now, we will be seeing people walking around clad only in their underwear. The pocket is simply a device to make it easier to eat an ice cream cone without having to put your phone, keys, and plastic down somewhere.
And we will all be revulsed and some city councils will try to ban them. And more youths will don them and we will dream of winter, cold, cold winter.
Young people will be the primary wearers of pockies. Then, to get the idea to wane, parents simply need to get their own pairs. Flaunt themselves all over the place and the younger folks will abandon them forthwith.

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Reader’s Digest Won’t Tell you

Seven Things Reader’s Digest Won’t Tell You
(OK, maybe just this once.)

1–We will never give up on you. We would rather have a subscription, but we really enjoy just knowing you. Our offers are sent mainly to get you to write back because we really like you.

2–We could give the magazine away. In 1965, we printed a story about the Treasure of Oak Island. We then sent staff there who found the treasure. It included Blackbeard’s treasure, the Ark of the Covenant, and Viking memorabilia, plus several previously unknown Shakespeare manuscripts. We are now so rich we don’t need your money.

3–Violence sells. So, we are moving to some edgier stories. Next month: “I was attacked by a herd of water buffalo.”

4–The articles about Joe’s … heart, liver, etc., were discontinued. But we plan to return the series with “I am Joe’s Xiphoid Process.” Then, “I am Joe’s Circle of Willis.”

5–We recently realized that we could save money by canceling our large print edition. Instead we will send a magnifying glass to all our subscribers. We will all need it someday.

6–We are stopping the cardboard ad inserts because someone tore them all out in one issue. All that was left were the front and back covers.

7—For those of you who do not have time to read our magazine, we are rolling out a new publication: Reader’s Digest Digest. It will consist of all our regular edition’s articles, but only including subjects and verbs. Here are the first few paragraphs of the editor’s recent column: “It’s Epidemic, Bruce, Edna is saying. Guys have date birth, number, address. It’s facsimile. Facsimile? What does? It means issues have caught. It means identity has been stolen. I’m who gets.” Our jokes page will include only the punch lines.

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Peanut butter thief

I got a sweet job after high school working at Nabisco, the cookie people. I worked from 11:30 at night til 7:30 in the morning in the packing and icing room.
I joined the baker’s union and even went on strike a few days after my family left for a cross country visit to Disneyland.
But, after the strike, I was able to work my way up from cookie pusher and cracker stacker to machine cleaner. I hosed off the salt and the sugar and crumbs from the various machines. I worked for a while at the cracker mill where up to 100 pounds of ground up crackers would barrel down a chute whether I had the 100-pound bag ready or not. I think I developed a light case of cracker lung while working there.
But it was Nabisco, where the vanilla wafers were so fresh you could bend them. And chocolate chips burned your hand fresh from the oven. We could eat all we wanted while there, but we couldn’t take any home.
I could go to the Oreo cream vat and make the first-ever quintuple-stuffed Oreo. And I became enamored of a peanut butter and jelly cracker sandwich that was being test marketed in another city.
On my last night before returning to college, I asked my kind supervisor if I could take some of that mixture home. He said if I could sneak it past the gate guard, he didn’t care.
At my breakfast break, I got two Chips Ahoy bags, put one inside the other, and scooped about two pounds of the mixture into it.
In the men’s room, I placed the bag inside my trousers, placing the top of the bag under my tightened belt. Pulling my baker’s baggy shirt over my belt, you couldn’t tell I was loaded for bear.
I carefully walked across the oven room, which had only a baker or two at the end of the long oven and made it just past the first outside door. That was inside the gate where the guys could go to smoke.
I should have done a stress test. The bags broke. Suddenly, I had peanut butter and jelly running down my legs inside my trousers. It was viscous like warm maple syrup. Within a few seconds, it was crossing my knees, headed for the floor.
Rushing back to the smoking area, I flung out as the broken bags and as much of the mixture as I could scoop. Thankfully, no one was out there at the time. They would have had a story to tell.
Closing my trousers, I scooted across the oven room floor where I met the other, stricter supervisor. We greeted one another and as we crossed paths, I noticed that my shoes were covered with PB&J. And I was dropping little peanut butter balls on the floor behind me. I don’t know how he didn’t notice, but he never called me back.
I spent my entire break cleaning myself. The rest of the shift, I knew I smelled like peanut butter, but no one commented, probably because I didn’t dare go near anyone.
Back home, I had to throw away my shoes and sox. I spent an hour in the tub. I didn’t know until then that peanut butter dries like iron on hairy legs. I have never stolen anything since that day, except for a couple of slices of pizza. And I was unable to eat peanut butter for about three years after that.
Peanut butter and jelly belongs between two slices of bread, not, well, you know.

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Midnight Chocolate

The neighborhood I grew up in wasn’t terribly close-knit, but we tolerated one another pretty well. The families that didn’t have kids allowed us to play in their yards during our after-dark forays into games such as “The Thing.” This was based loosely on a science fiction movie of the day.
Memories of some of the interactions among the neighbors will be with me forever. I guess if you never take the time to get to know the folks who live around you, you won’t be bothered with rich memories of that special category of friend called neighbor.
One family started getting anonymous phone calls where the person on the other end did some heavy breathing before the recipient would hang up, somewhat frightened.
The calls came once or twice a week and my neighbor thought she was being stalked—that is, until she mentioned it to the neighbor across the street.
That neighbor was embarrassed when she realized that her son, a handicapped adult whom she and her husband fed and clothed, was the culprit.
Though he couldn’t carry on a conversation or even speak clearly, he could hit the speed dial on the home phone when mom or dad weren’t watching. He liked the neighbors and was just trying to phone for a chat.
During my growing up years a brother and sister lived across the street from my family. We were always polite to them, both some older than mom and dad.
The brother died and Miz. B–I never knew whether it should be pronounced Miss or Mrs., so it became Miz.–lived there alone, taking the bus to and from work, walking a block down the hill to our street.
Once, she was mugged on her way from the bus, but apparently wasn’t injured badly. Shortly thereafter, Dad began doing odd jobs around her house, repairing windows and such.
Dad recalled that she began needing to feel more secure and he was installing bigger locks on the doors. He told me that she wanted locks even between rooms of the house.
One day she called him over and said that someone was breaking into her house at night when she went to bed. He looked at her doors and explained that on one could re-hook the screen doors when they left.
She was adamant. Look, she said, they broke in while she was sleeping and made hot chocolate. Th evidence was sitting there on the kitchen table—the saucer, the cup, nearly drained of hot chocolate, and a spoon on the sauce.
Dad probably crossed his eyes at her story. But he tried to make her feel secure and told her to remember to lock all the doors at night. She wasn’t so much frightened as angry that someone would break into drink her hot chocolate.
The next time, as I recall, Mrs. B called dad to explain that now she believed someone was living in her attic, coming down from the access panel in the hallway at night, and drinking up her hot chocolate.
Dad searched the entire house, including the attic, and assured her that she was perfectly safe. Again, she was more angry than scared.
A few months later, her niece, who lived across town, talked her into selling the house and getting a nice apartment closer to her.
So, Miz B. moved away.
Several weeks later, she called dad. How are things going, he asked. Oh, fine, she said. The apartment is nice, and I like being near my niece, except for one thing. What’s that, dad responded. “They found me.”

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Appropriating my culture

When I first heard the term “cultural appropriation” it was about a kid wearing a prom dress that was Asian-looking. She was criticized unmercifully.
An article in Bustle notes that ”cherry picking parts of another culture and ultimately diluting and profiting off of them is cultural appropriation at its most clear.”
The article mentioned such examples as Elvis’ dance style, wearing chopsticks in one’s hair, Native American headdresses without being one whose culture they represent, or Halloween costumes that depict stereotypes.
I suppose that it would be cultural appropriation for a Mexican to eat at a Taco Bell, since it is so certainly not Mexican food. And I have heard that it is safe to eat at Chinese restaurants since my Chinese students tell me that virtually none around here have authentic Chinese food.
I got to thinking about this and realized that my culture has been misappropriated. What culture, you ask? Why, that of old white guys.
I hereby claim for my culture stuff that other cultures had best not try to emulate. Other cultures cannot:
1—Grow nests of hair in their ears.
2—Wear feed caps to MacDonald’s, drink coffee all morning, and compare the conditions of our prostates.
3—Hold what a friend calls Grits night where you watch reruns of Matlock and In the Heat of the Night. Or binge-watch Little House of the Prairie.
4—Refuse to get hearing aids despite needing to have EVERYTHING repeated and watching TV at maximum volume. Or, if actually wearing hearing aids, refusing to turn them down to eliminate that awful shrieking sound.
5—Lower your belt six inches so you won’t have to purchase a longer one.
6—Drive in the left-hand lane of the freeway at five miles under the speed limit.
So far, I have been trying to fit in with my culture. I have lowered my belt a little and have been spending more time in the left-hand lane. The problem with that is I have a wife who “occasionally” reminds me that I could go faster.
But I haven’t been able to achieve in one important area: I have no hair in my ears. “All the other older guys have hair in their ears, why not you?” asked my wife the other day. Could it be a hormonal problem? No chance of that. My hormones are in great shape, thank you very much.
So I went to the hair company that sold me my toupette a few years ago to cover my bald spot. It was rather pricy–$3,000–but many people were completely fooled into believing that overnight I grew new hair leaving no gaps whatsoever.
The director, himself a member, examined my ears and took X-rays, examining me and them minutely. His explanation made perfect sense. My hair follicles (he called them seeds) weren’t getting enough nutrients (he called it fertilizer) plus I wasn’t getting much slippage from the top of my head to my ears.
Since I wanted to function in today’s polite society, I declined a dose of the company’s fertilizer and opted for ear plugs. I have to avoid scratching my ears or washing them for three weeks so the plugs can take root. By then I should have a healthy growth of ear hair and I can return to my morning coffee Klatch and report on several new ailments, maybe some that the other guys haven’t even heard of. I can see my reception: “Wow, Tim. Nice growth of ear hair.”
And I will have been assimilated back into my culture, which YOU cannot join. So there.

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My daughter is getting married soon and I want anyone who is going to a wedding to adhere to these simple rules. Part of the reason I am publishing these is a recollection of my own wedding.
Rule #1—An afternoon wedding reception is not your dinner.
My wedding was at 2 p.m., so the reception should have been considered a token gift to the attendees, not a sumptuous feast. I went to the end of the line and as I strolled by the supposed snackers, I saw someone take five of the juicy, delicious-looking chicken strips.
Naturally, before I got to the food, all the chicken had flown the roost. Nothing, nada, for the rest of us.
Only if the wedding lasted for four hours are you entitled to load the chicken strips—or ribeyes (if you travel in such circles).
Rule #2—Two sides to the congregation.
Help me rid the world of his side/her side of the congregation. The only people on my side were those who could not avoid being blood kin. The rest were those who adored my bride. Actually, I would have sat on my bride’s side were I able to sit. For once, sit with the enemy.
Rule #3—Get married near home.
Kill off those destination weddings. “Hi, beloved friends and family. We want you to give up your rare vacation days and come to a place that means absolutely nothing to you. While there, even if there is a beach or other fun-type things, you will have to attend that wedding and have your credit card filled to capacity staying at the posh resort, and must eat chicken strips instead of the succulent seafood at a restaurant down the block.”
I would fill my plate with those chicken strips this time.
There is a second expense that could be avoided: THE VENUE. These are places that are not churches. They are not cheap. All the weddings mentioned in the Bible took place in Baptist churches.
Rule #4–Wedding gifts.
This has become a racket. I have heard of people registering with a car dealership. You can pay for various parts of the car these kids would like to have. I might pay for one of the tire stems. Instead, why not register at Taco Bell and Walmart. Since my gifts are usually in the $3 to $5 range, Taco Bell would be a pretty good choice.
Rule #5—Sonorous sounds.
As far as wedding music, I would appreciate something somewhere between “Who Spit Tobacco on Tessie’s Wedding Gown?” and “Pachelbel’s Canon.” A friend who was going to sing at a wedding told me he was tempted to sing, “I’d Rather Have Jesus.” This is supposed to be a joyous occasion. How about Abba’s “I do, I do, I do, I do, I do”?
Rule #6—Check the license.
If you are the marrying couple, check the officiant’s license. Lots of people are getting those licenses who have no idea of the seriousness of the occasion, Some of those licenses are bogus, thus making the marriage bogus. And I imagine that a few days into the marriage, some of you might call that an escape clause.
Rule #7—Elope
If you are actually paying for your own wedding, you could instead be using that money for a down payment on a nice house, or at least decrease the mortgage, or your student loans. I have heard of parents of the bride taking out a second mortgage on their own houses to pay for the wedding. Just raising you was expense enough.


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Fairy Tale News

For my journalism class I assigned the students to write a news lead as if a fairy tale, folk tale, or fable were a real news event taking place yesterday.

Their efforts were varied and entertaining. And most wrote real news leads. I thought of the assignment when another class admitted–to a student–that none had ever heard of the pied piper of Hamelin. I had used the phrase “pay the piper” and asked if they knew the source of the phrase. They were in the dark. Then I began wondering if the younger generation are learning any of the tales of yore.

At least this journalism class showed me they know some of the tales. Here are a few of their submisisons, some with interesting spins.

“Central Jackson native, Jack, 14, was arrested Monday, Aug. 20, for growing an illegal substance in his yard, police said, that appears to be a giant stalk of marijuana. the young boy told police that a man on High St. traded magic beans in return for his cow. Jack claimed that said beans produced the enormous marijuana stalk overnight. The investigation is still underway.”

“Medical tests have shown that the tortoise tested positive for an undisclosed steroid, making him actually lose his first place title. Doctors who tested him say the results came as a shock.”

“A rabbit was rescued from a mound of tar yesterday at 5 p.m. The tar was shaped like a baby. ‘I got tired of his ignorin’ me when I was tryin’ to be polite. So I jumped on ‘im but got stuck,’ claimed Br’er Rabbit, the victim. Police are searching for the tar-baby’s creator. Locals suggest a bear could be involved, but he has yet to be brought in for questioning.”

“A delusional child, who believed herself to be a bear, was found late Friday afternoon in the home of a family of bears deep in the woods. Police are working hard to discover the child’s identity. In the meantime, she has been taken to Whitfield (mental hospital) for further diagnosis.”

“Childhood star, Wilfred Humpty Dumpty, has been found dead in Greasy Corner, Ark. He was brutally murdered and pushed off a great wall in the small city.”

“A wolf has been arrested after three pigs filed charges against him for home invasion and destruction. Police said that the big bad wolf destroyed two homes in the little pig neighborhood. The wolf has a previous offense. Last year he was charged with the attempted eating of a local grandmother and basket-robbing.”

After reading this exercise, I believe the younger generation is learning about fairy tales and twisting them like the Brothers Grimm never imagined.

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