Dear Biswick,
Is space something or nothing?
Space is something. Something you never have
enough of.
Why do all the nice girls hate me?
- Phil
Dear Phil,
Maybe you are not the problem. Maybe it is your
shoes. My late wife, god rest her soul, told me
on occasion that I had the best shoes of any boy
she'd ever sparked. I was always proud of my
shoes but never so much as when I was in the
army. I learned how to get a good shine on my
shoes and my shoes shone so bright that you could
read the Stars and Stripes newspaper in it. (So,
long as you had a mirror.) This became a problem
during the war as we were trying to hide from the
Krauts who despite their shortcomings have a great
fondness for well shone footwear. I used to get a
hard time about my shiny shoes. Until one day we
were caught in a firefight in France. I didn't
land at Normandy which the French call Normandie.
I landed at Brittany which the French call
Bretagne. We moved north and my boots were
holding up well. We had no waterproof boots at
the time. So, the wax from the polish helped seal
the seams and kept the water out. Anyway, we got
stuck in this firefight and the radio gave out so
we couldn't give the bombing coordinates. Lucky
for us though, I took off a boot and using it as a
mirror, I signaled to the bombers flying overhead
using a morse code version of "Ragtime Annie"
which was a popular song at the time that we were
friendlies. And that is how I got the nickname
"Ragtime Annie."
On the rocks or straight-up?
-Marfan
Dear Marfan,
Back when I was a drinking man which has not been
recently enough, I preferred to not have my liquor
watered down. As a matter of fact, people will
still look at you funny around here if you ice
down your bourbon. Ice is only really good for
two things...iced tea and iced cream. We used to
make iced cream during the summer with an old hand
cranked iced cream maker. One August evening my
youngest boy who couldn't have been more than 8 or
so at the time left the iced cream maker outside.
In the middle of the night, the possums snuck in
and turned it over. I heard them out there
galavanting around and being marsupials and
whatnot but they were too quick for me. So, I got
wise. I left some iced cream outside as bait the
next night. And I waited. With my shotgun. When
the possums came out, I let them get full up on
the sugary treat. Then I flipped on the light and
blasted em with my 12 gauge. Sure enough, the
same thing happened the following summer. Guess
those possums will never learn about guns.
Sincerely,
Sherman T. Biswick
biswick@smug.com
in the junk drawer:
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