The Reason For The Photo Of Shemp Will Become Somewhat Clear In Just A Minute

Tomorrow is MY WIFE’s birthday. She is going to be the square root of 938,961 divided by the number of championships the Boston Celtics have won. I express her coming age in those terms because women are notoriously bad at math and it’s a 50-50 shot she’ll be pleased with me if she tries to work it out.

(I’ve never understood why women get so pissed if you tell someone their age. It’s as though they all had a stake in some global competition to defraud each other. Men don’t give a hoot how old a woman is, especially after a few beers. Women are the only ones who care, much the same as men are the only ones who might give a damn about what position Shemp Howard would play on an all-slapstick-comedian baseball team.)

(Just so you know, Laurel & Hardy would be the pitcher and catcher, respectively, and I’m pretty sure I’d put Harpo in center field...



... Chico at third base, Harry Ritz at shortstop, and Larry Fine at second. For obvious reasons, Lou Costello would be on first. That leaves Bud Abbott, the rest of The Ritz Brothers, Wheeler & Woolsey, Joe Besser, Joe DeRita, Zeppo Marx, and Shemp, to fight it out over the remaining two outfield positions. Groucho Marx would be the manager, and Margaret Dumont owns the team. Obviously, Moe Howard is the designated hitter. Curly is my closer, and the organist will play Pop Goes The Weasel every time he enters the game.)




So, as I say, tomorrow is MY WIFE’s birthday and she’ll be the cube root of 185,193. What better gift to give her than a blog post that gratuitously insults the mental faculties of women and makes her husband appear to have some sort of weird Asperger’s concerning the relativity of on-base percentage and custard pies? Not to be completely immodest, but I think I’ve nailed it. If you know what’s good for you, the rest of you guys will make sure your wives never see this. There’s no way in hell those dozen roses and box of chocolates can compare.

(I actually bought a wonderful gift for MY WIFE, but it won’t arrive by her birthday. Considering what it is, that’s highly ironic. Of course, since you don’t have the slightest idea what I’m talking about, the irony isn’t apparent to you AT ALL. Suffice to say it would be like Vernon Dent, Edgar Kennedy, James Finlayson, and Bud Jamison being the umpiring crew. Ha-Ha!)

(The ball girl, of course, will be Lucille.)

So, Happy 1.6576171 to the 6th power (more or less) Birthday, WIFE! I love you more than Christine McIntyre, Daphne Pollard, June Gittelson, Molly Sugden, Penny Marshall, and ZaSu Pitts, combined! Considering they’d be the starters on my all-physical-comedienne hockey team, that’s high praise, indeed.

Soon, with more better stuff.

(On second thought, considering the following photo...




... I think perhaps MY WIFE can replace Penny Marshall as the goalie.)

P. S. You may be wondering why I’m publishing this the day before MY WIFE’s birthday, instead of on the day itself. It’s because I’m taking tomorrow off and we’re going to a casino. I figure God might allow her to hit some sort of obscenely huge jackpot to make up for her having to be married to me.