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Killer sandwiches and Stormy Daniels dolls

I have to apologize to you, my faithful reader. I’m about five minutes late in getting this column to you all because of Hillary Clinton. We all have been told that Hillary is the world’s smartest woman. When she was recently in India, she said that middle income white women generally vote as they are instructed to vote, by their husbands, male bosses, and sons. Basically, she declared that many white women are too stupid to act on their own volition and are held captive by the males in their lives. As far as my wife and I are concerned, she’s right. We voted for that Neanderthal Trump.

We don’t have a son so he can’t instruct my wife. She doesn’t have a boss of either gender. So it’s up to me to once again tell her how to vote in coming elections. So, rather than tackle my column five minutes ago, I had to spend some time instructing my wife to vote for the Republican knuckle dragger in 2020.

Story #1.

Our concern over global climate change is certainly captivating many people. It has gotten to the point where even obscure events like eating a sandwich can be leading the earth to its extinction. A scientist at the University of Manchester in England says that the sandwich you are going to have after you read this Pulitzer Prize winning column is a killer. Our dear prof says that all of the sandwiches eaten in England every year cause enough pollution equal to 8.6 million cars.

This could be quite tragic for the Royal Family’s luncheons. Imagine the Queen and Prince Philip setting down for their Tea Cucumber sandwich. “What do you make of the cucumber, my dearest Elizabeth? I find it so divine it can parallel the beauty of you and your tiara my Queen.”

“My dear Philip Mountbatten, any lunch in your presence is a delight of regal splendor. My sweet Duke of Edinborough, this cucumber clothed in an elegant blanket of croissant is beyond description. It is a heavenly joy.”

Then Philip informs the Queen of the danger to the earth’s environment presented by the Earl’s creation. “Your highness, our own beloved researchers at the University of Manchester claims that this delicate simplicity that sits before us causes global climate change. What should we make of that?”

“As the Queen of England, I will tell my Manchester subjects, “Up yours.”

Story #2.

Former New York Times editor Jill Abramson has a unique purse companion. She carries a plastic Barack Obama doll. Jill claims that her doll gives her support to get through the stress of living in Donald Trump’s America.

Actually there’s nothing new about this practice. What I am about to divulge will prove to you what you’ve always suspected; that I am not the brightest bulb in the room.

As a young political pundit, I had to find some emotional assistance to get through the Presidency of Dwight Eisenhower. Did I have a Harry Truman support doll in my pocket? No way.

Back then, I didn’t carry a purse so what pocketed support doll got me through the Eisenhower shenanigans? I would take out my Jayne Mansfield doll and hold her. That was great comfort.

Then along came JFK administration. When some of his actions led to stress, I didn’t attain my comfort with an Eisenhower doll. I would take out the Marilyn Monroe therapy doll and hold her. Wonderful comfort.

LBJ provoked me to get an Ann Margaret doll.

Richard Nixon was a strange dude. He’d be photographed walking the beaches of Key Biscayne and San Clemente in his suit and tie. That picture of tension would force me to lighten up with my Bridgette Bardot. She was the French bombshell which proves that I have a cosmopolitan appreciation for comfort.

I needed a trunk of dolls to survive the Clinton years, as did he.

You’re probably getting the idea by now, right? George W. Bush would test my tolerance at times so Scarlett Johansson helped out.

To show you that I’m not a racist, During the long, long Obama years, I depended on Halle Barry for assistance.

And now we’re a bit more than one year into the Trump era which can get quite turbulent at times, like every day. Thank God for my Stormy Daniels doll to make life great again.

Story #3

There’s a young professional golfer named Bryson Dechambeau. He’s a little weird, but in a good way. My golf game is a little weird, but not in such a good way.

One of his oddities is that he has names for each of his golf clubs. Seeing how its helps him, I have just given names to my clubs. So here they are.

Bryson has some very respectable names for his clubs, like Augusta, Azalea, Jimmy, Jackie, and King to honor Arnold Palmer. Since my golfing skills have very little respect, the names for my clubs are synchronized to the nature of my game.

I do go one step above Dechambeau, though. I have even named my golf bag as the Little Shop of Horrors. In that bag is my driver known as Satan because it usually results in evil. My three metal is called “Egads.” My hybrid goes by the name of “You Gotta Be Kidding Me.” The two iron is Frankenstein. Three iron goes by the name “Misery.” The four iron is called “Psycho.” The five iron is appropriately named Captain Hook. The six iron is “Dracula.” The seven iron is “Darth Vader.” My eight iron is the “Terminator.” The nine iron is “Heartbreaker.” And completing the Little Shop is my putter. It alternates between “The Lake of Fire” and “&%#&@.”

Story #4

There’s a psychology professor at the University of Washington that wants to create a humanzee. He wants this creature to walk the earth in order to diminish the unwarranted prominence of humans beings, as he claims. Our professor bemoans the fact that we humans think we’re so special, when in reality, we really aren’t so hot. What’s a humanzee. It would be a hybrid between a human and chimpanzee.

I prefer a ZEEMAN but, hey, I ain’t no professor. You know, it’s sort of like the old Seinfeld dispute between Kramer and Frank Costanza over the name for the male bra: Is it a bro or a mansiere? I forget which prevailed.

Back to the chimp. If the professor gets a go-ahead to create his zeeman, I’d like to donate some genetic stuff to see how an Italian-chimp hybrid turns out. I’ve got a fairly good idea how it would progress.

The chimp would be born with a prominent nose that all the other chimps would point at and laugh. This would destroy his self esteem which would probably cause him to hide in the rain forest for years

He would eat pepperoni/banana pizza, grilled sausage, peppers, and bananas subs.

ZeeMan would no doubt talk with his hands a lot about a neighborhood bocce tournament.

On Sundays, he would head off to his parents tree in the forest expecting the usual spaghetti and bananas in marinara sauce dinner. Of course, being half Italian and if he’s under 30 years of age, all Zeeman would need to do is roll out of bed because he’s still living at home.

Using tools is no stranger to chimps. Zeeman will easily use a digging device to harvest gardune for his burdock/banana frittata.

Finally, Zeeman would have two posters in his room. One of Joe Dimaggio and the other one of Tarzan.

Nin Privitera is a Fredonia resident. His column appears the second Sunday of each month.

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