NOTES FOR 5TH GRADE COMMENCEMENT ADDRESS

Intro   

 Remember: The phrase is “it is an honor for me to be here.” Not “You are honored for me to be here.”  Need mnemonic device to get it right this time: IIAHFMTBH? Maybe it looks too Russian. Work on it.

Possible Themes:

(a)      6th grade. WOW!

(b)      Be proud of your academic achievements, slight though they may be.

(c)     Tough job market out there for a 10-year old in a global recession. But with  rugged individualism and entrepreneurial spirit, lemonade turns a quick profit.  (Are they too young to be traffic jam squeegee people? Need some research on this).

  (d)        Here’s a popular one: “Consider taking a year off and traveling around town before starting a new class year. Your experiences will be as invaluable as anything you can get from a book, and can help keep class sizes and property taxes down for others.” This will appeal to the slackers of which there will be no small number. Maybe this is a sub-theme, but will help establish you, the speaker, as in tune with their confused emotions. No one else understands them.


Names

    Scan the audience but never, never make actual eye contact with anyone.  This is deadly. Study how the President does it during his speeches. Steely but cool.  Try to remember someone’s name to connect on personal level.  If impossible, have fallback names. For boy: " Jacob."  For girl:  "Taylor."  There’s one in every crowd.  They won’t know the difference.

Spice up  with Jokes

    Nothing crude. Are jokes about dead languages OK? Check with someone. No light bulb jokes! Probably won’t bring house down, but need to play it safe. 5th graders are easily offended and notoriously litigious.


Nod to Class Valedictorian

     Don't over-do it. They came to hear you; not this little shit.  Say "nice job," or whatever, and move on. Let's have no pampering.

Hip References

    Got to convince them that you have finger on pulse of popular culture. This is HUGE. Otherwise will lose audience. Note to self: pick up some magazines and STUDY. STUDY. STUDY. What do kids read these days, anyway? Vonnegut? We’ll figure it out.

Inspirational Message

    With money, stellar looks, connections, and undeserved good luck, you can do anything!

Acknowledgments

    Don’t forget to thank parents/guardians/siblings,  cafeteria staff, janitor, hall monitor, crossing guard, bus driver, principal, school board,  and 3rd world indentured servants who assembled the lunchboxes and sewed the in-vogue falling down baggy pants they can't seem to get enough of.  Without that last bunch, these brats would all be hungry, naked, and stupid.

Safety Announcement

    Too young for sex and drugs. What hazards threaten them at this stage? “Hey kids, never text while skateboarding.” Lame. Work on this.

Personal Reflection

    Don’t sugarcoat it!!! 6th grade is tough!  To prepare for the rigors, these kids should run 2 miles at dawn, do one-armed push-ups, and take cold showers -- as you did when their age. But, No. The crybaby P.C. crowd will put the kibosh on this. What life experience would be instructive for this group? Think!  Think! Discovering personal grooming? OK, never mind. come back to it.

Closing Thoughts

    “As you go forth…” NO!!! hackneyed.  Avoid this phrase like the plague with a capital PL. Instead; “And so my fellow ex 5th graders...” (This should get big laughs). Connect language lesson with sense of obligation: “Alma Mater”  means place that will be shilling for your donations the moment you walk out the door, and then for the rest of your life. Get used to it. Builds loyalty AND endowments.


IMPORTANT !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Don’t forget to announce to these clowns that the speech is protected by copyright and other intellectual property laws. No recording devices. No exceptions. Let’s not have a repeat of that ugly scene from last year. Especially if they expect you to stick it out on the primary school commencement speech lecture circuit. It is their honor to have you, after all, considering the competing offer to say a few words at the conclusion of the Pilates class.

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ON A SCALE OF 1 TO 10, HOW WOULD YOU RATE THE NUMBER 3?

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Question for Anatole France

If you could be named after any country, what country would it be?

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Question for Harriet Tubman

Looking back on the Underground Railroad, do you regret that you didn’t coin the phrase: “We apologize for the delay.”?

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Question for Cervantes

Speaking of crossword puzzles, do you know an 8-letter word for “pipe dream?”

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Question for Percy Bysshe Shelley

Do you think that if your middle name had been “Brad,” you could have gotten more girls?

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Question for Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce

Were you ever mistaken for Mel Brooks?
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Question for Joan D’Arc

So, what does the “D” stand for?

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Question for Genghis Khan

Wouldn’t you quite agree that under no circumstances would Riesling make a good pairing with Mongolian beef?

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Question for Helen of Troy

Hey, you know who else is from Troy? Uncle Sam! -- Did your paths ever cross?

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Question for Mao Tse-Tung

Do you ever wonder if things could have turned out differently if only people hadn’t pronounced your last name as “Dung?”

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Question for Shaka Zulu

When you were invited to join your cousin, Awe-uh Zulu, in a traveling song and dance act, why didn’t you jump at the chance?

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Question for Pepin the Short

Do you really think you could make it in today’s NBA?


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Question for King Tut

What if your name had been Titankhamun? Then what?

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Question for Lucy, the Australopithecus

Have you just about had it with people asking you to play Six Degrees of Separation?

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Question for Geoffrey Chaucer

It was rumored that intimate acquaintances were allowed to call you “Jeffy.” True?

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Question for Rembrandt van Rijn

Were the models for the self-portraits difficult to work with?

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Question for Charles Darwin

Do you suppose that if the ship had been christened “The Labradoodle,” anyone would have taken you seriously?


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Question for Adam & Eve

Do you ever get nostalgic for anything?

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Question for Pincus Ming Mandelbaum

Isn’t it weird that you just keep showing up everywhere?

PMM: No. What do you mean? I don’t think it’s weird.
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Here Comes the Jud(icial Nominee)

Executive Office of Judicial Appointments
The White House

Dear Jurist:

Congratulations on your nomination by the President to be the next Justice of the United States Supreme Court. This is the Big Leagues and there are a few things you’ll need to do to prepare before the confirmation process gets up a head of steam.

For starters, remember that little essay you wrote during your second year at Yale Law? -- The one where you argued that, whereas the federal courts of appeal have ruled consistently that expletives, when spewed at police officers, racial epithets, when shouted at politicians, and obscene gestures, when directed to meter maids, are all examples of protected speech, and that, therefore, the same protections should extend to litigants appearing before judges in both federal and state courts? The one entitled Goosing the Gander? We’re going to need you to burn that and sign the attached affidavit attesting that there are no additional copies of this opus minor on the planet Earth or on the immediately adjacent planets.

Secondly, we’re well aware that the donning of the robes can sometimes allow a beautiful and rational mind to be given over to giddiness and youthful exuberance. Therefore, we’re quite sure you didn’t really mean it when, in dissent in Borei v. P'ri Hagafen, you wrote:

The Constitution, like Pinot Noir, is over-rated.

We’ve developed a few “talking points” attached to this letter which we think will help you better express just what it was you actually meant when you penned those words. No doubt, the Judiciary Committee will be most interested in your explanation.

And while we’re on the subject of youth, a few photos have surfaced. They arrived today in a plain, brown wrapper. The attendant note identified the correspondent as “a friend.”

Familiar as we are with the temptations of undergraduate experimentation, we are, nonetheless, uncertain that the President’s political opponents, who have been less exposed to the cosmopolitan manners of the Academy, would be so willing to see these images that way. The White House counsel doesn't.

This office will handle the logistics of complying with the sender’s instructions to ensure the level of discreetness and decorum that this sordid collection and these challenging times demand. We will, of course, require a contribution from you, and the attached form will enable you to provide your credit card or checking account information for this purpose.

This brings us to the issue of your housekeeper, your gardener, your nanny, and your accountant. Our colleagues at Immigration and Homeland Security have executed some routine background checks, and it appears that all of the above-named are in the country illegally. You will, of course, have to fire them. We are not lacking in sentiment, though, and you will be allowed to say your goodbyes at their deportation hearings. While waiting for your opportunity to do so, we would like you to practice the following line in front of a mirror until it is second nature: “Obviously, Senator, had I known, I never would have hired them. They lied to me.”

Finally, and with a nod to the recognition that the high office to which you have been nominated is, in fact, located in the United States, we note with no small degree of patriotic superiority (we hope you appreciate the pun), that the “favorite musical artist" you have listed on the Nomination Consent Form is: Leonard Cohen. We’re sure that this was an oversight on your part. Leonard Cohen is a Canadian, his home in Los Angeles notwithstanding.

We like Suzanne and A Thousand Kisses Deep as much as the next person. But, as you have probably heard, Canadians still swear allegiance to the Queen of England, and how would it look to have a Justice of the highest court in the land constantly humming the tunes of one her loyal subjects? The answer is: Not very American and not very judicial.

Enclosed, you will find a suggested play-list that we think will wean you gently from your predilection (some might call it a mild addiction) to foreign tastes. We do hope that you will appreciate the variety, and the research that produced it. The Michael Bublé selections are particularly effervescent.

We’re eager to start working with you. We sincerely hope that you are looking forward to the hearings with as much excitement and anticipation as are we. The President is determined to see your nomination through to the end. It is in that spirit that all of us here wish you,

Res judicata.

Message in a Herring Jar

My name is Björk Björksdóttir. I am 12 years old and 13 days (not counting yesterday which wasn’t very nice at all). I live in the fishing village of Vik, Iceland. I put this note in a herring jar (don’t worry, the wine-like sauce had been cleaned out of it first) and threw it in the ocean in April. If you find it, please mail me a note about yourself. Don’t forget to include a photo and a note about yourself and 3 Króna 50 for postage and handling. P.S. If you are not that good-looking, try to see if you can find a photo of someone else.

Well here’s a note about myself. I am 12 years old and my name is Björk. I attend the King Canute The Great Thermal Springs Primary School for Boys and Girls. This year, I won the yellow ribbon at the annual district science fair. My project was called: “My Very First Volcano.” The yellow ribbon is only 3rd place.

My friend, Erricckk Erricckktheredson, took home the blue ribbon a few years ago. That was first place. His project was called: “My Very First Sub-prime Mortgage and Credit Default Swap.” He used nothing but paper for his project, which I don’t think was very imaginative at all.

I think my project was better and that Erricckk got the blue ribbon because he is a boy and I am a girl and the teachers are always favoring boys. I told him: “How could you get the blue ribbon for that thing? A Sub-prime Mortgage and Credit Default Swap doesn’t even explode.” “Oh yes it does!” he said (somewhat tearfully, I thought). But he is always talking crazy talk, and I think maybe his feelings were hurt a little.

For my science fair project, I used clay, dough, soil, and Papier-mâché molded around a jar (not the one that this note was stuffed in!). Then I filled the jar most of the way full with warm water. Next, I added a lot of red food coloring (for effect), some dishwashing liquid, and a heaping scoop of baking soda.
Then I went to the top of Eyjafjallajokull Glacier, and poured some vinegar into the container, and threw the jar into the crater. Then the whole thing started to bubble and erupt. There has been lots and lots of smoke. Guess what!? Red lava came out the top, too!

Before, when I was making the project, Erricckk said, “why don’t you use green food coloring instead of red?” Do you think he was trying to make me do poorly because he was afraid I might win the blue ribbon?

When the explosion happened, I took a picture of it on my camera phone. If you write to me, I will send you the picture. I worked hard on the project, and I think I deserve the blue ribbon.

Instead, the blue ribbon went to Oddur Oddsson who invented some kind of a motor that doesn’t shut off when it gets all covered with ash and soot. BORING!!!! Who cares? Where’s the explosion there? Can you guess what we call Oddur for short? Odd. I guess I don’t have to tell you the reason.

My teacher, Maple “Leif” Ericsson, who likes me, thinks I lost points because I did not write about the practical applications of my project. Is that all old people ever think about? How about the fun of it? That’s the practical application! Ha! Ha!

I know you want to know who won the green ribbon (this is second place). Well, I will tell you. Her name is Dotty Dottirsdóttir and she made some stupid machine that when you push dirt into it spurts out gasoline. Oh Puuuuuuhlleeeeeeez. Like we haven’t seen this before!

How are things where you live? We haven’t been able to go outside for the past 3 weeks because visibility is down to 3 feet and I am bored. This is why I made this note. My father, Baldur (“Dash”) Baldursson, says “don’t feel sorry for yourself. You think you are the only one who is bored? Everybody all over the world is just sitting around with no place to go and nothing to do and they can’t get anywhere.”

What’s that got to do with me? I’m bored so he brings the whole rest of the world into it to try to make me feel better?

My favorite book is Under the Volcano. My favorite film is Krakatoa East of Java. I’ve seen it 21 times. What are your favorites? Do you know anybody named Björk? I have a cat. Do you have a car? I am not old enough to drive. Do people read books where you live? Here most people read text messages, but lately all the service connections have been not functioning so people are forced to do other things.

I asked Erricckk if he wanted to go to the library with me but instead he wanted to go to the food court at the Reykjavik Airport and read the cancellations board. And this is the boy who won the blue ribbon a few years back? He’s nice, but, c’mon!

The only television I watch is a quiz show called “Who Wants to be an Icelandic Króna-naire?” with Regis Reggisson. Yesterday, my father’s friend, Narfi Narfason, was on the program. I was supposed to be one of his lifelines – the person you telephone for a hint if you don’t know the answer. The 750,000 Krona question was: “What is a popular name of a vent in the earth's crust through which lava, steam, ashes, etc., are expelled, either continuously or at irregular intervals?” I was jumping up and down screaming at the television. Did Narfi call me? No, he blurted out an incorrect answer: “geyser.” Geyser!? What an idiot!

I don’t even count yesterday as one of the days of my life because of stupid old Narfi Narfason. He ruined it for me. Yesterday was a very dark day around here. And not just because of all the ash in the air, if you know what I mean.

Well, that’s it for me. I do hope you find this note and will write to me, as I am very bored. Next year my science project will be called “My Very First Nuclear Fusion.” Don’t worry, I will remember to say something about the practical applications so as to be sure to win the blue ribbon.

Your friend,

Björk

THE LITTLE AGIT-PROP THAT COULD

Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nosejob stared at the package placed before him by an aide-de-hippocampus -- a birthday present from his best friend forever, Yuegogurl Chavez. Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nosejob studied the wrapping, a now-banned opposition newspaper carefully selected by Yuegogurl Chavez for this auspicious occasion.

Ignoring the admonitions his father used to beat into him as a boy (to save the wrapper for re-gifting), Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nosejob tore open the box -- grasping the contents with all two of his hands -- and furrowed his substantial uni-brow.

What was this his friend had sent him absolutely, positively overnight? A pair of monogrammed elevator jackboots? Was this supposed to be some kind of an insult from his portly amigo? But, wait. There was a card:

“Dear MaMamood; Do you believe in magic? Try these on for size, make a wish, click your heels together 3 times, and your wish will come true. Caveat: You will not be able to make anyone fall in love with you. Your pal, Yuegogurl.”

Trembling, Little MaMamood
Imegunnaneed-a-nosejob slipped on the boots. They fit him like a glove. More to the point, they fit him like a pair of monogrammed jackboots with magical powers. Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nosejob closed his eyes and clicked his heels together 3 times murmuring: “There’s no place like home with all my friends gathered round to celebrate my special day.”

Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nosejob opened his eyes; he couldn’t believe it. There, before him, stood his bestus pals: not only Yuegogurl Chavez, but also Robbby Moocowgabee, Kim Jong Dontfeelsogood, Omar al-Bash-yerhead-in, Basher al Donkeyhad, Kaled Mess Hall, Hassan Nostrilhairs-allah, and MarMar Igad-fee.

The whole room was festooned with balloons and streamers. Blindfolded college students from Europe and North America wearing conical hats passed among the guests with trays of little morsels called “hypocrisies,” which turned out to be inedible, but sure looked slick from a distance.

Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nosejob was in 6th heaven. The whole gang had arrived in a raucous mood.

“This is the best birthday ever!” exclaimed Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nosejob to Yuegogurl Chavez. “What should I wish for next?”

Kim Jong Dontfeelsogood said, “Let’s have a blast, a really big blast!”

“That’s a capital idea,” shouted Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nosejob.

“Yeah,” said MarMar Igad-fee. “Let’s party like its 999 and really put this place on the map!”

‘I’ve got a better idea,” said Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nosejob. “Let’s wipe another place off the map!”

“I second that,” said Kaled Mess Hall and Hassan Nostrilhairs-allah in unison.

“But someone will call the cops and say we’re making too much noise,” worried Omar al-Bash-yerhead-in.

“Oh don’t you worry about that,” said Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nosejob, comfortingly. He closed his eyes, clicked his jackboots together 3 times, and murmured: “Send us a protector and a guardian!”

The guests looked on with awe. POOF! An op-ed columnist for the New York Times appeared out of nowhere, and began to sing:

“Oh, Boys, I know your intentions are good

Please don’t let you be misunderstood.”

“Jumping Jehoshaphat!” exclaimed Kaled Mess Hall, clapping his hands to the beat. “Where did he come from?”

“I conjured him,” said Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nosejob. Then, to no one in particular, and sotto voce, he added, “With a sleight of hand and a click of jackboots, some people will believe anything.”

“I hope your crashing this party won‘t be a drag,” complained Hassan Nostrilhairs-allah to the newspaperman.

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” replied the scoop. “I’ll just sit here by myself in the back in the dark.”

“Now that’s what I call a martyr!” said Kaled Mess Hall approvingly. “Jolly good show, old man!”

“I almost forgot!” remembered the New York Times fellow reaching into his pocket. “I brought a bunch of letters from several of our progressive readers who think you guys are the bees‘ knees!”

“Yippee-Yi-Yay!” squealed Omar al-Bash-yerhead-in.

“I’ll say!” shouted Basher al Donkeyhad.

And they formed a ring around the newsman and began to skip and dance making a joyous sound:

Strollin’ bold ‘n stark
Watching Winter crush Prague spring
Dancing in the dark!
Letting Newsmen do their thing!

Ooh-ooh, that's the time
I feel like making war on you.
Ooh-ooh, that's the time
I feel like making whoopedeedoo
ohh baby.

The merrymaking was interrupted by a knock on the door. The man from the New York Times opened it. There stood Benjy Nut ’N Honey looking mighty sore. The dog, UNCHR, began to growl loudly from under the dining table.

The room grew silent. Then, inexplicably, the newspaperman began to jump up and down waving his arms all crazy-like.

“You!” he shouted. “It’s all your fault!”

“What is?” asked Nut ’N Honey.

“Everything! That’s what!” screamed the newspaperman, and he slammed the door right in Benjy Nut ’N Honey‘s face.

“Hoo ha!” remarked Omar al-Bash-yerhead-in. “Let the games begin!” UNCHR rolled over and went to sleep.

Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nose job strode up to Kaled Mess Hall and Hassan Nostrilhairs-allah and showered them with party favors. “Here boys!” he chortled with delight. There’s plenty more where that came from!” Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted his manservant, Big Bad Comico, looking the other way obsequiously.

“I’m hungry,” whined Robbby Moocowgabee.

“Me, too,” cried Kim Jong Dontfeelsogood.

“You would be,” retorted Yuegogurl Chavez. “Grass; You call that a nosh?”

I could go for a bissel cheesecake, myself,” sighed Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nosejob. He closed his eyes, and clicked his heels together 3 times, murmuring:

Eye of Walt, and toe of frog,
Mersheimer tongue and brain of fog ,
Easy oven, Easy Bake
Send us all some Yellow Cake!


POOF! When the smoke cleared, the guests beheld a giant cake in the shape of a mushroom. (You can really do wonders with fondant).

Topping the cake were two edible figurines: a man in a business suit wielding a massive sword and stomping on the fingers of a woman. The woman whose fingers were being trampled was clutching a notepad, and she was hanging on for dear life, her legs dangling down the side of the cake.

“What are those figurines at the top of the cake supposed to be?” asked Kim Jong Dontfeelsogood.

“This sculpture is called, “Triumph of the Bonus,” answered Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nosejob with a wink towards the New York Times correspondent.
“It’s my little homage to Riefenstahl, although of course, in a different medium. The creature hanging on for dear life is the backstabbing writer’s union, whose selfish benefits would have strangled the lifeblood of the whole Empire had not the glorious Executive Board galloped to the rescue with the sword of Just Us to sever the slimy monster’s greedy tentacles.”

They all agreed it was a beautiful thing.

Then Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nose job raised his fist, shouting: “The people are revolting!”

“Yes, aren‘t they?” rejoined Omar al-Bash-yerhead-in.

“Robbby Moocowgabee and Kim Jong Dontfeelsogood are hungry,” reminded Yuegogurl Chavez.

“Let them eat cake!” yelled Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nose job. “In fact, cake all around!”

He saved the little figurines for the man from the New York Times and handed them to him bowing low.

“I love you!” said the New York Times man to Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nose job.

Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nose job was stunned. He turned toward Yuegogurl Chavez barely concealing his mirth: “I thought you said…”

Yuegogurl Chavez scrunched up his shoulders holding his palms upwards with a goofy grin.

Everybody laughed uproariously.

You Want to Go Where No One Knows Your Name

Somewhere along the way, the overnight package delivery-person has learned your name. So has the woman in the make-believe costume creatively interpreting phone orders at the takeout counter of the Kashmiri /Bhutanese restaurant downstairs, as has the bank teller at the Village Savings & Loanshark, the letter carrier with a horseshoes approach to your mailbox, the neighborhood drycleaner, whose patent for a spot-disguiser is still pending, and the person who comes and affixes a boot to the rear tire of your car every few months as a friendly reminder that the municipal parking regulations are, in fact, not “suggestions.” These fellow citizens all greet you by name heartily, and have been doing so for the past eleven years.

You, on the other hand, have no clue what any of their names are. You may have known once, but this was in your youth when, frankly, you had nothing better to do.

Of course, there is no end to the techniques carefully honed over time to avoid the cumbersome task of ever actually having to say the other person’s name while giving every appearance that you have known it all along. These are deployed in response to certain verbal cues, such as “hello,” “how are you,” and “for the fun of it, why don’t you say my name for once?” The methods include: the fake coughing fit, the index finger gliding back and forth towards the throat like a neon sign advertising “laryngitis,” and the fainting spell.

Yet when these little ploys have been recycled so often and with such uniformity that every last ounce of credibility has been wrung from them, the question arises: at what point do you drop all pretense that you have the remotest idea as to what other people are called? After all, you only see them three or four times a week for a few awkward minutes a day. Hasn’t enough water flowed under the bridge at this juncture? When does it cease to make a difference whether you know that they know that you don’t know what is printed on their driver’s license, or their birth certificate or their Pulitzer Prize, and so forth?

Some guy in an article that appeared someplace says that after three years, you’re in the clear. If you haven’t learned another’s moniker by then, you can just forget it and not feel guilty or stupid or selfish or both. Certain social conventions, including, but not limited to, learning other people’s names and wearing matching socks turn out to be a waste of time in the end, because we’re all going to die, anyway, and do we really need the added pressure in the meantime?

Another thing is, did it ever occur to them that they are the ones who are being anti-social by not wearing labels? Yes, because passive-aggressive types want you to feel uncomfortable. Not to mention how many a/k/a’s are out there. It gives you a headache just to think about it.

Some people have very memorable names, and do not need to wear name-tags. Osama b. Laden, Barack H. Obama, Ehud Barak, Bernard Baruch, Baruch Spinoza, Engelbert Humperdinck, and Oprah are some examples. Everybody else ought to be required to help out by personally branding their sartorial splendor in some way. As long as they refuse to do so, though, it’s not your fault if you can only address them as “yuh.” See, e.g. “Hi-yuh,” “How yuh doin?” and “Good to see yuh; say hello to the people that you’re related to.”

If this is the least you can do, you needn’t feel the tiniest bit embarrassed about never learning someone else’s name. You have satisfied the minimum requirements of socially acceptable behavior.

At least, that’s what that lady who runs the bakery we’ve been frequenting for years says.

The Case of the [means the same as "very tired"] Dog

While his master has been looking the other way, some gargantuan dog has been doing his business at the same spot on the gravel path in front of the house for the past 2 weeks in the wee, wee hours before the dawn. The owner is a cretin who laughs in the face of his civic duty, a criminal who must be found, arrested, and prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. The dog is innocent. 

All manner of retaliation stands at the ready, but it remains idle and, hence, useless until the culprit has been identified. The police have not dubbed the mystery dog walker the “Hillside Dump and Runner” but they might were they ever to read their mail or return a phone call or even spare a cruiser for an hour or so to engage in some forensics, which, apparently they will not do owing to budget considerations and the near-religious failure of this household, year-after-year during the annual fund drive, to tape an envelope to the front door containing a check made payable to the Policeman’s Benevolent Association, despite repeated promises that this would be done. Ergo, vigilantism is in the offing. If the cops don’t want to go after this thug, we will do it ourselves.

Devising commensurate penalties has used practically no brain cells whatsoever. Punishment, when it comes, will be cruel. It will be unusual. It will fit the crime like a glove (fitting a hand for which it has been professionally sized). But until the tortfeasor is revealed, it will be on ice. Thus, the only question is how to catch the perpetrator in flagantre excremento. All options must be considered. As of the date of this report, the following methods have been determined to be not optimal:

Method #1
The Puppy Cam

A small video camera, artfully camouflaged and suspended from a tree branch adjacent to the crime scene, seemed a promising notion when first conceived. Exquisite in execution, the plan’s undoing came in the body of a squirrel who, while knocking the device out of position, still managed to film himself dining. Though the film had no evidentiary value, it, nonetheless, proved a fitting supplement to the evening’s entertainment. And now we know what squirrels fancy for lunch.

Method #2
The Footprint Mold

A lump of thin soft clay was skillfully interwoven with the surrounding soil to give the impression of clay, not clay purchased at a home garden center and skillfully interwoven with the surrounding soil, but rather clay occurring naturally after, say, a cataclysmic flood or a volcanic eruption. In this way, it was hoped, suspicion would not be aroused. Because Dog Doe [not his real name] has been hitting precisely the same target, the clay was to be located on either side thereof such that, regardless of whether the hominid walked to the left or to the right of the canine, he would, inevitably, step somewhere on the trap, creating a print that could then be preserved and sent to the state crime lab for analysis.

A sample was, indeed, obtained in this manner. As planned, it was transmitted to the state crime lab, which, in a display of governmental efficiency, confirmed the make-up of the sample as follows: “clay.” A refund is being relentlessly pursued.

Method #3

The Tent

Stakes were driven into the soil at 45-degree angles about 8 feet from the impact site. Plastic sheathing was then overspread all about and lashed to poles with a quantity of sturdy nylon rope. The whole was then affixed to the stakes in a flailing kind of movement reminiscent of a powerful spasm or electric shock therapy. After the contraption collapsed in a heap, a trip to the store to purchase a tent and the hiring of an independent contractor to assemble it ensued. The idea was to be embedded with the [rhymes with “troops“] -- to stay up all night in a sleeping bag armed with a flashlight and a disposable camera. During the stakeout, the following diary entries were recorded:

Fell asleep sometime between 0-100 hours and 0-103 hours ZULU. Awoke with cat on head. Kicked him out and closed the flap more tightly. At 0-103.5 hours KALAHARI, rain in the form of a deluge made its presence known. At 0-103.55 hours MASSAI, the cat, being a neutered male and, therefore, not capable of being in heat, howled as though in heat, but actually just demanding to be admitted. Shortly thereafter, the cat was admitted on the condition that he not drag his wet tail all over everything, a condition promptly unmet in its entirety. At 0-143 hours NAPHTALI, a moose or a huge rabbit rustled the ground nearby starling the cat and causing him to claw the interior of the tent and scream in a desperate attempt to escape. At 0-144 hours ZEBULUN, rain was admitted to the interior of the tent (involuntarily). At 0-145 hours ISSACHAR, an attempt to re-enter the house failed because it was locked and the keys had been changed. Returned to the tent at 0-147 hours GAD. The Cat took up a position under the car. Fell asleep (duration unknown). Awoke to scratching and digging sounds. Went through the 5 stages of waking up and gradually recalled surroundings and purpose of lying in wet tent. After what seemed like 7 minutes (but was probably no more than 6), stumbled outside and saw two shadowy figures disappear around the corner into the fog: one was decidedly a dog. Returned to camp to discover that the target had been attacked sometime during the night. The cat had abandoned his post. Retrieved a shovel from the shed.

Method #4

The Sign

An Abandoned tent pole was commandeered and pressed into service at the site to stand in for a sign post. A crude message was penned on a piece of cardboard and taped to the post. It read: “WE KNOW WHO YOU ARE AND WHERE YOU LIVE. PICK UP AFTER YOUR DOG OR ELS. THIS MEANS YOU!!!.”

The following morning, the sign, though still standing, had been copy-edited: The spelling of “else” had been corrected and two of the exclamation points had been stricken as clearly superfluous. An arrow drawn in red lipstick pointed to the ground leading the viewer’s gaze directly to the mystery hound’s latest handiwork.

“This guy wears lipstick!?” I thought to myself in lower case italics.

Method #5
The Yellow Police Tape

To put it succinctly, the kinds of sociopaths who allow their pets to go wherever they want whenever they want are impervious to police tape. It is a well-known fact that these beings actually enjoy returning to the scene of the crime and allowing their dogs to disrespect the police tape by pooping all over it, which occurred in this case.

Although this method did not accomplish the objective, it did, at least, get the attention of the police who swung by and issued a citation for unauthorized use of police tape. The following night, the experiment was repeated with “Priority Mail” tape stolen from the post office. The results were duplicated.


Method #6

Prayer

The exact wording of the request to the Deity has been lost, but it went something like this: “Please, please stop this [body part] and his dog from defiling my property and I promise to be good & cetera.”

In the morning, we discovered that some new dog had picked up where the old one had left off.

Which proves that G-d exists.

THE VESPA HAIKU

Echad

The Meter Maid’s scowl,
Can’t ticket my blue Vespa
Parked on the sidewalk

Dua

Crosswalk up ahead
The Meter Maid will not run
And the brakes are shot

Trois

When I ride on by,
Meter Maids curse the heavens
The gods do not hear

Quatro

“I’ll get you some day!”
Screams the crazy Meter Maid
At the handlebars

Beauty-eh!

Hopping on the seat,
The Meter Maid begs a ride
Darn! I’m out of gas

Court Rules that the Constitution is Unconstitutional

April Fools' Day or All Fools' Day or Most But Not All Fools' Day was a holiday that was once celebrated on April 1, but is now outlawed in most but not all countries. The day was commonly observed by the commission of hoaxes of varying sophistication and other practical jokes played on taxpayers, usually by sending them on a fool's errand, such as to the voting booth in the vain hope that things would get better.

A 35-year study commissioned by UNESCO concluded in 2006 that April Fools' hoaxes cost the world's economies an aggregate of 500 trillion dollars annually in diminished productivity. United Nations Resolution 0401 classified April Fools Day as a "Crime Against Civility," making offenders subject to immediate arrest by Interpol.

Thus, the day is now marked by solemn prayer, reflection, and large donations to UNESCO. In four of the Earth's hemispheres, it is customary to pay homage to the day by visiting little-known Internet bloggers bearing confections of Little Debbie Cakes and suchlike.

By Executive Order, President Barack Obama has designated April 1 this year as "April First 2010." In honor of the occasion, exam proctors are expected to observe a moment of silence.

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