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Song Info (from Beatlesongs):"Dig A Pony" is on the Let It Be album and was 100% written by Lennon, who also sang lead on it. In an interview in 1980 he said, "Another piece of garbage," about the song. The song was most likely written about Yoko Ono.

When I was seven, our family moved across town from a duplex to a two-story home on two acres a few miles outside of town. There was a lot of room to run and, more importantly, a lot of room to mow. I'm pretty sure it was soon after we moved there that we boys were drafted into the mowing business - two acres can take a pretty big chunk out of a person's Saturday. The property also had a barn on the back half, which turned into a pretty good place to store things, including spiders the size of your head and probably rats. The barn never seemed all that sturdy, but almost 30 years later, Dad's still waiting for it to fall over so he can get some insurance money out of the deal.

It was at this house, the third I'd ever lived in, that we started having pets. The first cat was Sparky, black and white and friendly as all get out, but I think there was a hamster before that (Munchausen - named by my brother, and aptly so, as it bit pretty much everyone all the time). After and along with the first cat there was a dog named Charlie, who in his later years was looked upon quite fondly, but in his first several years with us probably didn't get as much attention as he deserved or wanted. The thing I most remember about Charlie is that he jumped a lot and that the jumping usually put him at or above the level of my head. Garrison Keillor put it best when he said, "The affection of someone larger than you can be a terrifying thing."

I'm a little shaky on the exact years (EDIT: Turns out it was the summer of 1978), but somewhere pretty quick along the way we got a pony. I'm not sure where he came from, but he also came with a saddle and all the little horse-y things you need for a little horse. His name was Sundance, but because we were Baptist, he was rechristened "Sonny."

(A quick aside: You know why Baptists don't like kissing? Because it could lead to dancing. That's my favorite Baptist joke.)

We found out pretty quickly that Sonny the Shetland pony had a Clydesdale-sized temper. He was mean. He didn't like kids, he didn't like Dad, he didn't like anybody. Sure, we rode him a few times, but it was always with Dad's help, and never loose of a bridle attached to a rope attached to something (usually Dad). Sonny was prone to running off, apparently thinking that kids were so awful he'd rather try to make a life for himself in the wild. With the lack of lions in the southeast corner of Wisconsin, I'm sure he would have become the dominant lifeform in the area if he'd made good his escape.

Me, Sonny, and Dad in July 1978

The winter after we got Sonny turned out to be the harshest, snowiest winter on record. There were literally several feet of snow on the ground most of the winter. My brother and I would go out to the back half of the property and slide down little hills we'd find that had drifted into existence. After sledding down one particular hill several times, we discovered that it was actually a defunct Ford Pinto that my dad had parked backed there. There was so much snow that a completely-covered car was indistinguishable from regular drifts.

Sonny lived in the barn and had to be fed every day. As I recall, we also needed to break the ice in his water bowl every day, as it would freeze over. The snow was so deep that Dad actually had to shovel a walkway the whole distance to the barn so we kids could take care of this ungrateful beast.

It was sometime the following spring that Sonny made a couple of final mistakes that led to his dismissal from our ranks. He'd had a habit of biting people, and I think he bit the neighbor's daughter one day. Some time after that, he bucked my brother off and ran quite a distance down the road. My dad was able to recapture him again, but that was pretty much the nail in the coffin.

I'm not sure how long it took Dad to find a buyer for Sonny, but it seems to me that it was pretty quickly. Once he was gone, it seemed a cloud had lifted and we were once again able to enjoy life.

It's mostly because of this experience that I mutter an inward "Ha!" when I hear about some child wanting a pony. Be careful what you wish for, I say. Also, while on the subject of clichés, don't look a gift horse in the mouth. Seriously.

Labels: Beatles Week, joke, pets

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I ran across this joke recently and it reminded me how much I've always enjoyed it.

Two hunters are out in the woods when one of them collapses. He doesn’t seem to be breathing and his eyes are glazed. The other guy takes out his phone and calls the emergency services.

He gasps: “My friend is dead! What can I do?”

The operator says: “Calm down, I can help. First, let’s make sure he’s dead.”

There is a silence, then a gunshot is heard. Back on the phone, the guy says: “OK, now what?”

Labels: funny, joke

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Either funny things don't happen to me anymore or I'm just not enjoying life like I used to. Whichever it is (and I suspect it's the latter), I've done a lot of serious and pseudo-serious posts lately, so I thought I'd take a little break and share this with y'all.

At the end of our improv shows when the score's been tallied and the winning team announced, the players get called off one by one. There are a few different ways that happens. One is "Chariots of Fire," where the theme song is played and we attack each other in slow motion until our name is called. Another one is "Rapid-Fire Joke Cavalcade" (or some variant on that name), where as our name is called, we step up and tell a quick joke before leaving the stage.

It's funny to see everyone scrambling for a joke to tell once we've been told we're ending with that. Really, how many "one-liners" does a person know? Not that many, as it turns out. And it's gotta be quick - no sloth jokes here, thank you. Groaners are allowed, too, and some of us specifically aim for that. Aside from the Norman Bates joke I told a while back, I tend to stick to one theme for my ending jokes:

Cannibals.

Sure, cannibalism in real life is no laughing matter. Frankly, I think it's because it's so not funny that jokes about it are funny. I'm sure you'll disagree and be disgusted by these, but this is the pool of cannibal jokes I draw from, depending on how I feel that particular day. "1C" means "First cannibal," and so forth.

1C (arriving at the feast): Am I late?
2C: Yes, everyone's eaten.

-----

1C: Your wife makes a good roast.
2C: Yes. I'll miss her.

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1C: I hate my mother-in-law.
2C: Well, try the potatoes.

-----

Q: Why don't cannibals eat clowns?
A: They taste funny

There you go - my favorite cannibal jokes. Remember, kids: cannibalism is bad. Don't do it!

Labels: improv, joke

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(Warning: morbidity ahead.)

Lately, when I shave, I find myself thinking about a section in the book Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers (you might recall I read it recently). One chapter detailed the author's visit to a funeral home where she watched the process of preparing a body for a memorial service. One of the steps was to shave the recently departed male's face, a tricky process because, as the funeral director said, "Nicks and cuts won't heal." They always use a new blade and the blade is thrown away immediately after. I shave in the shower (too much information, I know) and haven't cut myself shaving in years as a result (there's something about the steam and moisture in the air that helps). But still, every morning when I shave now, I think about that last shave I'll ever have. Weird.

This past Friday we ended our improv show with Rapid-Fire Joke Cavalcade. As The Voice calls off each person, the person steps up to the microphone and tells a fast joke before leaving the stage. Since it was Friday the 13th, before the show I suggested we have monster-themed jokes ready. But, really, there aren't that many monster-themed jokes. I remembered a couple from an old joke book I had read as a kid:

Q: What do monsters eat?
A: Things.
Q: What do monsters drink?
A: Coke. Because things go better with Coke!

Q: How does a monster count to 13?
A: On his fingers!

But neither of those was going to cut it. We brainstormed a little to see if we could come up with new (and better) monster jokes, but didn't really come up with any. I particularly wanted to do an updated one if I could, themed off a modern movie monster - Jason, Freddy, Michael Myers, one of those guys. But I couldn't think of anything. For some reason, I thought of Psycho, and I came up with this one:

Q: What does Norman Bates do for Mother's Day?
A: He shaves!

A couple of my fellow troupe members really liked it. The audience? Not so much.

Labels: improv, joke

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This fellow graduates from college with all the top musical honors they have.

At graduation, he is approached by a man who invites him to join their conservatory - a music "think-tank" if you will.

The young man agrees and is soon at the conservatory.

As he is getting the tour, the guide says, "Now, be very quiet" as he opens a door. Behind the door is a tropical setting, with a three-toed sloth hanging from a branch in the middle of the room. The young man is very confused.

When the door is closed, the young man asks about the sloth and the guide says, "Well, this is going to sound crazy, but every time we compose a new piece of music, we run it by the sloth. If he likes it, we know it's going to be good. If he doesn't, we destroy it because we know it will be bad."

The young man thinks this is odd, but accepts it - what's he going to do about it, after all?

A few weeks go by, and things are going great. He's feeling creative and challenged and at the top of his musical game. He's learning things he never dreamed of before - and every composition gets run by the sloth. Some he liked, some he didn't.

One morning, the young man rushes in to the group - his hair is disheveled, his eyes are red -

"I've been up all night, but this is the greatest thing I've ever written!!"

He shows it to them - it's got 13 treble staffs and 14 bass staffs - lots and lots of staffs.

Immediately they react negatively - "No, I'm sorry." "No." "Uh uh."

"What???" he says. "This is genius! I'm taking it to the sloth!"

"NO!" they yell in unison. "Don't do it!"

"I'm doing it!" he says and heads off to the sloth's room.

They try to stop him, but they are too late - the young man runs into the room. A few seconds later, horrible screams are heard and the young man is never seen again.

The moral?

Too many clefs roil the sloth.

Labels: joke

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