Viewer Mail

Dear Daddy,

I’m writing to you today to express my concern over several areas that, I think, warrant improvement.

First, I notice on your blog you have used my photograph without, as my attorney Mr. Poof-Poof puts it, “my express written consent”. You may consider this missive a demand to cease and desist. Furthermore, I have outlined a number of areas that are unacceptable and the way in which you and mother (hereafter referred to as ma-ma) can rectify said infractions.

My demands are as follows:

1. I want better “num-nums”... milk and oatmeal is fine, but how about the occasional “nanner”? Also, I hear steak is nice.
2. A stricter adherence to the “warm wet-wipes only” rule after I have done my - how can I put this delicately – business.
3. Speaking of waste disposal, no more cries of “Lord have mercy” or gagging sounds when removing my diaper. Seriously, you people act as if your shuey-poo doesn’t stink.
4. There appears to be some communication problem with the both of you. Just last night when I clearly indicated my need to unwind with a vintage bottle of Similac ’06 you mistook my cries for a request for snuggle time.
5. Finally, for the love of all that's holy, please, no more bi-lingual flash cards. Should I require the need to speak Esperanto at some point I'll deal with it then.

In conclusion, if my demands are not met there will be severe repercussions. I’ve spoken with some of the other babies in our area and we’re considering unionizing. Nothing is set in stone yet, but we have a charter and we’re tossing around ideas for cool uniforms.

Assuming that we infants are afforded the same rights as any other toothless, bladder-incontinent citizen of this country, and I submit to you that we are, then something is not right around here and needs to change, as the French say, tout-de-suit.

Sincerely,

Sammy

SB:pp

Behind the Music: W.E.S.

As I have pointed out on numerous occasions, when not working as an arc-welder in the greater Lodi area, I do a lot of charity work with the underprivileged. However, I also like to take a little time away every now and then. So it was a couple of years ago that I started moonlighting in a local rock band. We called ourselves Wendi’s Electric Stapler and we performed every 3rd Thursday in August and November at The Salad Shooter Juice Bar & Vegan Deli. We considered ourselves a Twee pop-Gothabilly-Grebo-Jangle-pop band. And although that’s hardly original, our true claim to fame was that we only did Jim Croce cover tunes.

When I first joined the band I met the woman pictured above, and this lovely yet diabolical woman haunts my waking nightmares to this very day. Her stage name was Lori, though she also went by L-Dog, Snake, and sometimes Peaches. We soon became embroiled in a whirlwind romance and shared the kind of cosmic symmetry of spirit that you only read about in Harlequin romance novels. In the beginning I was arrogant and cruel while she was innocent and chaste and spoke with a southern accent.

I'm not sure if you can make it out in the picture, but she has a tattoo on her arm that says "Larry & Peaches Forever". Well like Prince says, forever is a mighty long time and, "when you call up that shrink in Beverly Hills, you know the one, Dr. Everything'll-Be-All-right, instead of asking him how much of your time is left, ask him how much of your mind, baby". Anyway, it was at that moment, what alcoholics (and Jules Winnfield) refer to as a moment of clarity, that I realized either our relationship or my sanity was doomed.

As so often happens in the real world, everything ended in tears. My tears to be specific. She was an exacting woman, I remember a particularly nasty fight we once got into when I asked, “Where's the dog at?” and she replied, “don’t ever end a sentence in a preposition again or I’ll cut you”.

The worst was yet to come because, as with so many break-ups, politics would be our undoing. I remember the day she told me she advocated the plan for drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge like it was yesterday. “You’re willing to destroy a wildlife refuge and speed up what is sure to be the coming global apocalypse for just a few months worth of oil?” I asked incredulously. She said, “I’m not planning on going to Alaska anyway, so I doubt I’ll miss it”. On the other hand she was, she assured me, against drilling in Disneyland.

I was crestfallen. I tried everything I could think of to change her. I tried Therapy (not professional therapy, rather Therapy: The board game. It's surprisingly cathartic). I tried an intervention, a seance and a Pampered Chef party...I even called her close-minded, nothing worked.

You see, Lori was the worst kind of evil: She was a Republican. You might have noticed the red eyes in the picture and assumed it was a photographic anomaly caused by light reflecting off the retina - you couldn't be more wrong. That’s her actual eye color. Her eyes burn with a fire as if from a woman possessed. Anyway, it was over for us the day she stole the keys to my Prius and tried to run me over. The band broke up a few months later, and the rest as they say, is history.

Noblesse Oblige

Perhaps I should relate a bit of history so the reader can better understand what I like to call "the big picture"...

Long time fans of the site will remember last summer when I started my own business called Crazy Larry's House of Discount Cheese. Well, I won't rehash the entire story now, but suffice it to say that there is such a thing as bad publicity and even a relatively mild dysentery epidemic will scare off the lion's share of ones clientele.
At any rate, my earlier failure was probably a blessing in disguise as it allowed me to move on to an occupation that allows me to give something back to the community. Fast forward to today where I am currently employed as an arc-welder at the medium security Men's Correctional Facility in Lodi, California. It was in the daily course of my duties that I met the man pictured above.

As usual a person's privacy is sacrosanct here at the Spatulas news desk. I'll refer to him only by the completely chosen-at-random name "Barry" or by his prison name, "Baby Buns". Barry, I soon learned, had been a semi-professional ball player that everyone expected would go on to be the next Nomar minus the OCD. His downfall began the day he fell for a woman that convinced him armed-robbery was "cool".

I've been working with Barry for a while now and I've seen some marked improvement. I told him it was ok to cry (just not around me because that kind of stuff will get you stabbed here in "the joint"). I've also taught him to redirect his passion to constructive ends by turning him on to a personal cause of mine: the environment.

Finally, I passed along a verse that has proved invaluable to me over the years. In the immortal words of Meatwad from Aqua Teen Hunger Force:

“It doesn't matter what you look like on the outside, whether you're white, black, or Sasquatch, even. As long as you follow your dream, no matter how crazy or against the law it is... except for Sasquatch. If you're Sasquatch, the rules are different”.