Who gives a shit about National Bubble Bath Day? We surely don't. National Take Your Grand Kid Out to Lunch Day? Fuck that, and your grand kid, too. For the really fun days, the ones that nobody else has the imagination to celebrate, visit . . . The Book of Daze℠.
Your Daily Ganjascope
A half-century's worth of smoking pot has led us to conclude that horoscopes are more fun and more accurate when you're stoned...and they're even better when the person who wrote them was stoned, too. If you're looking to turn over a new leaf, visit Ganjascopes
The Grammar Prick
Meaner than a 250-pound lesbian Language Arts teacher, The Grammar Prick will split your head if you split an infinitive or if you dare misuse penultimate. Visit The Grammar Prick.
National Write Your Own Obituary Day Nov 12, 2020 - 7:30
WEST GOSHEN TWP, PA–We are constantly told by lawyers, estate planners, the AARP, and other mountebanks that dying without a will is an act of passive-aggressiveness toward our "loved" ones...whom we have effectively cut out of our wills. We are forever being reminded that one fine day the road will rise up to meet us only because we have toppled forward onto our faces dead.
We were pondering this one day while sitting in a supermarket with our left arm in the cuff of one of those free-blood-pressure-reading machines. Then it hit us: No one is truly prepared for death who hasn't written his or her obituary.
There is no arguing that an obituary is the most important statement about most people...unless they were fortunate enough to have had biographies written about them. Yet few ordinary people devote to their obituaries the time they deserve. Such neglect is puzzling. Couples obsess over their you-complete-me wedding vows, and marriage does not always last. Death does. Therefore an obituary should be a lovingly molded statement.
Unfortunately that is seldom the case. As anyone who reads obituaries knows, most of them sound like the work of amateurs, grieving relatives, or low-paid staff writers at best. How tragic. The thought of dying is only somewhat more disturbing than the thought of one's obituary being written by a stranger who isn't attuned to the nuances of language or...worse yet...who splits infinitives. One splits hairs or checks...not infinitives.
Our mother got around the obituary dilemma by specifying in her will that she did not want an obituary. Neither did she have a viewing or a public funeral. She must have been furious with someone to whom she did not want to give the satisfaction of knowing she had croaked. At first we thought Mother's approach was a perversely swell idea, then we realized that if a writer died without an obituary, people might think he had died of writer's block, a condition known as dying tabula rasa.
Consequently after the blood-pressure cuff in the supermarket had released its death grip on our arm, we realized that we wouldn't know true peace until we had composed our obituary. We rushed home, cleared the calendar for the rest of the day...unlike Nature, we adore a vacuum...and went to work. We present the fruit of our labors below as a way of demonstrating the ideal for which to strive in obituary lit.
Throughout his life, which, he regrets to inform you, ended recently, Phil Maggitti defied expectations. His father expected him to be a priest; his mother expected him to heal the sick; his teachers expected him to spend most of his adult life in prison; his basketball coach expected him to pass the ball occasionally; his friends expected him to return their calls; and his editors expected him to meet deadlines.
Mr. Maggitti, an only child and happy to be one, displayed a facility with words at an early age. He wrote battle reports in a wry, faux Hemingway style describing the encounters between the plastic cowboys and Indians that were the only playmates of his youth. His devoted mother encouraged the development of his narrative voice by taping pull quotes from his reports on the refrigerator. His working class father, upon going to the refrigerator for a snack one evening and encountering, "Smoke rose from the campfire in a seductive dance," remarked testily, "That boy needs to spend more time playing outdoors."
After a sylvan interlude in prep school, Mr. Maggitti took a degree in English at St. Joseph's University in Philadelphia. There he acquired a love for trench coats, Fitzgerald, and foreign films. Upon graduating he taught English in junior high school for ten years, often referring to himself as "the foreign language teacher."
A profound dislike for children and the inability to function in groups larger than one led Mr. Maggitti to court a solitary muse. During his most productive writing years, 1980 to 2000, he wrote eight books and more than eight hundred articles. His best known work focused largely on animals, whose company he preferred to that of most people. His Postcards From the Pug Bus, a charming collection of anecdotes and reflections inspired by his devoted pugs, is destined to be a classic in its field.
Beginning in 2004, Mr. Maggitti amused himself...and occasionally others...with a satirical website, Postcards From the Pug Bus, which made enough of an impression on the web to be featured in a New York Times article in 2008. Neither that article, the predictable overture from an agent, or getting kicked off Google News for unsuitable content and/or language gilded the rising Pug Bus lily. The site remained, nevertheless, more offensive than ever, topping out at 1,369 articles in the summer of 2020 before being redesigned.
As Mr. Maggitti was an inveterate non-joiner, his estate requests that in lieu of donations to worthy causes, people should send back anything they have borrowed from him...or a check in the amount of that item's current replacement value. You know who you are, and so do his executors.
We have never bought that nonsense about everyone's death diminishing us. We are all in this alone. We strongly suspect, however, that our own death will diminish us greatly. Therefore when the bell does toll for us, we're going to let the answering machine pick up, and it's going to be set for "announcement only."
Our editor in briefs holds forth on why he doesn't want to be called a white person; the evil that is Mick Jagger; and more!"
West Chester, PA, is home to a public-embarrassment Jackass has-been; a virtue-signalling, marching-band ex-normal school; and the goddamn QVC shopping headquarters. That should be good for a mean-spirited, condescending local news story from time to time.
The Pug Bus Quiz Challenge
No rhetorical questions allowed. No penalties for guessing wrong. Find out just how much you do know about Schrödinger’s cat and other neat shit."
Postcards the Book
The book that inspired a website was written by someone who was actually raised by pugs. Postcards is a welcome addition to any nightstand.