Hamfisted U

Here at Hamfisted U, we offer many disengaging courses for students. Ones that help foster something we like to call, “the death of the mind.” This is a campus where you learn to unthink what you thought about thinking. We teach how to stay on the surface, skating across intellectual ponds like a Basilisk lizard. 

A few of our most popular classes this semester are “Cowardice: In Theory and Practice”, “Moral Depravity 101”, Finding Yourself in the Crowd: The Sublimity of Conformity”, “Not My Fault: Avoiding Responsibility Through Empowerment”,  “The Alchemy of Offense: How to Make Something Out of Nothing”, “Keep Digging: The philosophy of Making a Bad Situation Worse”, “Burn On: Environmentally-sound Library Recycling”, and everyone’s favorite, “Undefeated: Going Through Life Right About Everything.”

We care about your well-being. That’s why, despite climate change, we’re committed to keeping every student bundled up in down coats for the duration of their tenure. You might sweat at first, but you’ll learn to get through it. Once you realize there’s no room for individuality and everyone is wearing a parka in July, it’ll be just fine. Pick up special darkened sunglasses at the university bookstore for just $17.95, discounted for the rest of the month. Don’t worry, you won’t be able to see a thing. 

Oh, and this year, every student and teacher will get a number instead of a name. But guess what? It’s the same one for everyone. 

Zero. 

Spare Change

 

Years ago, too many to count, when every internet connection was accompanied by deafening static and a simple email was worth waking the neighbors, my family had a dog. This dog was springer spaniel, a good- looking pup, both regal and dignified. But the dog had issues. In an effort to make the perfect show animal, his owners tried to play God, engaging in rampant inbreeding. One day, the dog went mad. I prefer to remember the good times and not when he had forfeited each of his marbles in one fell bite. 

Why am I bringing this up now? Because I think of my dearly departed, clearly deluded, springer whenever news of the royal family props up. I see a lot of Prince Harry in my pooch. Which make sense. Both are shining examples of the dangers of inbreeding. A PSA for the cousin-loving. 

It’s easy to sit here in a relatively democratic country and criticize a flailing monarchy. It’s also fun. The thing is, Harry wouldn’t be the first. George III was a bit wackadoo, to put it mildly. Everyone knows about Nero. And the Burger King’s diet alone is quite alarming. So if Harry acts strange, you could just say it’s a royal family tradition. 

George Santos' Pantos

 

George Santos might look like a run-of-the-mill double-talking politician. But he’s a little different. This man has a glow, as well as an apparently successful clothing business. Even the toughest critics must acknowledge his unusual incandescence. And this incendiary panache, bona fide razzle dazzle, stems from the bottom up. To put it simply: he’s hot right now.

Are you allergic to the truth? Do you exaggerate events for sheer entertainment? Or lie about seemingly inconsequential details? If you just can’t help yourself from telling outright falsehoods, boy do we have clothes for you. Introducing, George Santos’ Pantos, fire-retardant pants for the liar in your life. Each pair is expertly ironed right on George’s walnut desk. Act now, before it’s removed as evidence in the forthcoming federal indictment. It's bolted to the floor, so bring your toolbox.

He’s solved the most pressing problem plaguing every fabulous fabulist: what to wear. It’s not practical to travel with a fire extinguisher, smoke detector, and bucket of water everywhere you go. This isn’t the heady days of Ben Franklin’s volunteer fire department, where you could come and go as you please despite constant blazes. What liars need are flame-retardant pants.

Because lying is hard enough without having to worry about the combustibility of your lower half. Liars deserve the freedom to fabricate without members of the public commenting on noticeable ash lines along their inseam or embers shaking loose from a burnt pant leg. You’d hate to commit perjury and get smoke inhalation. Talk about insult to injury. 

At GSP, we like to say, “liar, liar, no longer pants on fire.” Since time immemorial, inveterate prevaricators, grand fibbers and ordinary lying rat bastards were all forced to suffer for their sins. Whether it was toasted thighs, singed unmentionables, or a general sense of dread following every move, their daily lives were never free from the threat of bodily harm. 

We have perfected the latest in trouser technology, allowing for extra legroom to fit a lifetime of deceit. You’re now able to spin a wild yarn without ever losing the plot, or a thread. Here’s how it works. Whenever someone like George tells a real whopper, a spark starts somewhere between the fly and cuff. That’s where the real trouble begins. Only a true psychopath can soldier through a tall tale while his legs ignite in flames. This is when and where we earn our keep. Inside the legs, are tiny sprinkler heads, dozens of them, which go off like an aquatic symphony. It's quite a sight when you see it for the first time. Now, to the untrained eye, it may look like you have a faulty bladder. But that’s merely how it looks. Water dries in time, second degree burns, not so much. 

You’re lying to yourself if you think this deal will last forever. And that’s the only person we can’t lie to. Everyone else is fair game. While the emperor has no clothes, the freshman congressman sure has nice pants. Act now before this deal, like George’s political career, goes up in smoke. 

"Dry" January

 

Lots of people kick off the new year with a locked liquor cabinet. Great, good for them. My issue is not with their beverage choices, but with the imprecise language they so freely use to describe this development. They call it “dry January.” That’s odd, since water is wet. So is coffee. And tea. And juice. And yes, Arnold Palmers. You see, “dry January”, while admirable is tragically incomplete. 

What’s so hard about sticking to solids for a single month? It might have some lasting consequences, but it will show everyone you know that you’re deadly serious about linguistics. A dry January should encompass more than what you consume. It should be an attitude, as well as a way of life. 

I am expecting large deliveries of commercial grade sand, playground wood chips, and exceedingly long grain rice. These are the hallmarks of a dry month, not the abstention of beer and wine at an industry happy hour. 

I don’t want to hear any jokes that are understood after the first utterance. Wit, like a new raincoat, must be dry, too. Dry cleaning, but no washing. That includes underwear and dishes. Soups are off limits as well. 

Still thirsty and in need of a workaround? Bite into a fresh cactus and thank me in February. 

Bob Dylan runs on Dunkin'

 

Q:        Why is the “crew from Dunkin’ Donuts” thanked?

A:        Because they were compassionate, supportive and they went                the extra mile.

- Interview with Bob Dylan, The Wall Street Journal, December 19, 2022

Bob Dylan has always taken great care in cultivating a persona as an inscrutable interview subject. But now, after over sixty years in the public eye making journalists squirm, he finally let the mask slip. We can all stop wondering about the meaning behind his greatest songs, some of which have entered the pop music canon. What were once Dylan dead ends are now doughy digressions. So let’s go back to the beginning and reframe the career of the twentieth century’s finest troubadour.

Many have wondered how Robert Zimmerman of Hibbing, Minnesota became Bob Dylan. The mystery is mercifully over. Dylan, like doughnut, as well as Dunkin’, conveniently starts with the letter “D” and is just two syllables long. Let’s abandon the notion that the songwriter wanted a name redolent of a certain alcoholic Welsh poet.

On his highly acclaimed second album, The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan, there are several hit songs with previously ambiguous meanings. “A Hard Rain’s a-Gonna Fall” is not about the coming atomic apocalypse, but rather, how volatile sugar becomes when reaching its melting point. “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right,” is not about lost love, but instead a motivational mantra Dylan would say in the mirror after a wildly indulgent, increasingly routine, pastry-rich breakfast. “I Shall Be Free” was his meditation on a world where all baked goods are given away, gratis, no longer the subject of capricious markets. And yes, “Blowin’ In the Wind”, while important during the Civil Rights movement, is actually a reference to common post-snack flatulence; a movement with different implications, but a movement all the same. 

“The Times They are a-Changin’” was Dylan lamenting the expansion of Dunkin’ chains throughout the country. Though he loved their product, he worried about the loss of Mom-and-Pop doughnut shops and whether the country would become one giant strip mall. Oh, how prescient he was.

At Newport in 1965, Dylan went electric after watching a deep fat fryer in action, mesmerized by the scalding oil, and not as some reaction to the inherent limitations of the acoustic guitar. Prior to that epiphany, he hired harmonica player Paul Butterfield solely for his name, believing it would be a boon to his own notorious sweet tooth.

He was called “Judas” in 1966 at a show in Manchester, England, because of the unfounded rumor that he was on a diet for the entire tour. This helps explain why he included “Ballad of a Thin Man” on the same setlist to disabuse fans of this damaging misapprehension.

We can now say with some degree of certainty that his motorcycle accident, which occurred July 1966 in Woodstock, New York, was the result of a massive oil leak. But not the sort most mechanics are familiar with. Apparently, he was mixing the oil meant for frying with what’s typically used in a two-stroke internal combustion engine.

He skipped Woodstock in 1969 because of the emphasis on drugs over dessert.

“Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door” was about Dylan’s own brush with death after eating three dozen old fashioned doughnuts right before The Concert for Bangladesh. George Harrison was furious, since the purpose of the celebrity revue was to raise awareness for, among other things, starvation.

During his time writing, recording, and touring with The Band, the only source of tension arose from arguments over which was better, Dunkin’ or Tim Horton’s. Seeing as four of five Band members hailed from Canada, Ontario, specifically, they favored the latter. In fact, The Basement Tapes took place in a basement because it was secure enough to store Dylan’s palettes of excess pastry dough growing exponentially with each new contract.

His supposed heavy drug problem in the mid-seventies was more likely a preoccupation with another popular white powder at the time: sugar.

Blood on the Tracks was not about his divorce to Sara Lownds, but rather, a reference to the raspberry filling commonly expelled onto a recording studio’s pristine carpet after a particularly zealous first squeeze. The original track listing was very different, with every song detailing a different aspect of the baking process. Side one featured, “Tangled Up in Spun Sugar,” “Simple Twist of Cinnamon,” “You’re a Big Doughnut Now,” “Idiot Blintz,” and “You’re Gonna Make Me Hypoglycemic When You Go.” Side Two, in typical Dylan fashion, took a darker turn, beginning with “Meet Me in the Morning, That Means Pre-Dawn Since This an Actual Working Bakery.” Then there were lesser-known tunes like, “Honey, Sprinkles and a Dollop of Fudge”, “If You Smell Her, Say Hello,” “Shelter from the Corn Syrup,” and of course, as the grand finale, “Buckets of Jelly.” The record company flipped out, and not in the good, pancake way. They revamped the album, removing all references to fried dough of any kind through overdubs. In the end, Dylan and his wife got divorced anyway, citing irreconcilable culinary differences.

Some interviewers have noticed over the years that Dylan’s eyes seem to glaze over almost immediately upon hearing the most banal of questions. Now, the culprit has been identified as glaze from a full-frontal assault on a sticky bear claw in the green room.

Beginning in the late seventies, his sudden “Christian period” can be directly attributed to the emphasis on unleavened bread during Passover. While not an indictment against Judaism exactly, it’s hard to compare a piece of matzah with a Boston Crème doughnut. Dylan returned to his ancestral faith when he realized Hanukkah, with its focus on oil, was, when done right, an eight-night fried food bacchanalia.

Dylan toured with The Grateful Dead in the eighties because Jerry Garcia, one of the very few portly heroin addicts, surely knew a good bakery when he saw (or smelled) one.

The Traveling Wilburys big hit, “Handle with Care” was about the delicate nature of certain stuffed pastries.

The famous video of Dylan going through the motions during the recording of “We Are the World” was due to a sudden and debilitating sugar crash.

Bob Dylan continues to travel the world on his so-called Never Ending Tour. He keeps at it not out of money concerns, a passion for music, a love of art, but for the fact that touring is still a good excuse for “cheat days” and an easy way to get free food.

Many wondered why Dylan wore sunglasses when President Obama gave him the Medal of Freedom. Oh, it’s just Bob being Bob. Wrong. His eyes were completely bloodshot from an all-night buttery biscuit bender.

He tried to eat his Nobel Prize 18-karat gold medal, convinced it was chocolate; oversized gelt worth 10 million Swedish kroner. He spent the next six weeks getting a brand-new pair of chompers.

And finally, Bob Dylan’s six-decade relationship with Columbia records has garnered the artist a ton of dough. Who could have known all along it was literally just that.  

Lipstick on a pig

The reason why putting lipstick on a pig isn’t enough is the same reason you can’t only put lipstick on a nude person and expect them to ace their job interview without first turning a few heads. It takes more than that to doll oneself up for a big day. So if you’ve heard someone utter this phrase, and you’re anything like me, you scoff at the notion. There is a way to help a pig out though.

If you want your porcine pal to be taken seriously by captains (and first mates) of industry, here are a few obvious pointers. You could take your little bacon boy to a tailor to get fitted for a nice Italian suit. Even the biggest ones, say a wild boar, won’t require as much fabric as your typical big man. You could then get some shoes, as long as you remember to buy four and not simply a pair. You could go for a porkpie hat, too. 

Animals don’t want to be naked in public any more than your person does. But simply giving them a fresh stick of rouge is barely enough to pucker up. Pigs want to be respected and seen as fully human. Maybe not human, but something sentient. Somewhere between a dog and a parakeet on the scale of people pleasers. 

So give your pigs more than makeup. Buy them a pair of aviators and a bowtie, an argyle vest and some slacks. Lipstick is like icing on a cake, the cherry on top, the pickle jutting out of your oversized sandwich. It’s the last thing you worry about. An exclamation point for the sartorially challenged. 

The Problem with Stick Figures

 

You’re probably thinking it’s a harmless doodle, scribbled on the back of a slightly moist coaster following a night on the town. You only drew it because you received complimentary crayons with the appetizers. You didn’t mean anything by it, you’re not an artist. It was to make a point, or to the pass the time. But stick figures are an abomination. Outlines are by definition incomplete, a sign of hopefully better things to come. Not here. With stick figures, there is no improvement, only acceptance of mediocrity and fantasy. 

Not only do they promote unrealistic body standards, but they also teach children that perspective means nothing. That all the learning our species has achieved since the Dark Ages is of little consequence on this bar stool. What would Vermeer say? Rembrandt? I’m just glad they aren’t around to see it. 

What am I even looking at? Stick figures are barely sticks and hardly figures. There’s no anatomy to speak of. They aren’t rugged tree people, covered in bark and leaves, susceptible to weather, changing with the seasons.

So the next time you consider making a stick figure, consider giving them an identity. Who is this noseless, hairless, shoeless idiot dancing across your cocktail napkin anyway? Only you can answer that question. And how ‘bout giving them a few more lbs? It's not like they're going to weigh down the paper.