Fun With 45’s
Category: Funny
Invitation To Repose
We passed this house on Saturday, in an older part of a nearby town. And while I realize its closets are probably small, and the bathrooms lack garden tubs, and the pantry could not fit a twin bed like ours can, and the hardwood floors probably squeak–I sure do covet that double-tiered wraparound porch. It almost demands that one saunter out to it, master of all you survey. What a joy to be headmistress of all you survey!
Sitting out there, sipping lemonade, thumbing through Southern Living magazines, waving to my neighbors–sounds peaceful. I would turn my ear to the melody of the ice cream truck, and it would stop just shy of my property, and children would race to catch it. They would pay $4 for a fudge bomb, and that would put me on edge. Perhaps I would rise from my rocker and raise my shaking cane at the man and his avarice. I would curse him and his dairy products. He would ignore me because I am old, and old people are invisible.
Wait, this isn’t turning out how I had hoped it would.
Career Advisor Monday
God forbid I ever have to work in an office again, but it’s good to know I have options, should circumstances mandate a return to the work force.
You men need not feel left out. Granted, Mrs. Vernice Fritts is never going to hire you for stimulating phone work. But you have options as well in the communications field.
See? You can work in labs and stuff, maybe sit at a drafting table. Didn’t Mr. Brady have one?
And for those of us who run a home, we are so fortunate to have electricity to assist in our dreary labors! “Electricity does her laundry for less weekly than the cost of a bar of soap” Um, I beg to differ.
I like her apron, I like her enthusiasm, and her ability to balance plates. However, she clearly has a tendency to procrastinate. Even a Thanksgiving meal doesn’t warrant five dozen plates. She should have paced herself. Nobody likes a Last Minute Martha. Why didn’t she tackle them yesterday? It’s not like she had to update her facebook status. Or return emails. Or tweet. Or hit Gold’s Gym for an hour of treadmill and hot yoga. Come to think of it, what did she do all day?
Homely Flappers Were A Drag
Dimes Day, Not Doomsday
That’s an inviting look Lady Cashier is sharing with young Anson, no? The touch of her fingertips against his calloused palm is almost more than she can process.
And speaking of looks, check out the glare on Lady Flamenco in the Carmen Miranda knockoff.
Perhaps her date ditched her before the clock chimed midnight? I think that’s he on the toilet in the corner. Either way, she’s got John Turturro within grabbing distance, wearing touchably soft trousers, thirsty for punch. Time to make your move, Private Dancer. Game on.
No, Virginia, There Were No Rules In 1978
During the 1977 University of Texas football season, the drinking age was 18, probably because boys that age were asked to die in Vietnam. But let’s wrap our heads around that. High school seniors graduating across the country TOMORROW would legally be able to go get LIT tonight. At a bar. Yes, selfie-taking teenagers. The ones who text and drive. The ones who were born in 1996, the year George Burns turned 100. You think they would make it to 100, car-surfing past the Incidentals Market like these dolts?
Alas, we forget how foolish we were in our salad days. This is what it felt like to be young, male, and jubilant in 1978.
Were there no seatbelt laws then? Because it appears they may have failed to Click It or Ticket. I can’t fathom why, but the drinking age was raised to 19 in 1979, and further raised to 21 in 1984. And there it shall stay. And there it SHOULD stay. Egads!
Title Not Necessary
I Got Your Cowbell Right Here
Girl, You Crazy
Blowing In The Wind
In case you didn’t know, the Denton High School marching band is awesome. Their jersey shirts tell you so.
Hard work, perseverance, and dedication will take this band all the way to state. It doesn’t hurt that Alan can really blow. 
Jill and Dana are just happy to have an excuse to skip family Uno night each Friday. Jill gets her rebellion on by donning the purple eye shadow that Mom says makes her look like a Runaround Sue, and Dana has splashed her entire being with Jean Nate in an effort to entice Alan. And after the game, it’s endless Capri Suns and Fritos with bean dip!
If Alan is oblivious as usual, maybe she can spark some interest from Josh. Who wouldn’t want to be around Josh, when his enthusiasm is so palpable?
All Hail The Dork King
Hear ye, hear ye! All ye dweebs and jocks, preppies and new-wavers! All hail the dork king, astride his steed (which resembles a dragon, an homage to his Dungeons and Dragons skills).
I played my drum for Him, pa rum pum pum pum.
The crowd goes nuts! A damsel with a parasol tosses Brach’s candies as a sign of support for the new regime!
Competition to be his queen is fierce! Tammy gives him a wink while shamelessly putting her crafty crepe paper skills on display. 
Bonnie Tyler lyrics run through her head. She can hardly keep her wits about her.
Isn’t there a white knight upon a fiery steed?
Late at night I toss and turn and dream of what I need!
Not to be outdone, Travis plunges through her crepe paper mayhem, as though lassoed by her wiles. 
No need to hold out for a hero any longer, Tammy! I am here with my hairless chest and my peachfuzz ‘stache at your command!
Whom shall she choose?
Cloudy With A Chance That One Of You Drove A Camaro Z28
Who could it be now? Ted, Shawn, or Michael?
It’s a tough call, but my money’s on Shawn. I can see the rumpled Code Bleu jacket in the back seat, next to a can of New Coke, a ticket stub for Rambo: First Blood II, and an empty Dokken cassette case. You rock so hard, Shawn.
While we’re at it, who’s the proud owner of that black Trans-Am that always screeches into the roller rink near closing time, scouting pubescent girls in banana clips and Esprit blouses?
Is it Ben, Larry, or Franswya? Ben is bringing the preppy Blaine vibe, but I heard he drives a totally rad Ford Bronco. Larry is not allowed to operate heavy machinery until he’s done participating in the clinical trial, so it must be Fran, giddy as heck.
I do hope that Franswya is not an alternate way of spelling François, but either way, he’s in his 40s now, so he’s at peace with the name. It’s not quite as unsettling to me as boys named Kameron, but like the overrated movie Frozen (really, what was the BIG deal?), I’ll let it go. Let’s focus instead on Bob.
What about Bob? I don’t care if those keys are to his Porsche 944, I’m not going. I’m taking the school bus home today.
I Don't Get It 