Best Shooter

One of the best marksmen in the FBI was passing through Basile, La.. Everywhere he saw evidences of the most amazing shooting. On trees, on walls, and on fences there were numerous bull’s-eyes with the bullet hole in dead center. The FBI man asked one of the townsmen if he could meet the person responsible for this wonderful marksmanship. The man turned out to be a Mr. Thibodeaux.

“This is the best marksmanship I have ever seen,” said the FBI man. “How in the world do you do it?”

“Mais, it’s nuttin to it,” said Thibodeaux.. “I shoot first den draw da circles around it.”

……..

Strange fact: In the early nineties, the Louisiana state Highpower rifle champion was, ironically, employed by the US Postal Service in Lafayette, Louisiana…

The Name Game LXI

So it’s Sunday morning, and all the bad weather has moved through. Friday night was filled with some serious thunderstorms and we woke up Saturday morning to water draining off from some record rainfall. This morning, sun is shining as the clouds move off.

So I pick up the morning paper and there are two hospitals reporting a total of 70 births, 27 to unwed parents, and of those, nine of the new mommies have decided to forgo the inclusion of a father for the newborn. That is, except for that one brief moment, anyway.

Oddly, this week’s offerings include NO triples, somehow a disappointment. Getting on with the process:

Jacob & Anne B. have a new daughter, little Chastity (not bad…) Kadelyhn. Oh, they HAD to get fancy on the middle name.

Miss Kimberly D. & Mr. Cliff W. present their new daughter, Winter Catherine. Well, at least it’s different than all those little girls named “Summer”.

Jeremiah & Kandice S. have a new son, Jaxon tyler. Notice how they avoided that “ck” thing…

Miss Reba G. and Mr. Andre P. got all hinky with capital letters with their new son, little DaAndre DaPaul. Notice the daring use of the double “aA” in DaAndre…

Jason and Nicole O. present their new daughter, little Jaedah Oliviya.

A little punctuation?. Miss Kayla M. & Mr. Shannon R. have a new baby girl, Sivana Sonnae’. Okay, you tell me: what advantage does “Sivana” have over “savannah”? There’s got to be something…

And also dropping a tiny bit of punctuation, Mr. & Mrs. Shannon H. have a new baby girl too, little Shandyn Lynnae’.

Mr. & Mrs. Nicholas W. saved a letter in their daughter’s first name, Adison, and made up for it in her middle name, Leight. Oh, and they named their daughter “–son”.

Miss Kimberly H. has a new son, Courtlyn Tage. “Tage”?

Mr. & Mrs. Jacob A. have a dim view of the ability of the population to parse out names these days. Fearing that “Chloe” would be too hard to figure out, they named their baby girl Kloey Rayne.

Mr. & Mrs. Dustin B. named their new son Eastyn Blaze. I can’t help but get a mental image of a professional stripper of the female persuasion out of that.

Of course, a few days later Mr. & Mrs. Marshall W. returned balance to the universe by naming their new son Wston Reed. Eastyn — Weston. Hah!

And the whole name thing was in the media this week as Dear Abby waded into the battle.

PLAYING THE BABY NAME GAME IS EVERY MOTHER’S PREROGATIVE

By Abigail Van Buren Tue Dec 26, 8:05 PM ET

DEAR ABBY: I read the letter on Nov. 22 from the mother who was concerned about how her stepdaughter is going to spell her daughter’s name, which will be Jasiela (pronounced Gisella). And you, of all people, agreed that she should speak with the mother about spelling?

Abby, that is the joy in naming your child! You get to choose the name and how to spell it. The unusual spelling of a child’s name is what makes the child unique. For that mother to take that away from the mother-to-be, well, it’s none of her business! The child will learn to spell her name, as she will other difficult words in life. I feel the mother is entitled to name her child whatever she’d like, as long as the husband agrees. — SHAWN IN WEST VIRGINIA

Now, you know how I feel about this. Shawn is an idiot, but he’s in plentiful company. And they attacked poor Abby, as she notes:

DEAR SHAWN: One of the most interesting things about writing my column is not knowing how the public will react. When I answered that letter, I had no idea that some readers would react like angry hornets. I was trying to be logical, but there are strong feelings on both sides of the subject. Read on:

DEAR ABBY: As a soon-to-be new mom, I take exception to the arrogance people show regarding naming children. Because it is not a name that everyone is familiar with does not mean that it’s not a good one. And spelling is in the eye of the beholder! I am appalled that people would couch their displeasure for a name under the guise of “for the sake of the child.” I would encourage that writer to MYOB. I know if I were the stepdaughter and she said something to me, I would not be happy about it at all. — FUTURE MOTHER TO IAN OR MIKAYLA IN MASSACHUSETTS

Now, “Future Mom” is one of those idiots. I can give her “Because it is not a name that everyone is familiar with does not mean that it’s not a good one.” but let’s make it a real name, not a random selection of syllables of no significance. And her next statement is stupidity in action: “And spelling is in the eye of the beholder!” She’s right, though. When faced with one of those names, this particular beholder thinks that somewhere there’s a parent who is more concerned about the immediate gratification of a cute name than the long-term implications of a person spending the rest of his life explaining how to spell (and pronounce) Mikayla.

DEAR ABBY: I was given an unusual name. I have had to instruct everyone from teachers, students and co-workers as to how it is pronounced and the correct spelling. Does this mean my parents didn’t know the “correct” spelling of my name? I wholeheartedly say NO!

I have also chosen to give my children unusually spelled names, names that were chosen with careful thought and consideration as to spelling and pronunciation. A name is something to cherish and live up to. My children have been and will continue to be taught this throughout their lives.

If the grandmother-to-be is concerned about the name, she should start thinking of a good nickname to give the child. — KLISTA IN IDAHO

Other than the obvious question of how you live up to a name nobody’s ever heard of before, how do you go through life sounding like an approximation of an anatomical feature?

And some parents DON’T know how they spelled the baby’s name. Some parents don’t know how to spell, PERIOD! And when you ” have had to instruct everyone from teachers, students and co-workers as to how it is pronounced and the correct spelling”, they were all thinking, why isn’t she named “Becky”?

DEAR ABBY: I did a Google search on the baby name databases. One of the better ones I queried was Parenthood.com. It shows the male name “Jasiel” and identifies it as a biblical name meaning “the strength of God.” Obviously, then, “Jasiela” is the feminine form of the name.

Your advice seemed off-putting. “Hesitant” is well-meaning, but she should mind her own business. And for you to assume that Mum didn’t know the correct spelling — well! That was a presumptuous remark and certainly not in your normally empathetic style. I think this is one of the rare times that you blew it, Abby! — LEANNE R. IN CANADA

Now Leanne has a good idea: Let’s throw together a made-up name and then Google it to see if it means anything at all… and then decide how you want to pronounce it…

DEAR ABBY: My siblings and I grew up with unusual names for the United States — Deirdre (dear-dra), Aisling (ash-ling), St. John (sin-gin) and, easiest of all, Becket, pronounced as spelled. True, it wasn’t always easy, but our teachers learned something new, and today, as adults, we love our names and are happy our parents ignored convention. — DEIRDRE IN EKER, SWEDEN

Dierdre’s parents were probably into some undocumented pharmaceuticals when they were naming kids. Becket? Which one? The historical English archbishop who was murdered, or the nautical term for an eye through which one hitches a line? St. John (sin-gin)? Aisling (ash-ling)?

Seriously, I don’t get excited about people of other countries naming their offspring with names common in their countries of origin. After all, an American “John” is a German or Scandinavian “Johann” is a French “Jean” is a Celtic “Sean” or “Ian”. What I find off-putting is the pretentious application of foreign names to American babies with the implication that it is a sign of some sophistication… If you name your kids Malik Hussein Jones, I tend to think you’re an idiot.

Of course, the next day, Abby shows here fairness by presenting the other side:

UNUSUAL NAMES CAN TRIP UP KIDS AT SCHOOL AND IN LIFE

By Abigail Van Buren Wed Dec 27, 8:05 PM ET
DEAR READERS: Yesterday I printed some of the letters I received from readers who felt I was wrong to advise a stepmother to caution her stepdaughter about giving her baby a name that will be pronounced differently than it is spelled. Today, I’ll share the thoughts of those who felt my advice was on target. Read on:

DEAR ABBY: Thank you, thank you, thank you for your response concerning the odd spelling of a baby’s name! I have worked in the public school system and in customer service, and I speak for many when I say that nothing is more annoying than trying to figure out how to pronounce or spell an invented name. It’s also frustrating for the owners of the names, who must spend their lives explaining to people how to spell and pronounce the names their parents stuck them with.

Some parents (usually young ones) seem to think a weird name is “cute.” Nothing is further from the truth. Thank you for having the courage to speak out for babies who have no choice in the matter. — LINDA IN PHOENIX

Linda is correct.Can you imagine yourself an elementary school teacher trying to learn how to spell and pronounce “Ja’Layzha Nevaeh“, and then telling an irate momma that her baby is the only one in the class who can’t spell her name…

DEAR ABBY: I have worked as a nurse for more than 25 years in newborn nurseries. Too often people give cute and original names that only end up being a burden. Many a time have I asked a child’s name, only to hear one that will make that child cringe in the future. And often, these same parents go out of their way to make the spelling impossible!

Suggestion: Give a basic middle name the child can fall back on if needed. Please remember that in the flash of an eye, that baby will be in school, where other children will be cruel. — R.N. FROM ALBUQUERQUE

Suggestion: Save the energy you were going to use inventing a name and go get your own life instead of trying to get one through your new kid.

DEAR R.N.: You’re right. A woman once wrote me that her daughter intended to name her baby girl Diana Rhea, which I emphatically discouraged.

We could get really snarky here with apocryphal stories about babies named Placenta and Gonorrhea (pronounced with emphasis on the second syllable: Go-NOR-ee-ah) but we won’t…

DEAR ABBY: That letter reminded me of a story my mother, a retired schoolteacher, told me about one of her students. His name was spelled on all school documents as “Demacus,” so that’s how all the school officials and all the boy’s friends pronounced it.
One day, the boy’s mother came to pick him up from school, heard the teacher call the boy “Demacus,” and became indignant that she was “mispronouncing his name — it’s DemaRcus!” The teacher pointed out that his name was spelled without the “R” on all his paperwork, and the mother grew even more irate, stating, “Well, I don’t know how to spell it, but it’s DemaRcus!”
If you can’t spell it, please pick another name! — JENNIFER IN TEXAS

The one I read somewhere on the internet is where a social services worker called to inquire about service for a new child, and the new mommy turned from the phone and yelled, “Momma, how we spell da baby name?”

DEAR ABBY: Thank you for pointing out the social implications of odd name spellings. I encountered a little boy who, I am sure, has felt the impact of this every day of his life. His name is Jade. His mother pronounced it something like Zhar-day. When she told me, I looked at that beautiful little boy, shook my head and said, “I’m sorry.” — CHARLES IN HUNTSVILLE, ALA.

And there’s a parent still marveling at the huge burst of sophistication evidenced by the goofy pronunciation of a pretentious name.

And this last comment from Abby’s column is the voice of somebody who has lived with his parents’ poor choice:

DEAR ABBY: I can tell you first-hand that an unusual name can be a handicap socially and in business. My mother shortened a family name and added an ending that comes from a language not in my bloodline. It was humiliating when I was growing up. People do not remember names because they are “unique.” No one ever forgets the name “Mary.”

I believe I have missed many business contacts because people felt awkward because they couldn’t remember my name, and it has caused trouble because documents and contracts often had to be redone due to a misspelling.

Please urge your readers to consider this when naming a child. Growing up and business life are hard enough to negotiate without having to fight for your identity every five minutes. Trust me. — “TM” IN KENTUCKY

Okay… That’s it for this week. You folks have a Happy New Year!

Damn! That was quick!

They do things fast when the country isn’t kowtowing to a bunch of bed-wetting liberals! Saddam Hussein has been hanged.

Saddam Hussein Hanged

NewsMax.com Wires
Saturday, Dec. 30, 2006

BAGHDAD — U.S.-backed Iraqi television station Al Hurra said Saddam Hussein had been executed by hanging shortly before 6 a.m. (0300 GMT) on Saturday.

If this was done here, he’d have died of old age in jail while liberal lawyers and judges granted him retrial after retrial. He’d be psychoanalyzed and reported to have been a victim of childhood abuse or some other reason would be found that it wasn’t his fault that he had thousands of his countrymen horribly killed.

Light posting alert!

Moving! I picked up my two darling children (!) this afternoon to spend the weekend with me. We made a load of stuff from the FEMAtorium to the new digs, then went to supper, then a trip to Books-a-Million, then a grocery run, and finally home. This’ll be the kids’ first weekend in the new house. Tomorrow we hope to finish the majority of the moving. Blogging may be erratic for the next couple of days.

Thoughts on Gerald Ford

The nation notes the passing of President Gerald Ford at the age of 93.

I was a young soldier when Gerald Ford was selected to be vice-president following the resignation of Spiro Agnew. He slid into a shadow immediately. The media and the Left was in the midst of its biggest surge in power, their heyday: They’d worried America into abandoning Viet Nam, and they were busy harrying Richard Nixon out of office. It was their glory time, and they had no room for stories about Gerald Ford.

When Nixon resigned, I was propped up in the little hospital at the US Army post in Grafenwoehr, Germany, waiting for an infection to clear up in a leg injury suffered in a training accident. The “Nixon Resigns” issue of the Stars and Stripes came out, and I think I breathed a sigh of relief just to think that the pain of the whole Nixon thing was over. To this day I am not sure as to his real culpability, especially when viewing the Clinton administration, but Nixon stepped down.

Gerald Ford took the oath, and we had a new president. He walked into the office having seen exactly how vulnerable that office can be in the face of a foamingly hydrophobic media, full of itself, backed by the political activists of the Left.

Gerald Ford carried himself honorably. Not spectacularly. There was no need of spectacle. There was need of recovery. And he performed admirably.

He ran for president at the next election, and I voted for him. We got Carter instead, quite possibly the worst president of the century.

President Ford went home and became an elder statesman. He was gracious, and ever-present, showing his face at the appropriate events. No dimmocrat former president since his reign has had that much poise. Carter and Clinton show up everywhere, but they don’t show their faces, they show their asses.

I appreciate Gerald Ford, not because he was perfect, for he wasn’t. I appreciate him because he stepped into the Presidency at its darkest hour in recent history, and he stood. And he wasn’t Jimmuh Carter or Bill Clinton.

That’s how to do it….

Let’s assume you’re an ambulance-chasing trial lawyer. And you’ve just experienced a losing election as a vice-presidential candidate. And you want to be taken seriously as you announce your intent to run for the dimmocrat nomination for president.

Don’t you just suppose that it would be a peachy-keen idea to slide your pretty-haired ass down to that greatest of all symbols of the failure of dimmocrat programs, New Orleans, where you can make your announcement in the close vicinity of a dimmocrat mayor who ignored hundreds of school buses while his constituents drowned, and where the elected delegate to the House of Representatives is on record as having stored $90,000 in his freezer while his closest business associate was convicted of international bribery? And the governor has the LOWEST approval rating of any dimmocrat governor in the whole country?

Don’t you just think that such a move will set that special tone for your whole laughable campaign?

Well, John Edwards does…

Excuse me for not blogging…

I know, I know… Nothing since Christmas Eve. Well, there was that Christmas thing, you know.

And yesterday was a scheduled holiday for my employer, so I didn’t have work things.

What I did have was getting set up in a new home. Yes, dear readers, after thirteen months in a FEMA trailer while various insurance issues and financial processes took place, I am finally in my new home. It is a step up from Rob’s old crackerbox, a double-wide mobile home. It wasn’t that easy a decision, but the housing market out here priced itself clear past the range I wanted to tackle at my age. My insurance paid off the old house well enough, but a house of equivalent size, age, and neighborhood almost doubled in price in post-Rita southwest Louisiana. I didn’t want to tackle the mortgage one of those, so I selected this position as a second line.

I’m sitting here in the new place right now, in a very neat, clean and highly structured mobile home community. It ain’t like the classic image of a trailer park. There’s not a single old car sitting up on cinder blocks, no old appliances in the front yard, no dogs running loose… pick your own stereotype. This place is nice.

Yesterday was spent getting telephone, cable TV, and I thought, internet connected. At the end of the day, I had two out of three. I got the internet finished this afternoon, complete with a wireless hub so I can do as I am doing now, sit in the den with the TV on, blogging from my laptop.

I still have moving to do, but I got the essentials out of the old place already. I will finish moving this weekend with the kids. That’s another thing: Finally, after a year, the kids will have enough space to stay with me. The two of them didn’t react well to being cooped up in that tiny little trailer. Here they have 2000 square feet to expand into, eight times the space of the FEMAtorium, and each has a bedroom, giving privacy that was not possible in the other place.

I was and still am very grateful for the FEMAtorium. Apartments are just now becoming available, although the prices on them went up considerably after Rita, too. The FEMAtorium was small, but it served the purpose for the time I spent in there. But I’m glad to be out.

I still have one more step here: the contractor has yet to install the guts to my heating system, so I am relying on a couple of little space heaters to knock the edge off the cool temperatures, but I don’t plan on having to go back to the little trailer.

Anyway, that’s the story…

The Name Game LX

It’s Christmas Eve, it’s fifty degrees, overcast and raining. In the local idiom, this is what is known as “gumbo weather”. It’s one of those days that just begs for a pot of hot, savory soup simmering on the stove to warm both house and heart. Anyway, I traipsed out to the road to pick up the morning paper in in one of the lulls in the rainshowers,

This morning’s paper has two hospitals reporting, both from across the river from me. One reports births from Nov. 22 to Dec 13, and the other reports from Nov. 7 to Dec. 13. Between them they report 124 births, 54 of which happened to unmarried moms, and 10 of those new mommies figured to NOT put a daddy’s name down for the new baby.

Starting off this morning, let us look at that group of folks who just sort of make up names on the spot, or at least that’s what it seems:

Miss Tiana J. reports the birth of her new son, little Kordae Eugene. I do believe that he’s the first Kordae I’ve seen.

Miss Robin H. & Mr. Joseph P. announce their new son, Jaxson Chase. I note fondly that they keep a couple of Louisiana traditions alive, alluding to the Jackson Brewing Company of New Orleans, gone but not forgotten, home of Jax beer, and also in the employment of the “X” in the boy’s name.

Justin & Faith T. have a new girl, Graysen Elizabeth, who will no doubt grow up wondering 1. Why’d her parents name her “son” and 2. Why can’t they spell it?

Miss Tawney M. has a new daughter, little Shea Nevaeh. “Shea neveah?” “Well, her momma did.” And there was no daddy around for the celebration, or at least his name don’t show up in the papers.

Miss Karrie B. & Mr. Anthony P. have a new son, named confusingly Trystanlee Nathanial” Now, is that pronounced “Tristan Lee” or “Try Stanley”?

Miss LaQuanda E. & Mr. Derrick R. Sr. announce their new daughter Derricka DaShayla. Note that Mr. Derrick is a SENIOR! And this means that somewhere there’s a little Derrick running around to go with the new little Derricka, and he still ain’t married nobody…

Mr. & Mrs. Bryan G. have a new daughter, little Maleigha Claire. Is that supposed to be pronounced “Malayia”. Is the sequel to be named Suematra”?

Next we have that group of folks who just couldn’t get by with a kid with only a first and middle name.

DePorres and Kimberly T. have their new baby girl, Sophia Maria Selena.

Miss Yvonne G and Mr. Dwayne M. announce their new son, little Nasir Jamaal-Edward. Note the sylish use of replica names of the Arab world…

Miss Sharman H. has a new daughter, too, little Skylar Grace-Ann. I figure it’s since whe wasn’t using those speces on the form where the daddy’s name goes…

And Miss Tanesha (see! It’s hereditary!) H. & Mr. Juston P. announce their new daughter, little Juniya Mary-Mechell. These people wouldn’t know a normally-spelled name if it ran up and bit them on the butt…

And lastly we have my favorites. These folks are innovators. Not bound by the inflexibility of those 26 letters of the alphabet, they expand their horizons to include punctuation.

We lead off this section with Miss Shavonda C. and Mr. Wilson S. and their new daughter, little Tryllana Var’Shay.

Next, Miss Shemekia L. and Mr.Craig D. have a new daughter, too. They tagged theirs with MaKayla Da’Shawn. Note that they didn’t use the apostrophe in the first name before the goofy-a**ed capital letter, but they did use it on the middle name. Is this a pattern?

Miss Syrita M. and Mr. Gregory M. (different “M”!) announce their new son, little Gregory Da’Monte.

Miss Kayla H. and Mr. Marcus T. announce their new daughter, Mi’Kyria Elynie.

Miss Yowanda C. has a new daughter, too, little Ja’Myiah Shante. Yowanda why she did sh*t like that? Me, too…

Miss Shemica M. & Mr. Jahmar G. announce their new daughter, little Jahmaria Da’Janae.

There is one name, though, that stands head and shoulders about the rest this week, though, and I have to make it the Name of the Week. therefore, let me present Miss Jasmine V. and Mr. Chadrick L, and their new son, little (hang on! The ride may be rough…) Ja’marion Ja’Kale Dywane.

And with that note, I bid you all a Merry Christmas…

This may help…

The new era starts soon. Our Republican congress failed miserably to act like they had any real convictions, and now come January the dimmocrats take over. I still remember the days of Tip O’Neal and Tom Foley and that bunch, when they ran Congress, and it wasn’t a happy time. I remember them bending the rules to get enough votes to pass Clinton’s anti-gun laws. I don’t suspect that the next few years is gonna be good for America.

Maybe this will help:

Pelosi H

I suspect not…

(From a post on CSP Gun Talk’s Political Page, by “reloader”)

The Cajun Twelve Days Of Christmas

No, I ain’t finished yet…

On dem first day of Christmas, my true love she gave to me:
A crawfish in a fig tree.

On dem second day of Christmas, my true love she gave to me:
Two voodoo dolls
And a crawfish in a fig tree.

On dem third day of Christmas my true love she gave to me:
Three stuffed shrimp,
Two voodoo dolls,
And a crawfish in a fig tree.

On dem fourth day of Christmas, my true love she gave to me:
Four pousse cafe’,
Three stuffed shrimp,
Two voodoo dolls,
And a crawfish in a fig tree.

On dem fifth day of Christmas,
I could not believe in all my days what she come up with:
Five poules d’eau,
Four pousse cafe’,
Three stuffed shrimp,
Two voodoo dolls,
And a crawfish in a fig tree.

On dem sixth day of Christmas, my true love she gave to me:
Six cypress knees,
Five poules d’eau,
Four pousse cafe’,
Three stuffed shrimp,
Two voodoo dolls,
And a crawfish in a fig tree.

On dem seventh day of Christmas, my true love she gave to me:
Seven fleur de lis,
Six cypress knees,
Five poules d’eau,
Four pousse cafe’,
Three stuffed shrimp,
Two voodoo dolls,
And a crawfish in a fig tree.

On dem eighth day of Christmas, my true love she gave to me:
Eight crabs a brewin’,
Seven fleur de lis,
Six cypress knees,
Five poules d’eau,
Four pousse cafe’,
Three stuffed shrimp,
Two voodoo dolls,
And a crawfish in a fig tree.

On dem ninth day of Christmas, my true love she gave to me:
Nine oysters stewin’,
Eight crabs a brewin’,
Seven fleur de lis,
Six cypress knees,
Five poules d’eau,
Four pousse cafe’,
Three stuffed shrimp,
Two voodoo dolls,
And a crawfish in a fig tree.

On dem tenth day of Christmas, my true love she gave to me:
Ten pirogue paddles,
Nine oysters stewin’,
Eight crabs a brewin’,
Seven fleur de lis,
Six cypress knees,
Five poules d’eau,
Four pousse cafe’,
Three stuffed shrimp,
Two voodoo dolls,
And a crawfish in a fig tree.

On dem eleventh day of Christmas, my true love she gave to me:
Eleven duck decoys,
Ten pirogue paddles,
Nine oysters stewin’,
Eight crabs a brewin’,
Seven fleur de lis,
Six cypress knees,
Five poules d’eau,
Four pousse cafe’,
Three stuffed shrimp,
Two voodoo dolls,
And a crawfish in a fig tree.

On dem twelveth day of Christmas, my true love she gave to me:
Twelve shotgun shells,
Eleven duck decoys,
Ten pirogue paddles,
Nine oysters stewin’,
Eight crabs a brewin’,
Seven fleur de lis,
Six cypress knees,
Five poules d’eau,
Four pousse cafe’,
Three stuffed shrimp,
Two voodoo dolls,
And a crawfish in a fig tree.

** Notes: a pirogue (pronounced pee-roh) is a flat-bottomed canoe; fleur de lis is the flower of the french kings and the New Orleans Saints football symbol; cypress knees are the roots of a cypress tree that sticks out of the water; poules d’eau (pronounced pool-doh) is chicken or hen of the water – ie: a coot or duck; pousse café (pronounced poose kaffay) is coffee with a bit of alcohol in it; and Cajuns are the Americans who left France, got run out of Canada and now live in southern Louisiana.

A CAJUN 12 Days of Christmas

ANOTHER TAKE ON THE OLD FAVORITE…

Day 1. Dear Emile, Thanks for da bird in the Pear tree. I fixed it las night with dirty rice an it was delicious. I doan tink the Pear tree would grow in de swamp, so I swapped it for a satsuma.

Day 2. Dear Emile, Your letter said you sent 2 turtle dove, but all I got was 2 scrawny pigeon.
Anyway, I mixed them with andouille and made some gumbo out of dem.

Day 3. Dear Emile, Why doan you sen me some crawfish? I’m tired of eating dem darned bird. I gave two of those prissy French chicken to Mrs. Fontenot over at Grand Chenier, and fed the tird one to my dog, Phideaux. Mrs. Fontenot needed some sparring partners for her fighting rooster.

Day 4. Dear Emile, Mon Dieux! I tole you no more of dem bird. Deez four, what you call “calling bird� wuz so noisy you could hear dem all da’ way to Lafayette. I used they necks for my crab traps, and fed the rest of dem to the gators.

Day 5. Dear Emile, You finally sent something useful. I liked dem golden rings, me. I hocked dem at da’ pawn shop in Sulphur and got enough money to fix the shaft on my shrimp boat, and to buy a round for da boys at the Raisin’ Cane Lounge. Merci Beaucoup!

Day 6. Dear Emile, Couchon! Back to da birds, you coonass turkey! Poor egg sucking Phideaux is scared to death ah dem six goose. He try to eat they eggs and they pecked the heck out ah his snout. Dem goose are damm good at eating cockroach around da’ house, though. I may stuff one ah dem goose with erster dressing to serve him on Christmas Day.

Day 7. Dear Emile, I’m gonna wring your fool neck next time I see you. Ole Boudreaux, da mailman, is ready to kill you, too. The crap from all dem bird is stinkin up his mailboat. He afraid someone will slip on dat stuff and gonna sue him. I let dem seven swan loose to swim on da bayou and some stupid hunter from Texas done blasted dem out da water. Talk to you tomorrow.

Day 8. Dear Emile, Poor ole Boudreaux had to make 3 trips on his mailboat to deliver dem 8 maids-a-milking & der cows. One of dem cows got spooked by da alligators and almost tipped over da boat. I doan like dem shiftless maids, me. I told dem to get to work gutting fish and sweeping my shack–but dey say it wasn’t in their contract. They probably tink they too good to skin all dem nutria I caught las night.

Day 9. Dear Emile, What you trying to do? Boudreaux had to borrow da Cameron Ferry to carry these jumping twits you call lords-a-leaping across da bayou. As soon as dey got here dey wanted a tea break and crumpets. I doan know what dat means but I says, “Well la di da. You get Chicory coffee or nuthin.� Mon Dieux, Emile, what I’m gonna feed all these bozos? They too snooty for fried nutria, and da cow ate up all my turnip green.

Day 10. Dear Emile, You got to be out of you mind. If da mailman don’t kill you, I will. Today he deliver 10 half nekkid floozies from Bourbon Street. Dey said they be ladies dancing� but they doan act like ladies in front of dem Limey sailing boys. Dey almost left after one of them got bit by a water moccasin over by my outhouse. I had to butcher 2 cows to feed toute le monde (everybody) and get toilet paper rolls. The Sears catalog wasn’t good enough for dem hoity toity lords. Talk at you tomorrow.

Day 11. Dear Emile, Where Y’at? Cheerio and pip pip. You 11 Pipers Piping arrived today from the House of Blues, second lining as dey got off da boat. We fixed stuffed goose and beef jambalaya, finished da whiskey, and we’re having a fais-do-do. Da’ new mailman drank a bottle of Jack Daniel, and he’s having a good old time dancing with the floozies. Da’ old mailman done jump off the Moss Bluff Bridge yesterday, screaming you name. If you happen to get a mysterious-looking, ticking package in da mail, don’t open it.

Day 12. Dear Emile, Me I’m sorry to tell you–but I am not your true love anymore. After the fais-do-do, I spent da night with Jacque, the head piper. We decide to open a restaurant and gentlemen’s club on the bayou. The floozies–pardon me–ladies dancing can make $20 for a table dance, and the lords can be the waiters and valet park da boats. Since da’ maids have no more cows to milk, I trained dem to set my crab traps, watch my trotlines, and run my shrimping business. We’ll probably gross a million dollars next year.

(I posted this one two years ago.)

Don’t mess with old ladies…

An older lady gets pulled over for speeding…

Older Woman: Is there a problem, Officer?

Officer: Ma’am, you were speeding.

Older Woman: Oh, I see.

Officer: Can I see your license please?

Older Woman: I’d give it to you but I don’t have one.

Officer: Don’t have one?

Older Woman: Lost it, 4 years ago for drunk driving.

Officer: I see…Can I see your vehicle registration papers please.

Older Woman: I can’t do that.

Officer: Why not?

Older Woman: I stole this car.

Officer: Stole it?

Older Woman: Yes, and I killed and hacked up the owner.

Officer: You what?

Older Woman: His body parts are in plastic bags in the trunk if you want to see

The Officer looks at the woman and slowly backs away to his car and calls for back up. Within minutes 5 police cars circle the car. A senior officer
slowly approaches the car, clasping his half drawn gun.

Officer 2: Ma’am, could you step out of your vehicle please! The woman steps out of her vehicle.

Older woman: Is there a problem sir?

Officer 2: One of my officers told me that you have stolen this car and murdered the owner.

Older Woman: Murdered the owner?

Officer 2: Yes, could you please open the trunk of your car, please.

The woman opens the trunk, revealing nothing but an empty trunk.

Officer 2: Is this your car, ma’am?

Older Woman: Yes, here are the registration papers. The officer is quite stunned.

Officer 2: One of my officers claims that you do not have a driving license.

The woman digs into her handbag and pulls out a clutch purse and hands it to the officer.

The officer examines the license. He looks quite puzzled.

Officer 2: Thank you ma’am, one of my officers told me you didn’t have a license, that you stole this car, and that you murdered and hacked up the
owner.

Older Woman: Bet the liar told you I was speeding, too!

Expertise

An efficiency expert concluded his lecture with a note of caution. “Do not try these techniques at home.”

“Why not?” asked someone in the audience.

“I watched my wife’s routine at breakfast for years,” the expert explained. “She made lots of trips to the refrigerator, stove and table, often carrying just a single item. So I suggested, ‘Honey, why don’t you try carrying several things at once?'”

Another person asked, “Did it save time?”

The expert replied, “Actually, it did. It used to take her twenty minutes to get breakfast ready…and now I do it in about ten.”

Oh, poo!!

Wherein is a discussion of the perfectly natural and necessary evacuation of semi-solid waste matter from one’s anus:

The Ghost Poo:
The kind where you feel poo come out, see poo on the toilet paper, but there’s no poo in the bowl.

The Clean Poo:
The kind where you feel poo come out, see poo in the bowl, but there’s no poo on the toilet paper.

The Wet Poo:
You wipe your arse fifty times and it still feels unwiped. So you end up putting toilet paper between your arse and your underwear so you don’t ruin them with those dreadful skid marks.

The Second Wave Poo:
This poo happens when you think you’ve finished, your pants are up to your knees, and you suddenly realize you have to poo some more.

The Brain-Hemorrahage-Through-Your-Nose Poo:
You have to strain so much to get it out that you turn purple and practically have a stroke.

The Corn Poo:
No explanation necessary.

The Lincoln Log Poo:
The kind of poo that’s so enormous you’re afraid to flush it down without first breaking it up into little pieces with the toilet brush.

The notorious Drinker’s Poo:
The kind of poo you have the morning after a long night of drinking. Its most noticeable trait is the tread mark left on the bottom of the toilet bowl after you flush.

The “Gee-I-really-wish-I-could� Poo:
The kind where you want to poo, but even after straining your guts out, all you can do is sit on the toilet, cramped and farting.

The Power Dump Poo:
The kind that comes out with the destructive force of 12 pounds of C-4, leaving you sitting in a pile of shattered porcelain and blood, wondering who bombed your house.

The “Where’s The F___ing Plumber?â€? Poo:
This kind of poo is so big it plugs up the toilet and it overflows all over the floor. You should have followed the advice from the Lincoln Log Poo.

The Spinal Tap Poo:
The kind of shit that hurts so much coming out, you’d swear it’s got to be coming out sideways.

The “I-think-I’m-giving-birth-through-my-arseâ€? Poo:
Similar to the Lincoln Log and The Spinal Tap Poos. The shape and size of the turd resembles a tall-boy beer can. Vacuous air space remains in the rectum for some time afterwards.

The Porridge Poo:
The type that comes out like toothpaste, and just keeps on coming. You have two choices: (a) flush and keep going, or (b) risk it piling up to your butt while you sit there, helpless.

The “I’m-going-to-chew-my-food-betterâ€? Poo:
When the bag of tortilla chips you ate last night lacerates the insides of your rectum on the way out in the morning.

The “I-think-I’m-turning-into-a-bunnyâ€? Poo:
When you drop lots of cute, little round ones that look like marbles and make tiny splishy sounds when they hit the water.

The “I-just-know-it’s-still-dangling-there� Poo:
Where you just sit there patiently and wait for the last cling-on to drop off because if you wipe now, it’s going to smear all over the place.

The “What-the-hell-died-in-here� Poo:
Also sometimes referred to as The Toxic Dump. Of course you don’t warn anyone of the poisonous bathroom odour. Instead, you stand innocently near the door and enjoy the show as they run out a-gagging and a-gasping for air.