|||||||||||||||  Wednesday, Simptempter 27, 41 A.B.  |||||||||||||||

I'm related to living, breathing doorknobs.

I've always suspected this, of course, but recent events have proven it to me beyond all doubt (although my quest for the ever elusive keyhole WILL continue).

Consider my cousin, Edvorud.  Edvorud casually told me today that he and his wife are planning to spend Christmas this year in Hades.  "Why, Edvorud?  Why would anyone want to spend Christmas in Hades, of all places?"  "Just lookie here at this ad in the new Ohio Magazine," Edvorud enthusiastically exclaimed, thrusting the new Ohio Magazine into my hands.  Against my better judgment, I read the ad he excitedly pointed at.  One line caught my eye (mainly because it had been repeatedly underlined with several different colors of ink):  "FREE underground parking!"

Edvorud, it immediately dawned on me, was a living, breathing doorknob.

His father, my Uncle Sfrew, is no better.  He made that clear when he called up everybody in the family  tonight and announced that he had just won the lottery and was quitting his job first thing in the morning.  "How much did you win, Uncle Sfrew?" I asked, nosey bastard that I am.  "Two dollars," he told me.  "Umm, isn't that a bit less than it takes to retire on these days?" I inquired.  "Doesn't matter," he told me.  "I always said that if I ever won the lottery, first thing I would do would be to quit my job.  A man never goes back on his word."

I called Edvorud up after talking with Uncle Sfrew.  I wanted to confirm Uncle Sfrew story.  After all, maybe he hadn't really purchased the lottery ticket himself.  Maybe he had merely found it.  Maybe there was someone else he could stick it with and so manage to keep his job of 35 years as a school superintendent.

Edvorud, of course, was no help at all.  Every time I attempted to raise the subject, the sound of damp corduroy rubbing together drowned out his reply.  "Edvorud, are you still wearing those clammy, wet pants I gave you for your 21st birthday?" I finally asked.  "I'm sorry, there are some things I simply MUST save for my autobiography!" he practically yelled at me, then hung up.

Doorknobs.  Living, breathing doorknobs.  And rather rusty ones at that.

In a final effort to straighten things out tonight, I instant messaged my always online step-sister Lucella just a bit ago.  No matter how I phrased my question about Uncle Sfrew and the lottery, however, she kept answering by reminding me of the many alleged differences between halls, hallways, and corridors.  Here's a partial transcript:


Danomite:  Lucella grrrl?  What the hell's up with Uncle Sfrew and this damnonic lottery thingo?

LuceLady:  Not until u apologize

Danomite:  Apologize?  4whut?

LuceLady:  For saying that Gertrude Stein said "A hall is a hall is a hall is a hall."  She actually was talking about some kind of flower or something.  Beast!

Danomite:  I think ur thinking of the other Gertrude Stein

LuceLady:  Don't matter.  A hall is NOT a hallway.  Poor peoples have halls.  Middle class peoples have hallways.  Rich peoples have corridors.  Admit it!

Danomite:  Luce, come on - quit being a pain in the blueprints.  What's up with Unc??

LuceLady:  Passageways have to be special ordered from Europe.  I know because my friend tried to order one and they sent her cellarage by mistake and it was a real b-tch to return.

Danomite:  Luce, if you were a hallway floorboard, could you squeak any worse?

LuceLady:  What?  What???  WHAT???????????


Doorknobs.  Living, breathing doorknobs.

And no matter how long or hard I knock, ain't nobody on the other side of the door....







(©Now by D-n B-rtch-r)



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