"Uni" Says...

Lambs, it seems that I have been remiss. Apparently, visiting grandchildren are NOT to be placed in a terrarium and given insects periodically by the staff. It seems that one should interact with them. And so, out comes Grammy Babs's storybook!

Once upon a time, there was a unicorn named Uni, The Magic Unicorn. He lived on 99 acres of bright green grass in a place where it was always sunny and nice. Uni's father, who owned Amalgamated Glitterworks, sent Uni to the Ivy-Covered Barn for an education. This costs thousands and thousands of apples, but insures a good job later. Uni studied hard, mostly how to ferment oats. 

One day, a brown unicorn from the One Acre showed up at the Ivy-Covered Barn. "What are YOU doing here?" demanded Uni the Magic Unicorn, brightly.

"I am here on a Yes Pass, because my stubbly brown corner of the One Acre is so poor that there is no clover, and so I studied hard and got a Yes Pass to attend here."

Uni the Magic Unicorn did a little dance, threw back his head and neighed, "That's reverse discrimination! It isn't fair!"

Then Uni's father died, leaving him the entire 99 acres of green, sunny land. Uni went down to the edge of the One Acre, where the other 99 unicorns were all crammed in together. One or two of them had one foot over the line in Magic Land, and Uni was unhappy about that. "You lazy unicorns from the One Acre!" said Uni, prancing about. "Stop occupying these several inches of my land, and get jobs! Stop these entitlements! Work for what you get!"

"Why?" asked the unicorns from the One Acre. "You didn't!" Uni the Magic Unicorn smiled and explained patiently that "God wants me to be rich! However, God wants all of you to get off my f*cking lawn!"

Finally, the bright sunshine revealed two boy unicorns kissing. "NO!" whinnied Uni the Magic Unicorn. "God doesn't like that! God likes me. Meeeee!"

And then lightning flashed out of the sunny sky above Magic Land and fried all of the lazy, liberal, Kenyan unicorns on the One Acre, so that Uni could clear the trees and build an outlet mall.

Uni the Magic Unicorn pranced and danced and lived happily ever after. THE END.

There, wasn't that nice? Next time, Grammy Babs will read you Pablo The Junkie Wetback Goes To Arizona And Wrecks It. Won't that be fun?

Air kisses,

Babs 

What, this old thing?

Lambs, look! I found a picture of your great grandmother! Here she is, just coming in from her rutabagey garden. What's that, Darlings? You say it's "rutabaga"? Cherubs, you know I have all beggars crated and shipped to Mumbai daily. Is that what you want to have happen? They can't help not being wealthy. They're vegetables. By the way, did you and Christine get jobs yet? I see.

But I digress.

Your great grams was a woman who believed in always looking her best. She once appeared in traffic court wearing a fur stole and diamonds. Oh yes, she got off! I don't know whether the judge did. Wait, yes I do! It seems to me she threw him out of her RRRolls mid-block. He rolled all the way to the intersection! 

Anyway, now do you see what a fine lineage you come from, Darlings? Yes, I know, there's my mother, but consider her the flaw which calls attention to the surrounding perfection, like Cindy Crawford's beauty mark! I know you've always gotten along well with her; I have never been able to understand that. Maybe it's because you both enjoy tormenting me. *sniff* Oh, give me a minute, Lambs...

At any rate, now you know about your great grams. What would she say, if she knew that you and Christine buy your entire wardrobes from L.L.Bean and Title Nine? Do either of them even carry a peacock feather turban? Thought not.

Air kisses anyway, because I am so inspiringly selfless,

Babs

Sumptuous! Scrumptious! Etcetera!

Lambs! I'm so glad you're here. What? A grandchild? Set it over there. I've got something to tell you! Do you remember that tiresome Pompano Beach Weekly Shopper advertising newspaper that the winos used to bring around every Monday? You know...the one that blared "ground chuck $1.39!"? Well, Charity Duquette has taken it over, and it is now the Pomp Beach Arts Presager! 

Pardon me, Lambs? Presager? Well, I think it's a spice. You can ask Judith, my personal chef, if she ever gets finished scraping the blackened outer layer off of Enrique, who made the mistake of passing out inside her oven last night. But, listen!

Here is this week's main feature, all about artist Febrizio Airwick-Credenza, the noted neo-gibberist painter. What's that, Lambs? You say there's nothing but a paper clip and a dog turd on a white background? Nonsense! Just read Charity's article! She says that the work represents a breakthrough in post-dadaist primitive something something. Just read it, it's very impressive!

Besides that, there are simply pages and pages of what Charity is doing! Look here. This is what she's reading! Proust, Voltaire, Hawking...just the covers, I'm sure! One glance at her Kindle and she's done! 

And here...the movies she's seen! Mostly very arty experimental Albanian noir allegories with artist-rendered subtitles which are themselves part of the experience! And here's the music she's listening to, and the plays she's attended and the events and galas around town. So wonderful! 

There's even a crossword puzzle, all in quaint French phrases! Really, Darlings, I'm trying to show you this. Why do you keep trying to interrupt? What is so important? 

"Chef Boy-R-Dee products, 89 cents a can"?

Darlings, sometimes I despair of you.

Air hugs,

A very disappointed Babs

At Last!

Lambs, look! My gardener Enrique has set up a trap and is about to catch that penniless eurotrash viscount that Charity Duquette left here after my last soiree! I told her to mark him "refused" and mail him back to his parents, but she got all involved with practicing her withering left-handed compliments, and forgot. 

I wonder if Enrique will have the viscount stuffed, or if he will just take him and dump him near the freeway entrance, like he did with the Eagles? Let's watch and see!

_______

Guest Speaker!

Lambs, I'm simply exhausted from berating the help this morning. You'll forgive me if I hand Objets D'Art over to a guest speaker today, won't you? Remember, I can make one little call to my attorney and change my will. Oh Darlings, I knew you'd understand!

Today's guest speaker is a wonderful woman who belongs to my Club, and who hosts the annual bake-off. May I introduce to you the extremely elegant Mrs. Anita Bachmann-Phelps!

Hello! I'm Anita Bachmann-Phelps, and I would like to talk to you today about a growing threat to our American way of life and the values we all hold dear. I am talking, of course, about Lithuanians!

One hears a lot about Lithuanians these days. When I was growing up, one never heard of Lithuanians! If one of their sordid little Lithuanian clubs were discovered in the shadows at the edge of town, the police would raid it and close it down, and the people inside who were practicing their ungodly Lithuanian lifestyle were arrested, dismissed from their jobs, and sent to the electric chair as God intended.

But now, things are different. Lithuanians even want the right to marry. This is a slippery slope, my dears. What would be next? People would want to marry Estonians! Even Croats! We must defend the institution of marriage as being a sacred union between one American and another American. If we don't stand strong on this, who will?


Don't be fooled. The Lithuanian lifestyle is a choice. These swarthy, unpleasant people wake up in the morning and make a decision to be Lithuanian, and to practice their sinful ways which fly in the face of everything American and good! Are we going sit idly by, while this great country of ours is handed over to them? Are our children going to arrive at school, only to be told they must now learn Lithuanian? Will good Americans be told that they must take down Old Glory from their front porches because it might offend Lithuanians? We cannot let this happen!

I am a Christian woman. I certainly do not hate Lithuanians, though I would never become Lithuanian myself! I actually want to help these poor lost souls. There are churches and organizations who can help these people! Three weeks of prayer and apple pie at my husband's ranch, and they can accept George Washington into their hearts as their personal president! They can be American simply by embracing what is right, and letting go of their old, Lithuanian ways! Even if you believe that they are born Lithuanian--and I don't--they can still live productive American lives by NOT ACTING on their Lithuanianness!


Lithuanians want to enlist our children into their bizarre Lithuanian lifestyle, my friends. More and more, Lithuanians are popping up in television shows and movies, all over popular culture, which is controlled and produced by godless extremists.


I am not ashamed to admit that I am an American! I do not choose to be a Lithuanian myself, and I cannot condone the Lithuanian lifestyle, which the bible clearly tells us is wrong. In the second book of Confabulations, chapter five, it says: "And yea, the unclean ones did come from the middle place, near the water/ spake they in the unclear manner, and practiced they the things which are abomination unto the Lord/ and, um, don't eat pork, and stone adulteresses, and whatever else. Thanks!" I really don't see how this passage could be any clearer!

God bless America, my friends! 


Air hugs,


Anita Bachmann-Phelps

 

I Knew Daphne Would Understand!

Lambs! It's the most exciting thing that's ever happened to me! Well, all right then, besides that. Daphne has answered my letter in her column! It's right here in this morning's Pompano Beach Inquirer. 

You remember when I wrote to her, don't you, Darlings? Yes, that's true, Phoebe and I came to an understanding with the postman, in order to save a stamp. And see? You were wrong, he did take care of it. There you were, going on tiresomely about how the whiskey and the private jet cost far more than a stamp would have. Have I taught you nothing, Cherubs? Style points are not some frilly extra. Style points are the point! 

Anyway, I have been having that terrible problem with Valerie Bertinelli hanging around the grounds and even having her revolting freeze-dried doll-sized "meals" delivered here. "Look! I can have a chocolate brownie!" she crowed from the drainage ditch one morning as I was having tea on the veranda. Lambs, I'm telling you, she held up what appeared to be a llama turd made of hay and coal dust, and then fell upon it like a rabid badger. She even ate the packaging, and the fender off of the delivery driver's truck. I've had enough! And so I turned to Daphne for advice. I can't wait any longer, Lambs! Let's see what she says!

Dear Babs,

It breaks my heart when I hear of a tragic story like this. When women of a certain age and weight sign lucrative contracts with Pound Skimmers or some such company, they are under enormous pressure to look twenty years old again. There is often a lot of sucking it in involved. In extreme cases, a woman can simply forget how to inhale at all! The brain damage is severe and irreversible. It's very sad.

Don't worry, though. I'm sure Betty White will show up soon to retrieve her.

Best Wishes,

Daphne

Lambs, tell me...how do people in primitive parts of the world, where Daphne's column does not run, get along in life? In what can they believe? To whom can they turn? Oh, thank you Phoebe, I almost forgot. We don't care! But never mind all that. I see Betty White and the entire cast of "Hot In Cleveland" trooping across the south lawn. They've got one of those dog catcher's loops around Valerie Bertinelli's neck. Is that some sort of diet aid? Look at her struggle! Oh, I can't look...I can't look because I want to read my letter in Daphne's column again! See, Darlings? I told you. Daphne is always right. Just like me!

Air kisses,

Babs
_____
"Dear Daphne" answers are written by M. Zen, senior staff writer at Baby Puppy Productions. Ms. Zen recently received a Golden Globe for her portrayal of Edna St. Vincent Millay in "Zombie Chicks Of The Roller Derby." An accomplished author, her books include "Dog Ate My Subaru", "Frenzy: The Shocking Secret Life Of Katie Couric", and the craft classic "Make A Rick Perry Doll Out Of Nail Strengthener And Stryrofoam". In addition, Ms. Zen will be appearing regularly as a judge on the upcoming season of "Celebrity Gulag." She urges everyone to save receipts and to signal before turning.
   

Help Me, Daphne!

Lambs, there's no other way! Give me a pen, quick! No, wait. Send in one of the staff, with a pen. 

What's that you say? It's the staff's day off??? Today is February 30th? Because that's their designated day off, you know, Darlings. Well, no matter. Here's Phoebe.

Phoebe, be an angel and take a letter! Here's a pen and paper. Don't get chocolate from those bon bons on the paper, dear! All right. Yes, just hop right onto the arm of this priceless antique chair. Between us, we don't weigh as much as Lionel Richie, and it held him just fine when we had him tied to it. Oh I know it, darling, someone had to stop him from singing "Superfreak". Yes, I know that it turned out we had the wrong singer, but I think he enjoyed his time with us all the same.

But never mind! This is pressing business! Take this down:

Dear Daphne,

I am a long time reader, first time writer. (That sounds mental, doesn't it, Phoebs? Let me start again...) I own most of the newspapers in which your column appears, and I adore every word you write! I know you won't let me down in my hour of need.

I am a wreck lately, Daphne, and the reason why is that Valerie Bertinelli has infested the grounds of my stately home. Yes! First, she moved into the old burrow that Nicole Kidman left behind when Enrique sold her to the zoo. He had left it stuffed with poison pellets, but she just munches them like candy to no apparent ill effect! It must be all those years she spent married to that rock star fellow, what was his name? David Lee Roth? Roth IRA? Someone like that. No matter.

The point is, I get no sleep at all, because the woman goes skittering up into the trees at night, to gnaw on the bark. The poor thing is starving! She camps on a branch right outside my window, crying and moaning piteously. I tried to throw give her a baked potato that Judith had sent up, but she just shrieked, "Carbs!" and dropped it like a...well, you get the idea.

One morning, I went out onto the lawn to try to talk to her. Woman to woman, you know, even though I wouldn't normally be caught dead with trash. I thought we could talk about her movies, or her children, or people we both know, like Whoopi Goldberg, who got her start when I hired her to mop the sun room floor. But no. Valerie Bertinelli just looked up at me from her crouch, with a mouthful of lawn, and babbled something about how much weight she has lost. SO tiresome.

Daphne, should I have Enrique, my gardener, set out one of those humane traps, so that we can feed the poor thing with an eye dropper? Or should I just give Mel Gibson the temp job he's been begging me for, and let him chase her around the grounds with a bazooka until the problem is solved? Please let me know. This whole thing has my chi so off-center, it may never get back where it should be.

Air kisses and thanks in advance,

Babs In Pompano Beach