Babs's News Bits

Rumblings From VFW Bingo Night

It can be said that Mabel Simmons watches too much tv news. Now, I am willing to admit that I have done the same thing from time to time, but Mabel goes a bit overboard. It doesn't help that she's a bit loose in the flue, either. After all, she thinks that Jimmy Hoffa is under the new floor in her basement.

She comes up to me the other night and says to me, "Babs, do you know what I heard today on the channel 87 news?"

"No," I says, "I ain't heard nothing about nothing today."

"Well," she says, "the Pentagon is looking into the possibility of using magic fairy dust to find this bin Laden guy. They're going to sprinkle it over the mountains and see what pops up."

"Oh," I says, having learned over the years that it is best to simply humor Mabel. "Where are they going to get this dust from?"

"They're working with magic fairy representatives to get enough dust to sprinkle the whole country with it, including designing delivery systems."

"Ah," I says, "I just hope they're working with a union shop."

Of course, Louie McPherson is off his rocker too, and he was the next person to approach me at the VFW the other night. "Babs," he says to me, "I've heard the real reason that those terrorists are trying to get at us."

"Oh really?" I asks, wondering why it is that the nutcases always seek me out, bless their hearts. "What is it?"

Louie, he looks around very suspiciously, and then says in a low voice, "They're after our duct tape."

"I never heard that. Where did you hear that from?"

"Now Babs, you know I can't reveal my sources. You don't know who could be listening." With that, he takes off to the bathroom, as the poor guy has an enlarged prostate. Not only is he off his rocker, but he leaks like a sieve.

My Concert Review

So my younger cousin Bernice asked me a little while ago if I could go with her kids to a concert. "You won't mind the music, Babs, its a They Might Be Giants concert. Just turn off you're hearing aid and everything will be fine." So we got to the show, and the kids insisted that we stand down on the concrete floor to watch the show. So we stood there for three hours, on this slanted concrete floor, and the only thing I have to say for it is OH MY GOD, MY CORNS! I should be buying some stock in the Dr. Scholls company or something, because my feet haven't been the same this week. Seriously, next time I'm going to demand that Bernice buy me a month's supply of corn pads if I take her kids to a show. I mean, the kids at the show were very nice, although they packed themselves in like sardines. And the band was nice even though I didn't understand them since my hearing aid was off. They seemed a bit weird, not at all like the nice music that Tommy Dorsey or Guy Lombardo did back in the day there. Although I will say that everybody kept their clothes on. My corns, I tell you, no matter what kinds of shenanigans people perform in front of you, you can never forget about your corns. Of course, Mel says that I never forget about my corns. "Babs," he says to me, "You've been talking about your corns since 1968. You should take up a hobby so you can shut up about your goddamn corns." Of course, Mel has been going on and on about the cost of tires since 1943, so I don't see why I should shut up.