MODERN WISDOM: AMERICA’S ONLY HUMOR MAGAZINE
Copyright 2018 Francis DiMenno
1. NOIR MISFORTUNE COOKIES
201. Grandma was a Mafia wife–she hasn’t forgotten how to kill.
202. Jesus got off easy compared to you, doomed one.
203. Next time, refrain from stealing tips from a Sicilian Restaurant.
204. You have offended a man known far and wide as “Mayhem”
205. Your wife smells of Kandy Korn and bleach; it turns the neighbors on.
206. You once called The Director a “sissy”; the FBI still hasn’t forgotten.
207. You once told a Kennedy to fuck off; your one claim to fame.
208. Restful sleep is reserved for the innocent, felonious one.
209. Nobody wants to hear your stories of your criminal failures.
210. She killed your prize rooster “Mr. Corn,” so you ax-murdered your wife.
211. Your only hobby: Collecting warrants from all 50 states.
212. Give yourself up now and they won’t kill you so slowly.
213. The mob is offering ten thousand crisp reasons for your demise.
214. No one ever got fat palling around with you, Stoolie.
215. Abraham Lincoln’s nickname was not “Hot Rod,” dropout.
216. Your fear is a mask that eats away your soul.
217. Your wife says “Never on Sunday”–or on any other day.
218. You cooked the Mafia Don’s books–he will never stop hunting you.
219. You made the Triad lose face. Soon they will destroy your handsome face.
220. Gulag survivors have vowed to exterminate your entire family.
221. Very soon the drink takes the man. Only you are no man.
222. Shave off that hipster mustache! It makes you look like Hitler!
223. They will get you long, long before you drink yourself to death.
224. If you had any more brains you would almost be a simpleton.
225. The mob has a permanent retirement plan for dotards such as you.
226. You are feeling low now. Soon enough you will be completely underground.
227. Retirement plan? No. Antisocial Insecurity will be your fate.
228. Between you and her cat she will pick the tabby every time.
229. Don’t even try. Your doom was ordained from Day One.
230. Your beer and methedrine diet has given your mob associates pause.
231. The express train is coming–you’re either on it or under it.
232. That burlesque performer you married is also a stone cold junkie.
233. The personnel director will notice your fidgeting and twitching eyes.
234. Everyone knows your name. Your picture is in every post office.
235. Congratulations! You are now the world’s most famous patsy!
236. Without a gun you are nothing. Without money you are less than nothing.
237. You think yourself smooth. You are as subtle as a jackhammer.
238. Pillhead, no pharmacist in town will honor your forged scrip. Move on!
239. You are a fifth-rate grifter in a fourth-rate town.
240. When you are dead they will all cry–for the money you owe them.
241. You have a tongue of gold–and a heart of tin.
242. You haver the wisdom of Solomon…Solomon Grundy.
243. If you were slightly more mature, you might be considered infantile.
244. Live it up now, tinhorn–because you’ll never live it down.
245. Your grandmother was a washerwoman–your daughter, the same.
246. Your boss will catch you pissing in the executive washroom sink.
247. You look like the Buddha. But the devil is in your heart.
248. You are the opposite of a garbageman, newshawk–THEY take the trash AWAY.
249. Your pretty young wife has to fight the men off. A losing battle.
250. Ask not, chump, for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for THEE.
2. GROWING UP CATLICK
What’s the deal with mackerel snappers?
Their shining clean houses always smell like cheap hotel soap–the
kind that comes in a white wrapper with purple lettering–and they’ve
even got a garish chipped plaster replica of their groovy crucified
messiah hanging on the wall of the garret that’s been converted into a
guest bedroom. The bedroom in question always has some kind of
raggedly blanket-type thing ineptly knitted from fat yarn by a
superannuated nun with a severe case of macular degeneration. Can’t
throw it away! It would be a sin! So they keep this musty relic on the
cruciform daybed, where it gathers gypsy moths and cabbage-scented
dust. It itches in the summer, and as you lie beneath it in the winter
your balls shrivel to the size of Jerusalem almonds because you’re
freezing half to death. They don’t believe in turning on the furnace,
either, you see. “Heat rises,” they say. The hell it does! Not when
you’re a Gorton-gobbling poormouth Papist wretch living in the house
of Our Lady of Perpetual Pain!
I mean, really! They might as well be living in a fucking igloo!
But they don’t eat blubber.
No, they count every fucking pea on the plate, lest they somehow
commit the sin of gluttony. They drink vile soup in a snap-top bottle
made from a recipe last popular in 1642.
They use the word “goodness” a lot.
They think Batman is an invention of the devil.
And that irony comes straight from the scrapbook of the Antichrist.
And, like the ancient Romans and their household gods, they clutch in
their sweaty talons a laminated card with a blurry picture of their
personal saint, to whom they incessantly mumble through chipped
dentures an odious shopping list of their insipid desires.
And they never ever pray for anything even remotely useful!
Furthermore, even when they do ask for some little thing, they’re
always couching it in the form of some pathetically laughable deal!
“Please, St. Michael–while I’m up here in the guest room attic–if
only I can find the box with that nodding dog that Granmaw gave me
back in 1957, I’ll never drive over 40 again!”
And even in their sleep, they mutter things like “Jesu Christu,” and
“Bingo has been called–hold your markers, please!”
They can just about drive you nuts with their magical thinking and
Plus, when it comes time to unclutch some of their dough-re-me, all of
a sudden they conveniently forget all about the “Render unto Caesar”
clause. They’ll give their dog food money to the bloated coffers of
their precious chuch, and meanwhile, Baby needs a new pair of shoes! I
mean, come on! The money they spend on useless crap like sacred
candles and mass cards could be invested at 6 per cent, and in their
old age they could retire in Nova Scotia in an oceanfront resort cabin
and gobble pickled lutefisk all the live-long day!
But no–they’d rather be sitting around a cheap formica table with
their grizzled cronies from the Council on Aging, gumming potato candy
and mumbling novenas. You want to shout at them, “Listen,
pilgrim–this hair shirt jazz went out with Savoranola! Get wise to
yourself! Wake up and live a little! Don’t be a fool! That cute young
parish priest is just another chubby, slick-haired racketeer, only
with a stiff starched collar and holy water! Spend the moolah on
But no. The one thing a person who has made the same mistake their
whole life long simply will not do is buck a losing trend.
And the lapsed ones? Oh, they’re the worst. Mainly because, like me,
they’re always pointing out and trying to enforce nonexistent rules of
Watch out for them. Watch out.
3. I’D LIKE TO TEACH THE WORLD….
“I look at that fellow. I watch his smart-aleck manner and his British
clothes and that New Dealism in everything he says and does, and I
want to shout, ‘Get out, get out. You stand for everything that has
been wrong with the United States for years!'” — Republican Senator
Hugh Butler of Nebraska.
Now, me, I’m just a country boy. I don’t go for none of them
highfalutin’ big words or abstract concepts. I’m just one of a legion
of unpretentious, salt-of-the-earth working-class Joes who will “give
you a piece of their mind” and “tell it like it is” with “the bark
You don’t have to listen to me.
Shucks, I expect you to ignore me.
I ain’t got them there fancy degrees from Oxford or the Sorbonne.
But can I tell you for a minute or two about the kind of world I’d
like to live in?
And maybe even leave to my children, if’n I can afford to have any?
Well, here it is.
I’d like to live in a world in which people who wear striped pants and
use Bristishisms such as “Cor, blimey” are put to death.
A world in which hard working ordinary folk run Wal-Mart while venal
Republican fat-cats are forced to work the registers and mop up the
vomit in aisle four.
Where people who use sea salt are coated in the stuff and left to dry
up like retarded snails.
Where people decide to stay home and be with their families instead of
rushing out to patronize December 26th sales.
Where products are so well-made that service warranties are not required.
But wait, you cry. These are merely the revenge fantasies and wishful
thoughts of an despicable superannuated recluse. Not so!
If I ran the world, only midgets would be allowed to own Bonsai trees.
All political advertisements would use Supermarionation.
Genuine ventriloquists would stand in for news broadcasters.
Elementary school principals would be replaced by colorful Parrots.
No child actors would be permitted to perform without rigid oversight
from ruthless squadrons of ironic but lacklustre thespians.
I would nationalize salad bars.
And anyone citing the Old Testament would be shipped out on an ice floe.
OK, so maybe I’m bitter. But tell me–does the world really, truly
need any of the following?
1) The Atlantic Monthly.
2) Any folk music sung by toothless hillbillies.
3) Any folk music not sung by toothless hillbillies.
5) Presidential Libraries.
6) Jell-o brand gelatin and other gelatin desserts.
And I’m as liberal-minded as the next fellow, but haven’t we all grown
just a little bit sick and tired of paying lip service to adherents
1) The Kama Sutra.
4) Model U.N.s.
5) Debate societies.
6) Arthurian legend.
You know that funny falling feeling you get in the pit of your stomach
when you hear about any of the following?
2) Novels with false and lying narrators.
3) Orson Welles as genius.
4) Detectives with exotic handicaps.
5) Informal staff meetings.
6) Presidential Pardons.
That’s not something to be taken lightly. That’s your body–rejecting
the poison!! Are you with me? Can’t we all just get along? Can’t we
stop indulging in the promiscuous and indiscriminate use of:
1) PVCs and Vinyl Siding.
2) Zinc lozenges.
3) Holocaust memoirs.
4) Very Special Episodes.
5) Tribute albums.
Come on–work with me here! Wouldn’t the world be a far far better
place if we never ever ever again as long as we lived had to endure:
1) Brechtian alienation.
3) The theatre of the absurd.
4) Dogme 95.
For that matter, wouldn’t it be nice if we never again had to witness:
1) The invariable scenery chewing of Al Pacino.
2) The now-classic slow burn signalling incipient violence from Joe Pesci.
3) British comedians who have achieved worldwide fame.
4) Intelligent dolphins that bark and beg for fish.
5) Fran Drescher.
6) Don DeLillo.
Now, I like a good “laff” as much as the next fella. But can’t we at
least agree that the hilarious antics of Mort Sahl, Dennis Miller,
Harvey Pekar, Frank Zappa and Judas Iscariot have begun to pall–just
a bit? Far funnier in conception and execution are the very idea of
“Political conventions” and “American philosophers”. In fact, there is
a great deal of humor, intentional or not, to be found in the very
things that ordinary Americans take extremely seriously. I’m talking,
in particular, about:
1) Ceremonial occasions.
2) Indian reservations.
4) Coal miners.
5) The 12 Apostles.
6) The plays of Eugene O’Neill.
Nor are quavery dotards and their infantine grandchildren entirely
blameless. How else to explain the fascinated attention paid to the
following unwholesome activities:
3) Art made with construction paper.
5) Fussing over the lisping witticsims of precocious crumb-crushers.
6) Chinese Checkers.
Speaking of the Chinese, I’m sure if they were to take over this
country sooner, rather than later, they would decry as extravagant and
wasteful (not to mention sinfully counterrevolutiory) the following:
2) Boiled peanuts.
3) Jerry Lewis.
4) The NSC.
5) Reduced-fat muffins.
7) Jai Alai.
9) Rainbow afros.
10) Lesbian smooching.
Life would be hard on the communal farm. We’d have to shave with rusty
pocketknives and pick our way carefully to the outhouse while dodging
clumps of freshly steaming night soil.
But at least our totalitarian hell would ultimately be mitigated by
the prospect of, at long last, no more:
2) Aloe Vera.
3) Cuddles and bubbles.
6) Diet colas.
Freedom and Diversity might well be a very small price to pay, were we
to, at long last, be rid of these scourges.
Thank you for hearing me out.
4. THE MUCKRAKER
He imagines himself the only supremely rational Pontiff amidst a
rabble of agnostics.
Yet, like any truly conscientious agent provacateur, he nonetheless
disseminates pointless prevarications and is obliged to stir up hoi
polloi even when he is in covert sympathy with the very cause he feels
called upon to infiltate.
For, as the credulous stooge of his every impulse, he may well be the
personification of pure Id.
Always willing, like Mr. Rust Never Sleeps, to make a ruddy mess of
the very condition he intends to allieviate and, to, in all cases,
spark a controversy even when one need not exist, he is very much like
a caveman grunting “Fire–bad!” after he has inadvertently torched the
entire savannah while merely trying to roast himself a crispy little
puppy for his midnight snack.
In this way he is both the inadvertant foreman of the fanatic factory
and the accidental slaymaster of Baphomet.
5. IT’S TOUGH TO BE WHITE
It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.
All this power, wealth and prestige is a supreme and inconvenient burden.
And the government still insists on favoring so-called “MINORITIES,”
most of whom don’t even vote, let alone contribute large sums to 527
We whip the Negroes…and still they breed. What gives??
I’ll tell you what. Whites are persecuted.
“They” refuse to use the so-called N-word on TV. Even the racist cop
on the shield says “Darkies”.
Meanwhile, foolish Negroes with harebrained notions of “equality”
threaten monocultural harmony.
THE WELFARE BUREAUCRACY ENSLAVES AMERICA’S POOR!
CHAMPAGNE WITH FOOD STAMPS!
BLOOD BANK CRACK WHORES!
GOD’S JUDGMENT COMETH SOON!
I MAY NOT HAVE A FANCY DEGREE IN BIOCHEMISTRY, BUT I KNOW EVOLUTION IS A SHAM!
Listen–I know the Negroe.
Here are a few candid snapshots of my Great Great Grandpappy, “Mistah
Boss,” bein’ worshipped by a few of his happy and beloved permanent
Here’s another snapshot. This is my dog “King” subduing a dangerous agitator.
Heh. “King”. Ain’t that ironic?
And this here’s my Uncle “Bull” administering a well-deserved bath to
a batch of sweaty ingrates. I still say he should have charged them
for the water:
Finally: In regards to the song “Black Korea”:
So pay respect to the black fist
or we’ll burn your store, right down to a crisp
I wrote an answer song:
You’d better show respect to my white dentures
Or I won’t redeem your convertible debentures.
But MCA will not return my calls.
Surely, this is no country for old memes.
6. AWARD-WINNING CAMPAIGNS FROM THE ANADVERTISING AGENCY
TWO MINUTE PROMO SPOT
Hate tobacco but love the additives? Try 599! It has all 599 of the
most commonly used flavor enhancers! Soothing ammonia goodness
completely obviates the negative effects of the ground
fibreglass-n-asbestos full-flavr filter. What’s more, what could be a
better way to start the day than with a piping hot payload of
Ambergris, Asafetida and Carbon Monoxide, chased with Chicory,
Chocolate, Coffee, and Corn Silk, AND supplemented by a skillful
admixture of Hydrolyzed Milk Solids, Linalool, Maple Syrup and Myrrh?
Ahhhh! Can’t you already taste the goodness of the Nerol, Patchouli,
and Phosphoric Acid? Aren’t you already savoring the blissful aroma of
the thoughtfully provided Propylene Glycol, Rum Ether and Snakeroot
Oil, and revelling in the proprietary blend of Sodium Bicarbonate,
Urea, and Vinegar–all topped with a smoove top-level blend o’ Walnut
Hull Extract, Wild Cherry Bark Extract, and Yeast? Try 599, and like
all our other satisfied customers, you’ll also be saying, I surely do
love me some 2-Isobutyl-3-Methoxypyrazine, alpha-Isobutylphenethyl
Alcohol! (CONFIDENTIALLY, it’s the extra butyl molecule that gives it
that delightful je ne sais qua–an amiable lung-filling, sac-bunging,
bronchio-spasmic richness that just won’t quit–and neither will you!)
60 SECOND SPOT
THE GENTLE JOY OF OXY
Look: We don’t know how or why codeine’s kissin’ cousin, good ole Mr.
4, 5-epoxy-14-hydroxy-3-methoxy-17-methylmorphinan-6-one, has got such
a bad rap. How or why this delightful respiratory-arrestin’,
colon-bolus-filling, itching-scratching-and-nodding l’il packet o’
goodness ever got tarred with the dispicable moniker of “hillbilly
heroin”, we’ll never know. Many a trust fund swell, top-flight
celebrity Chef, and light sweet crude oil-fat Arabian Sheikh has no
doubt chawed up three of these light green fellers and washed ’em down
with a mason jar full of Grey Goose vodka–and, say, listen Mister:
I’ll bet right after they done it, they felt just like King
Charlemagne on Christmas Day in the year 800! Listen: Say what you
will, 6.5 million happy happy haaaaapy repeat customers don’t lie! So
be smart! Beat the rush! Drop everything! Go right down to your
drugstore, right this very minute! The baby can swim! Order early and
order often! Remember: Just because it’s thebaine, doesn’t mean it has
to be the bane of your existence! (Or does it???)
30 SECOND SPOT
Indianapolis: It used to be grey. But not since 1984. We got color
now. And we’re better than Cleveland and Jersey City. So if you’re
tired of taking it up the brown barker in Buffalo for bad bar coke in
Buffalo, come here instead and have a sleazy, bourbon-fuelled
assignation with jailbait local talent while the town drunk bawls
bawdy shivarees outside your Motel 6 window!
20 SECOND SPOT
Polish Springs–We think it’s water, only we’re not sure–there might
be some vodka in there. Did you steal my drink?
15 SECOND SPOT
The Penis: Strong enough for a man…but women like it too.
10 SECOND SPOT
Jeepers: It’s like saying “fuck,” only then people just think you’re an idiot.
This will draw the yokels in!
They’ll be dying to get in on the twitchet action!
Every poor Pissant, Rube, Hick, Sucker, Boob, Fish, Mark, John and
every sawed-off Runt and Ruff-Tuff Creampuff from Chump Junction to
East St. Jesus, will converge on this piscine peninsula just 2 hours
from THE HEART OF THE CITY!
Rule of thumb: Whenever you see a picture of a Libertarian in a
national news magazine, he’s always some fat bald guy with a foul
white beard that looks like fluffy dried snot.
8. THE NEXT MUSICAL TREND
Rule of thumb: Look at other phenomena to get a hint at how popular
music will trend.
For instance, Rock and Roll emerged during and right after
McCarthyism. The culture was permeated with mechanization and death,
and the music reflected a spit in the eye at all of that.
It shook and it shimmed for ten full years before it started to get ripe.
It must have been jam, because jelly didn’t shake like that.
And then it merged with Commie folk music and was drenched in
CIA-supplied acid; after which, the lyrics started to take on the
power structure in overt, rather than merely covert ways.
However, there is also this beautiful 1957 Sinatra quote:
“[Rock ‘n’ roll is] the most brutal, ugly, degenerate, vicious form of
expression it has been my displeasure to hear. … It manages to be
the martial music of every sideburned delinquent on the face of the
9. CRAPPY B MOVIES AND BRILLIANT MISTAKES
I can die happy, for I have seen The Halls of Anger.
I saw it in 1970. It was the talk of our 7th grade. Back then, my
classmates and I were in a position not unlike the one luridly
portrayed in the film; a few white kids in a formerly white but
rapidly becoming largely black school.
Pick quote: “Yeah–she’s blonde all over.”
Then there’s these three rather sketchy films by major directors:
THE NAKED KISS, SECONDS and THE PARALLAX VIEW.
I am enormously fond of all three films, and I am particularly fond of
all three directors, but this does not mean that I am willing to turn
a blind eye to their flaws. All three films were daring and
outrageous. But all three also have problematic aspects that bother
The Naked Kiss. I first saw when I was in Chicago, circa 1987. The
Harvard-Epworth in Cambridge, Massachusetts had been showing obscure
Samuel Fuller films for years, but never, to my knowledge, did they
ever screen this monstrous and weirdly compelling schlockfest. As
weird as Fuller’s previous madman clasic SHOCK CORRIDOR was, this
trumped it in nearly every way–from the mondo bizarro opeing in which
a bald whore beats a pimp with her shoe (to the accompaniment of
frantic jazz!), to the bizarre middle section in which the reformed
prostitute sings at interminable length to a group of kiddies, to the
very sick and twisted climax. The Naked Kiss is Fuller at his most
Full-some. (I am reminded of the critic who referred to Sam Peckinpah
as Sam Pecker-in-Paw.) I’ve seen it again, recently, and I haven’t
changed my mind. All of Fuller’s manic idiot-savant quirks are on full
display. Although I recognize that the genre conventions he uses aren’t
necessarily susceptible to modern-day judgments, I do know that what
one generation treats as dead serious, another is bound to regard as
quaint. This film has not aged well.
John Frankenheimer’s Seconds bombed, big time, at the box office. Not
that this fact is any criterea of quality. But, in retrospect, there
was something faintly ludicrous about Rock Hudson going under the
knife and deciding to change his life around, wouldn’t you say? And,
in 1974, I stumbled across and read the novel it was based on,
Seconds, by the psuedonomous “David Ely”.
The novel was pure potboiler trash of that peculiar early-60s variety.
Gearing up for a post-literate world but not quite there yet. Both
quasi-literate and pretentious, a hard mix to gulp down in one lump.
The film is better by leaps and bounds, but still betrays its origins.
(I will say that the orgy sequence, though gratuitous, was absolutely
The Parallax View I saw in its original theatrical release, in 1974. I
sat through it twice, and it confused the hell out of me. Though it
also impressed me, enormously. I’ve seen it two or three times since,
and though I understnd the symbolism of the parallax, I still have a
gnawing suspicion that Beatty was badly miscast for that role. (Though
he was perfect in “Shampoo”.) Let’s be frank–the production values
were also a bit muddled. Especially that sequence with the Sheriff
near the dam. Maybe the raoring water was some kind of symbol, I
dunno. But it jolted me out of what was going on. If it was a
Breachtian move, it didn’t quite work as intended.
Look, even works of genius–some would say especially works of
genius–often have long stretches of “what the fuck was he thinking”
moments. Look at Thomas Hardy’s Jude the Obscure. Father Time’s
suicide note: “Done because we are to menny.” Bathos, or pure,
unadulturated literary gold? I think the former, but feel, in my gut,
it’s the latter. That’s very often who flawed masterpieces work. Their
flaws give them additional lustre.
All three films are near-masterpieces that in some sections descend
into the realm of the ludicrous.
10. ART LINKLETTER AND THE DEATH OF THE NOW I CAN DIE HAPPY CHAIR
Those chairs were UBIQUITOUS on television ads all through the 80s!
You remember them! You MUST!
The best part of the ad was at the very end, when the quavery old
codger would call the number on the phone and would immediately be
connected to the sweet young thing with the perky tits.
Quavery Old Codger: Could you send me your free brochure?
Sweet Young Thing: Why, CERtainly, Sir!
This was, presumably, to reassure apprehensive dotards that they would
not be getting any snappy rejoinders on that thar newfangled telephone
from Negroes or convicts or disrespectful whippersnappers.
Well, sad to say, the chairs weren’t all they were cracked up to be.
Even Art was “distressed”:
CONTOUR CHAIR DOESN’T LIVE UP TO ITS TV IMAGE
By Maribeth Morris P-I Columnist
TUESDAY, March 3, 1987
Section: Living, Page: C2
Dear Action: In response to an ad on TV for contour chairs last year,
I called a toll-free number. On May 15, a salesman for the company
came to my home and told me about the chair. Then he took me down to
his van to see his model. He said mine would be custom-made to fit me
and adjusted to my weight for comfort. He took pictures of me standing
next to a strip of tape with my measurements marked on it.
I made a $750 deposit, so the balance of $1,721.28 would be due when
the chair was ready. On July 16, the chair was delivered. They had me
sit in it and took my picture. I told them then it didn’t fit and
wasn’t comfortable. They said that after a few times of following the
recommended procedure I would adjust to it.
It still doesn’t fit. The back isn’t right and my legs cramp. It is
more of a chaise lounge than a chair. I wanted to be able to sit up to
knit, do handwork or write. I have contacted the company three times.
The last response was, “Well, if you want to sit up straighter saw off
the front legs.”
Is there any recourse? $2,471.28 is a lot of money to put out for
something that isn’t what I ordered and isn’t even comfortable. –
V.C., White Center
Dear Readers: This letter was written last December. Since that time,
correspondence has been going back and forth among the company, Action
and V.C. The upshot?
The company says that on Jan. 20, it offered V.C. three alternatives:
a 40 percent refund on the purchase price; exchange of her contour
chair for a vibrating, heated, adjustable bed; or supply of a loaner
chair while her chair was adjusted or rebuilt.
The company reports V.C. turned down those offers, but agreed in early
February to accept a 50 percent refund of $1,235.64 and return the
chair. V.C. tells us she did agree to the refund at first, but later
changed her mind because “it wasn’t right.”
V.C. has now filed a complaint with the state attorney general saying
she should get a full refund for a chair she says never worked for
her. She may, down the road, end up hiring a lawyer. If she pursues
the matter in Small Claims Court, she could receive less than the
offered 50 percent refund. A plaintiff in Small Claims Court can sue
for a maximum amount of $1,000.
Why have we devoted so much space to this topic?
Some TV ads aimed primarily at the elderly promote a number of very
expensive items such as contour chairs, electric- or battery-powered
beds or chairs that help arthritics rise from sitting to standing
positions. We have never seen a price advertised in these commercials.
V.C. (who’s 74) says it was a long time before the salesman who came
to her home ever got to the bottom line on the cost of her chair. But
by that time, V.C. admits she was hooked.
So unhappy was V.C. that she even wrote a letter to TV personality Art
Linkletter, who promotes the chair she purchased. His prompt reply of
Feb. 19 to V.C. was this:
“I was distressed to hear of your experience and I can not believe
that this is the company for which I work. I am sending your letter on
to the right people for an authoritative answer from them. Thank you
for writing me, and every good wish. – Art Linkletter”
IN 1992 THERE WAS A SEA CHANGE:
COMPANY NEWS; CRAFTMATIC CONTOUR SAYS IT IS STICKING ONLY TO BEDS
E-MAIL Print Save Share
LinkedinDiggFacebookMixxYahoo! BuzzPermalinkPublished: May 21, 1992
Craftmatic Contour Industries, which makes the Craftmatic adjustable
electric bed, said it would stop distributing the Contour
Chair-Lounge. Craftmatic Contour will take an aftertax charge of $1.9
million to cover restructuring related to the decision involving its
Contour Chair-Lounge Company unit, said Stanley Kraftso, the chairman.
The action resulted from continuing weakness in the Contour
Chair-Lounge distribution system and its negative effect on the
company’s operations as a whole, Mr. Kraftso said. The move will also
allow the company to concentrate on the Craftmatic bed business, he
11. RED SKELTON’S PLEDGE OF ALLEGIANCE
(Too bad I couldn’t also find the extremely rare recording of “Bozo
the Clown’s Declaration of Independence”. Plus,I suspect that this
recording might be a fake. A real hobo would never pledge allegiance
to anything, except maybe Vitalis strained through a loaf of bread.)
“I’ve been listening to you boys and girls recite the Pledge of
Allegiance all semester
and it seems as though it is becoming monotonous to you.
If I may, may I recite it and try to explain to you the meaning of each word?”
me, an individual, a committee of one.
dedicate all of my worldly goods to give without self pity.
my love and my devotion.
To the flag
our standard, Old Glory, a symbol of freedom. Wherever
she waves, there’s respect because your loyalty has given
her a dignity that shouts freedom is everybody’s job!
that means that we have all come together.
individual communities that have united into 48 great states.
Forty-eight individual communities with pride and dignity and
purpose; all divided with imaginary boundaries, yet united to
a common purpose, and that’s love for country.
And to the republic
a state in which sovereign power is
invested in representatives chosen by the
people to govern. And government is the people
and it’s from the people to the leaders, not from
the leaders to the people.
For which it stands, one nation
one nation, meaning “so
blessed by God”
incapable of being divided.
which is freedom — the right of power to live one’s
own life without threats, fear or some sort of
the principle or quality of dealing fairly with others.
which means, boys and girls, it’s as much your
country as it is mine.
Since I was a small boy, two states have been added to our country
and two words have been added to the pledge of Allegiance…
Wouldn’t it be a pity if someone said
that is a prayer
and that would be eliminated from schools too?
God Bless America!