Olympic Body Hails Boston’s Plan, City’s Classy Hookers

BOSTON.  Reassuring worried business leaders, the U.S. Olympic Committee yesterday hailed the city’s revised plan to host the 2024 summer games of the XXXIII Olympiad, saying organizers had made “remarkable progress” and that local prostitutes they examined were “first rate hookers.”

Image result for boston combat zone

“The quality of a municipality’s commercial sex trade is an important driver of our decisions due to anti-money-laundering laws,” said committee member Herman de Borchgrave.  “It’s virtually impossible for Olympic officials to accept cash bribes anymore, so we need to take it out in trade,” he noted as he examined three Rolex watches given to him as part of Boston’s application, which was filed in triplicate.

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The Hooker statue, Massachusetts state house


A “hooker” is a woman who sells sex for money without first requiring a wedding, reception and bridal shower with fun games and presents.  The term is thought to be derived from prostitutes who followed Major General Joseph Hooker during the Civil War.  Hooker, a native of Hadley, Massachusetts, is honored today by a statue on the lawn of the state capitol building, and by numerous prostitutes who patrol the streets of Boston’s “Combat Zone.”

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“Seriously?  Because I like Chomsky too!”


Boston is known as the “Athens of America” because of the high concentration of colleges and universities there, and as a result female sex industry workers are often touted for their advanced degrees and high I.Q.’s.  The now-defunct Naked I Cabaret for many years advertised an “All College Girl Revue,” but local writer Con Chapman, who was forced to attend a bachelor party there against his will, cast doubt on that claim.  “This one woman who was rubbing my thigh said she was an anthropology major, but she’d never heard of Claude Levi-Strauss,” he recalls.  “She did, however, have a bodacious pair of knockers.”


Greece Sends Letter to Creditors, Forgets to Enclose Check

ATHENS.  Hopes for settlement of the Greek monetary crisis continued their roller coaster ride today when the International Monetary Fund opened what they thought was an envelope containing an overdue payment and found no money inside.

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“The letter is already sealed–we can’t just open it again!”


“We are considering all of our options,” said IMF spokeswoman Natalie Grillet.  “They told us the check was in the mail, but we didn’t know that was one of the three big lies of all time, along with ‘One size fits all’ and ‘Sure, I’ll respect you in the morning.'”

The letter was supposed to include $1.73 billion for a late payment due the IMF, but the text written by Prime Minister Alexis Tsipras said “I was going to include that big check we owe you, but I see that I have sealed the envelope without putting it in.  Be sure and remind me about it next time you’re in Greece.”

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“Grab her–she’s got some change in her pocketbook.”


Greece has previously staved off default on its debts by post-dating or forgetting to sign checks or not putting a stamp on envelopes.  “At some point, you have to ask whether they are serious about reform or are just jerking us around,” Angela Merkel, Chancellor of Germany.  “They said they were going to return some bottles and cans over the weekend, but then they used the deposits to buy more retsina.

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Merkel:  “It’s in your other pair of pants–like I haven’t heard that one from Spain and Italy before!”


The IMF’s remedies are limited due to the sovereign nature of Greece and its debts.  “We could bar them from the Miss World and Miss Universe contests,” said World Bank Group President Jim Yong Kim.  “We could also boycott Greek yogurt, but I really love the strawberry and banana kind.”

EU: Greece Will Run Out of Syllables by Friday

ATHENS. A reeling Greek nation averted disaster today as it reached a temporary accord with creditors, but linguistics experts say the effort may be too little and too late as the nation will run out of syllables this Friday unless silent letters from euro-zone partners become available.

Members of elite Polysyllabilist corps


“For too long, the Greeks have lived high on the spelling hog with last names such as Papadopolopoulosas,” said Dr. Armand de Bergerac of Paris University. “What’s wrong with just ‘Plato’ or ‘Socrates’?”

Greece is a member of the “eurozone,” an economic and monetary union that consists of Austria, Belgium, the Cleveland Indians, Estonia, Finland, France, Germany, Ireland, Italy, a second-round draft pick from the Denver Broncos and a country to be named later. It issues the “euro,” a currency that can be redeemed for prizes at Chuck E. Cheese, a pizza restaurant that features arcade games fought over by overbearing parents.

Hermes ties, manufactured by Greek god of commerce


“Why should I, who has lived so long to pass on my name to my son, give it up to some fat-assed banker with a Hermes tie and slick-backed hair?” said Alkman Mossialosopapoulias, a shopkeeper here. “I chop offa his baklava before I chop offa one-a syllable of my name.”

Baklava (not shown actual size)


Finance ministers of other eurozone nations said they would draw down on reserves of silent letters if necessary in order to avoid a world-wide orthographic contagion, but would prefer to see Greece get its house in order before doing so.

“We probably don’t need both s’s in patisserie,” said Michel Gangemi, assistant undersecretary of phonics and fiscal affairs at the Banque de France. “But Germany should go first, with overgrown monstrosities such as Rindfleischetikettierungsüberwachungsaufgabenübertragungsgesetz, which can mean either ‘beef labelling supervision duty assignment law’ or ‘feeling widow gets seeing daughter go out on first date with accountant’ depending on the context.”

As Boston Stumbles, Freedonia Prepares Olympic Bid

FLORGSZ, Freedonia.  “The weasel, when he senses weakness, he attacks,” says Norgovrad Sliezsciwz, Chairman of this country’s newly-formed Olympics Committee as he flips through materials submitted by Boston, Massachusetts, in support of its bid to host the 2024 Summer Games.  “Boston, she is weak city of folk songs!” he notes as he throws a CD by James Taylor into a wastebasket.  “Freedonia is strong–strong like bull!”

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Boston’s snow mound:  “It’ll be gone by 2024–promise!”

Sliezsciwz is referring to the disarray into which Boston’s Olympic bid has fallen, with the sudden replacement of its executive director and the dismal efforts by city government to remove snow that fell in the record winter of 2014-2015.  “Their mound of snow and debris is still two stories high, they are so incompetent,” Sliezsciwz says with contempt.  “In Freedonia, we have a mound of snow and debris that is FOUR stories high!”

If Freedonia succeeds it would mark the first time the land-locked nation, which was formed out of disputed areas of Moldavia, Paramus, New Jersey, and Disneyland at the end of World War II, has hosted the games.  “It would be quite a feather in our cap,” says Dolba Nurogrebnik, who hopes to open a snack bar serving deep-fried weasel on a stick, a national delicacy, near the proposed site of the hop-step-and-jump arena. “We should begin to weave a zlotsky, our national cap, to hold this feather.”

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Despite its stumbles Boston business leaders say they are prepared to re-double their efforts in order to retain what they say is their “first-mover advantage” that gives them the “inside track” on the 2024 Games, which they say they need to host in order to become a “world-class” city where people do not use quotation marks indiscriminately.  “There is no way we’re going to roll over for a Third World dump like Freedonia,” says Marty Halloran, a pipefitter who sees what would be the Games of the XXXIII Olympiad as boosting construction jobs in the region.  “Those guys have never even been to the Super Bowl.”

Consuela Translates the Silent Languages of Love

Dear Ones–

In olden times–much oldener than Consuela–lovers used secret languages to communicate in order to escape detection.  Thus in the XIX century, or maybe it was the XVIII, I don’t remember which, languid ladies used fans to send messages to their beaus.  Holding the fan on the right cheek meant “Yes,” holding it on the left meant “No,” to open and close it meant “You are cruel,” while pointing a closed fan at the mouth meant “You have some kind of goober between your teeth.”

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Translation:  “You have tuna breath.”


But fans are passé nowadays, leaving lovers adrift when they want to express themselves in a sub rosa manner, and believe me, Rosa is not happy about it.  How do you decipher the wordless missives that come your way from would-be lovers across a crowded room?  Ask Consuela to translate the silent languages of love!

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Dear Consuela–

I work in the accounts payable department of a large manufacturer of flanges and hasps.  I have noticed that our comptroller “Earl” who has a night M.B.A.–which he earned going to school for many years after work he is so diligent!–always sends me invoices fastened with a “candy striped” paper clip.  Enora Bothwell, the girl who sits at the next desk, receives her packet of payables with a plain metal clip, although she believes she is the “apple” of Earl’s eye.

I would be interested in learning the meaning of peppermint vs. metallic clips in today’s romantic marketplace.

Please respond to my home email, we are not supposed to converse electronically at work.

Mary Alice Grimmett, Ludlow, Mass.

Dearest Mary Alice–

Time to order material for bridesmaids’ dresses!  A striped paper clip sent by a man to a woman means he wants to “jump her bones,” and is willing to submit to a life of quiet desperation in an office cubicle to pay for it.  Show “Earl” you mean business by returning his file copies with a baby blue and white clip that says you’re his gal!

My dearest Consuela–

I am a sales trainee at Loudermilk Diary Products, where we are forced to spend our Friday afternoons in boring meetings instead of leaving early during the summer like people with good jobs.  Recently I have noticed Floyd Moeglin from the finance department making a weird sign at me when Mike Radick, VP of Sales, turns his back to write on the white board.  He–Floyd, not Mike–will wave his hand up and down under his chin at me, then get this goofy grin on his face.

I looked on the internet for “weird hand signs” AND “mental illness” but didn’t find anything.

Claudia Rees, Hoxie, Arkansas

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Dear Claudia–

You are one lucky gal!  “Floyd” is making the Little Rascals “high sign,” universally recognized as either an invitation to friendship or an expression of contempt comparable to a silent Bronx cheer.  I would proceed with cautious optimism in the hope that the former is the case and not the latter.  Since “Floyd” is a trifle infantile in his courtship techniques, perhaps invite him to a church ice cream social.

Image result for pine scent car air freshenerRoyals Nylon Web Pet Collar #12520085
Two from his collection



I have been going out with this guy “Duane” who has a rotating collection of rear view mirror ornaments–the tassel from his high school graduation “mortarboard,” one of those Little Trees “Royal Pine” air fresheners, a Kansas City Royals nylon web pet collar, etc.  Last Sunday night when I got in his car he had a woman’s lace garter hung up there, big as life.  I said “Where’d you get that?” and he said “Wouldn’t you like to know?”  We went back and forth like that for awhile, me asking a question, he “answering” with another question.  Finally I gave up and scooched over to my side of the car where I stayed for the whole drive-in movie, which was Return of Mothra, something he wanted to see but I didn’t.  At the end of the night he said “I didn’t know you were such a ‘chrome-polisher,’ the term in common use around here for a girl who won’t make out and clutches a car’s door handle the whole night.

Consuela, I have invested two months in this guy and want to make it clear I am not into an “open” relationship where he is allowed to festoon his car with female undergarments while I sit home checking for split ends.  Is he trying to “send a message” to me that he’s too much man for any one woman?



Naomi Whitestone, Camdenton MO

Still waters run deep.


Dear Naomi–

Since time immemorial the male of the species has struggled to express his feelings.  “Ug” the first caveman said to his date, and she no doubt asked herself “What did he mean by that?”

A man’s rear view mirror is an extension of his personality–assuming he has a personality–so you should not question the tacky decorating choices he makes with regard to this standard feature of most American-made cars.  I think the little cat-and-mouse/tit-for-tat game he was playing by answering your questions with another question is a good sign, however.  If he was dating somebody else he’d either lie to you or say “What garter belt?”

That said, the Standard Semiotics Directory of Non-Verbal Romantic Cues reports that a garter belt hanging on a rear-view mirror means the owner of the vehicle does not prefer panty hose, which are cumbersome to remove in tight places, if you get my drift.

Dear Consuela–

When a woman wears an “I’m With Stupid” t-shirt on a date with you I always assumed she was saying she was not receptive to overtures from other men.  I ask because this guy came up to my girlfriend Chloe when we stopped for fried claims at Jimbo’s Lobster Shack last night and apparently said “Why don’t you dump that egghead for me?” after I’d gone to the men’s room, fried food has that effect on me.

When I came back Chloe was batting her eyelashes at the guy trying to explain she was wearing the shirt ironically.  He apparently didn’t understand irony–all of his shirts were permanent press.

I got kind of mad at Chloe for leading the guy on, but she said she was doing that ironically.  I forgot to mention, she was an English major and so is into verbal wordplay and figurative speech.  I was a business major, then got my masters in business administration, and now am in business.  This summer I’m getting an executive M.B.A.

I don’t want to be a spoilsport but I also don’t want to spend the rest of my life with a woman who’s always pulling people’s legs, figuratively if not literally.  Is there some sort of mood ring or something I can use to tell when she’s being ironic?

Frazier Hollingsworth
Manchester-by-the-Sea, Massachusetts

High IQ babe.


Dear Frazier–

It sounds like you will have your hands full with this “off-the-wall” young woman.  Unfortunately, there are no hand-held devices to detect, much less ward off, the cheap cynicism with which many “liberal arts” majors are infected during their undergraduate days.  I would recommend that you dump Chloe like a hot rock and find a young woman more suited to your personality at a singles group for the literal-minded.


FAA Moves to Limit Blogging by Air Traffic Controllers

SCHENECTADY, N.Y. Floyd Curtin has been an air traffic controller at Mookie Wilson International Airport here for nearly twenty years, but he is more widely-known as “Rat Dog,” the “screen name” he uses for his blog “Politics, Sports & B.S.,” which he updates daily on blogsprout.com. “It’s a great release from the pressure of my job,” he says, before turning back to his microphone to scream “PULL UP CESSNA N7357H!” at an incoming private plane.

Curtin: “Cool–I just earned a $10 Home Depot Gift Card!”


Curtin and air traffic controllers like him have been identified as a growing threat to aviation safety, since the easy access to computers and the internet that their profession provides distracts them from the split-second decisions they are often forced to make. “Some say that blogging is a threat to aviation safety, but I think most guys are conscientious about it,” says Madison, Wisconsin air traffic controller Jerry Dilba, before turning on his microphone to speak to a commercial flight from Chicago. “Would you mind circling for another half hour or so?” he asks politely, “We’re kind of busy right now.” He gets an “A-OK” from the pilot, then spell checks an article about the 2015-2106 NFL season before hitting the “publish” button, sending a “post” to the “internet” where it escapes the mundane world of quotation marks.

“Would you mind circling for a while? I’m in the middle of a post.”


While there has so far been no mid-air collision caused by a blogging air traffic controller, FAA officials say they are monitoring the situation and may issue a draft rule later this summer. “Blogging can become an obsession at which point it can infreter wthi a person’s jbo pfreformance,” said Deputy Administrator Darrell Collins in an email that he composed while updating his blog, “Extremely Stupid Stuff” on wordsmith.com. “At the sme time, it may be crovered by an cllective brgaining argeement, in which case not much we do about it.”

Dear, Meet Mr. Mascot

Call me crazy, but I’d like to introduce you to my wife.

If you’re a mascot.

There’s something about guys–and gals–in big, fuzzy animal outfits that raises the level of my otherwise sub-standard social graces.  Where I’m reticent in gatherings with humans who aren’t dressed as gophers, redbirds and tigers, with mascots I find my social footing and somehow become the sort of Chamber of Commerce glad-hander I’m sure my dad always wanted me to be.

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“Kids–someday you’ll bring YOUR wives to Fenway, just to annoy them!”


Believe me, I’ve got nothing against people.  Some of my best friends are people, and they have been for a long time.  I’m not one of those–you’ll excuse the term–“people” who makes friends with people just because it’s fashionable, or to get a sort of “people pass.”

I myself am descended from a long line of people, so much so that I can pass for a person when the light is right.  And the wind’s at my back.

Mascots are different from people, however.  They have an inner person, but not an outer person.  Whenever I get to know someone’s innermost thoughts and feelings, I usually like them a whole lot more.  So why not, for the sake of efficiency, just pal around with beings who only have an inner person, and cut to the chase?

People are always sizing you–by which I mean me–up.  There’s the upraised eyebrow of skepticism, what Thorstein Veblen called the “physiognomy of astuteness.”  There’s the withering look my mother-in-law gives me when I’m about to step outdoors at her retirement community in Florida wearing a non-collared shirt, shorts and flip-flops.

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Veblen, making goo-goo eyes at the wife of a fellow faculty member.


Mascots, on the other hand, all seem to have the cheerful disposition of a cheerleader–without the baby-blue eye shadow and the little paw prints on their cheeks.  When I see a happy, smiling mascot, it’s as if I stepped into a Chip and Dale cartoon.  They’re animated–so I become animated too!

When I see a business acquaintance in a restaurant or at a social setting, by contrast, I’m always worried that the person will recall something unpleasant in our past.  Like “Don’t you owe me an insurance certificate from the Digby Adhesives transaction?”  You can imagine the kind of dressing down I’d get in the car going home after an encounter like that.  “What exactly do you DO all day at work–when you’re not ‘blogging,’ that is?” my wife would say, with a tone that would chill a three-bedroom home on the 4th of July.

But with mascots–it’s a whole different story.  Take Boomer, the mascot for the Boston Cannons, our local lacrosse franchise, for example.

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“SO nice to meet you–I’ve heard so much about you!”


When I spied him walking down the sidelines at a game to which I’d dragged–er, taken–my wife, my only thought was: how do I get this guy together with my better half?  If I could get them talking, I was sure they’d hit it off and it wouldn’t be such a big deal that I’d paid $20 a ticket for seats in a stadium that’s only 20% full.

So I stood up, and flagged the friendly howitzer down.  “Boomer!  Excuse me–Boomer!” I called out, trying to pry him away from a bunch of kids who were hugging him.  Probably hadn’t even started on their summer reading lists.

He made his way slowly, methodically down the rope line, and I began to feel pangs of guilt.  Who was I, really?  Just another one of perhaps thousands of fans that Boomer needed to interact with.  I looked around the stadium and, seeing all the empty seats, revised my estimate downward by 80%.  Still, he was a minor celebrity, and I was just another stupid fanboy, hoping to touch the hem of his garments, like Blind Barnabas, who stood on the way as Jesus passed, and was healed.

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“Whoa, dude–don’t get grabby!”


But as he drew near, my resolve returned.  “Boomer–excuse me, Boomer,” I cried out–and he heard me!

He came over with the speed of a used car salesman seeing a prospect walk on the lot, or a politician who spies a TV camera.

He said nothing–mascots usually don’t–but he shook my hand heartily.  I thanked him profusely for joining me, told him how much I admired his work, and then–with as much grace as a man of my ilk can manage–said “Boomer–I’d like you to meet my wife.”

He was a perfect gentleman . . . I mean gentlemascot . . . about it!  I turned and said “Sweetie, this is Boomer Cannon, the team’s mascot.”

I should interject at this point that my wife is a bit of a manners maven.  When I met her she had three etiquette books to her name–Emily Post, Amy Vanderbilt, and “Miss Manners,” nee Judith Martin.

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Miss Manners, Nat Fleischer:  Admit it, you’ve never seen them in the same room together.


I, by contrast, had no books on manners.  I had three books on literary style–Strunk & White, Fowler’s Modern English Usage, and Nat Fleischer’s Ring Record Book and Encyclopedia–but manners strike me as falling between the cracks of the three types of rules: natural, conventional and logical.  The main point of manners is at bottom that you should avoid offending anyone unnecessarily.  (Save your ammo for when you want to offend them intentionally.)  That’s natural, conventional and logical.

The wall of etiquette in my wife’s apartment represented a challenge to me.  Anybody who has three etiquette books is just asking for it, if you ask me.  So I challenged her to a game of Etiquette Pursuit; each of us would pick questions for the other to answer randomly from one of her books; single elimination, hockey shoot-out style.

She asked me a question about wedding gifts or dessert forks, I can’t remember what exactly, something every schoolboy learns at his mother’s knee.  I nailed it, and so it was my turn.

I chose a question that struck me as one that was neither too difficult, nor too obvious, nor unfairly archaic, e.g., “When entering a motion picture theatre, a gentleman removes his hat, allows a woman to enter first, then buys her a box of jujubes.”  To wit, when writing a thank-you note to the President or another head of state, should the note be handwritten or typewritten?

“Typewritten,” she said, as if it were obvious that, since it would eventually be deposited in the National Archives, clarity, precision and accuracy were essential.

“BAP!” I said, making my game show wrong-answer-buzzer sound.  “Handwritten.”

There ensued a tirade of special pleading such as hasn’t been heard on this continent since the disappointed native inhabitants of Manhattan asked for a refund for the $24 worth of costume jewelry they’d received for their island.  Ever since, my wife has been on her guard against lapses that could be used against her otherwise-sterling record in the manners department.

And so, as the mascot offered his white-gloved hand, my wife said “Nice to meet you, Mr. Cannon.”

To which the man in the fuzzy-fabric suit replied through his wire-mesh grille, “Please–call me Boomer.”

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