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Just in time for Valentine's Day,
the Guardian in London has
reviewed and raved about
The Secret Language of Sleep.
And, for the rest of the week,
you can buy it for $5!
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Dear Readers: I'm on vacation this week, so I thought I'd run some of my favorite gems you've sent me over the years. - - - - Dear Ann: This is one of the funniest stories I've ever heard, passed on to me by my cousin: A housewife was in her basement doing her laundry when she realized the nightgown she was wearing also needed washing. She stripped it off and continued with her housework, but when she returned, still nude, to move the clothes to the dryer, she saw that a pipe overhead was dripping. Not wanting to ruin the fancy hairdo she had gotten for a dinner party that night, she picked up her son's football helmet and put it on as she transferred the clothes. When she turned around, she was startled to see a man from the electric company reading the meter. As he turned to head up the stairs, the man did not even glance at her but in a deadpan voice made a suggestion so lewd and vulgar that the woman was humiliated. - - - - Dear Ann: I hope you have room to print just one more of those "how we met" stories. I was a young woman growing up in Bombay, adventurous, strong-willed and determined not to settle down until I had seen the world. One night while attending a small gathering at a neighbor's home, I saw a stoop-shouldered, plain-looking man of about 25 standing at the side of the room holding a drink and not talking to anyone. When I walked up and tried to start a conversation with him, he handed me his empty drink and motioned to the bottle of wine sitting in the corner. As I was refilling his cup, I asked my father in a whisper who this rude, arrogant person was. "That's Rajiv Sankar, the man you're going to marry," he replied. "It was arranged between our families right after your birth. You should get used to waiting on him." Well, Ann, I've been at his service for 40 years, and we've never been apart—not even after I brought shame on him twice by giving birth to baby girls. - - - - Dear Ann: Here's a story that gives you an idea of how things have changed in this country. An elderly man was crossing a downtown street when he entered an area marked off by yellow tape and sawhorses. Six men in city maintenance uniforms were leaning on their shovels chatting away, seemingly in no rush to fill a gaping pothole with black tar that was quickly cooling in the container at their feet, next to a sign that read "Caution, Men at Work." As the old gentleman passed between the men, one of them snapped at him, "Watch where you're going. Can't you read the sign?" The elderly man stopped and stood with hands on hips, looking slowly from the sign to the group of men. He then hurried on meekly, too embarrassed to admit that he did not know how to read. - - - - Dear Ann: This really happened in a town near mine and never fails to bring me a chuckle. A woman frantically rushed into an emergency room with one palm pressed against the back of her head. She claimed she had been shot from behind while driving her car and that she had driven to the hospital with one hand while using the other to keep her brains from spilling out. The emergency team reacted quickly, knowing how precious each bit of brain tissue was to the woman's functioning in the future. Soon enough, however, they were able to piece together what had actually happened. The woman had been to the supermarket and placed her groceries in the back seat of her car, which was very hot from sitting in the sun. As she was driving home, a bullet apparently fired from at least a half-mile away passed through the glass in her back window and had just enough velocity to enter the scalp at the back of her skull. The "brains" that the woman thought she was holding in was actually just a mixture of blood and cerebrospinal fluid!
OTHER McSWEENEY'S STORIES:
Fragments From The Death of the Musical! The Musical By Ben Greenman Discarded Art-Book Proposals, Reconsidered (First in a Series) By Sean Carman Excerpts From The Legendary Correspondence Between John Hodgman, Former Professional Literary Agent, and Lawrence Krauser, New-Book-Writer, Whose Novel, LEMON, is Soon to be Published By McSweeney's Books, a Publishing Concern in Brooklyn, New York The Twelve Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous and The Twelve Steps of Creating a Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade Balloon (as Listed on the MacyParade.com Web Site), Head to Head By Kevin Shay Strange and Obsessive Things I Did as a Kid By Scott Hollifield |
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