Bad Arizona Metaphors

Suzie’s wonderbra turned the Twin Peaks into the Grand Canyon.
But she was hot: Think Tucson in July!
Unfortunately, her pap smear was an out-and-out Montezuma’s Well of sea life.
Moreover, after marriage she was the peak of Snow Bowl below the waist.
John McCain is Fillmorian, in stature. And age.
The force of my fingers turned an ordinary blackhead into Meteor Crater.
Lute Olsen’s helmet of hairspray has been deemed acceptable for use by the NFL.
Every night, the Florida Marlins play in a veritable Goldsmith Ghost Town.
Slide Rock’s river bottom is slippery: I mean KY slippery!
With another nearly to above average season or 2, ASU might one day become the Purdue of the Pac 10.

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Life in These United States

Even respected brain surgeons get leaky roofs, I unfortunately discovered one day. Luckily, one of my patients was a handyman and agreed to repair the structure for free.

“It’s a slow leak into the living room,” I explained to the crusted strongman.

Without missing a beat, he replied, “Guess I’ll get started.”

Humor in Uniform

Deciding to spend my hard-earned leave back home meant boarding a DC-9 for the Deep South. To pass the 4 hours of required travel time, I brought along the latest Beverly Barton thriller. I was so overjoyed when we finally touched down in Biloxi, however, that I deplaned quickly—without my book!

As I was conveying my thanks to the pilot, I heard a commotion behind me. When I glanced back, I saw my trusted flight attendant, holding my lost paperback and pushing her way to the front of the line.

“Lieutenant!” she yelled for all to hear. “You’ll love the ending!”

All in a Day’s Work

Returning from a sales conference, our driver was clearly lost, although he was not the type to admit it. Fortunately, a quick-thinking associate requested that we pull off the highway in order to procure a much needed meal. Once this task was completed, my colleague began asking the locals for directions. His first victim was an elderly gent atop a motel porch, seated on a rocking chair and whittling.

“Which way to Decatur, old timer?” he asked the grizzled veteran of life. The man pointed south.

My buddy was flabbergasted. “Now we’ll have to make up an hour’s driving time!” he cried.

The man did not even looking up from his carving as he answered, “Good luck.”

Never-Ending Redneck Dialogue

“Got me a new dog.”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“I ain’t called you dog, Dog!”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Cause you done called me dog, Dog.”
“But why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“I just done tell you, Dog!”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“You mean that last time?”
“Why you call—uh, yeah.”
“I done tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“Why I call you dog.”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“I dint that time.”
“But before.”
“I done tell ya!”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Cause you done called me dog! Dog!”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Cause I did. And don’t call me dog.”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Answer me: Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“Answer me: Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“What you say?”
"What you say?”
“What you say?”
"What you say?”
“What you say?”
"What you say?”
“I say why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“I ain’t call you shit”
“Why you callin’ me shit, Dog?”
“I just say: I ain’t call you shit!”
“Why you callin’ me shit, Shit?”
“I ain’t callin’ you shit, Shit.”
“Why you callin’ me shit, Shit?”
“I ain’t callin’ you shit, Shit.”
“Why you callin’ me shit, Shit?”
“I ain’t callin’ you shit, Shit.”
“Why you callin’ me shit, Shit?”
“I ain’t callin’ you shit, Dog.”
“Why you callin’ me dog, Dog?”
“No one say dog ‘til I done it.”
“Why you say Dog?”
“Dunno.”
“Me neither.”
“I knows!”
“Wha—?”
“Got me a new dog.”
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Bad Arizona Similes

Phoenix: That ol’ town’s hotter than morning wood in ultratight skivvies.

The Grand Canyon swallows hikers like Suzie Hanika took in wrestlers in high school.

Driving the Apache Trail is sort of like how drops of water negotiate skid marks in a porcelain bowl.

The ears of a desert hare are not unlike racquetball racquets, but without the handles or strings.

The Lost Dutchman Mine is as mysterious as those vacations where you don’t take a dump for several days.

Route 66 resembles the song about as much as my nipples bear likeness to Antarctica.

Brushing your teeth before a Navajo burrito? That’s like wiping your bum before a major slosh!

Superstition Mountain rises in solitude, like the tit of a Cyclops.

Valley of the Sun? Valley of my red ass is more like it!

The cacti grow across Sky Harbor like zits on the face of a teen.

Tom Cruise’s head is as void of gray matter as Medusa Castle is of residents.

Sedona traps tourists like backside hairs ensnare dingleberries.

A Paragraph of Sentences That Have Never Been Uttered

Fondue forks may well investigate the mental hygiene millers of Flat Top whilst tube socks milk forests of guava melts. Moreover, those magnets of lint, they force derivative destinations into twilight. Bingo hails indubitably across the blue dwarf. Conversely, occupations that taste like ink can be utilized on the scabs of plaid duffel bags. Horse meat, of course, just holds the Flaxin cards. It follows, then, that clandestine diseased fruit cannot be tried for murder within a vacuum. Catch the filibuster now, Saint Weatherhorse? I believe you and 17 tapirs roundly assonate! Furthermore, saving the table scraps of Revolutionary War widows is unethical toward pleasing Forrest Whitaker. I mean: “Banks in your shoe?” cold cocked Grady’s stand-in. With that in mind, oatmeal toast is forever Carl Jung. From this argument, one can opine that corn soup would likely have a backhand that scatters municipalities. And I don’t need shuttlecocks of spearmint in my gruel! In other words, smegma cannot be sold at hockey games in Hell. So why, you ask, is dinner served in the void of consciousness? Well, maple dung hairs notwithstanding, there is conclusiveness surrounding Frisbees. And admonishments are clarity personified. Therefore, bullies fornicating on ice are neither sea dwelling lint nor should I amble about. However, traces of mastication arrive daily in fonts of oak. This particular argument proposes clambake justice for French Open qualifiers of modest girth. In essence, tribal sensibilities inherit Formica ball returns toward louder farts. Climb it on Topcat’s ear, I hear you justify. That said, guppies traipse sideways in transfer functions alluded to by Diffenbach. But “hold your placenta!” screams the wayward youth of mooring scabs. Indeed, strangeness oil, forgotten as one, banters about with Ms. Pac-Man. To clarify, bale sandwiches mark the drainage of certitude. Pour crayon welts atop flow cycles, you ask? Well, payment of frosting accelerates doors hidden via Millard Fillmore’s phallic cloud formations. More specifically, mountainous, gelatinous, pendulumous breasts clarify the auction sites without ever once leaving Cleveland, eh? Those who can’t wax holidays feel it like bass gurneys. In conclusion then, tapestry cinderblocks revolutionize the needed objectives of youth, despite fantastics who can’t say otherwise. Neither, of course, does Larry Storch’s irritatingly frightened muffin tops.

An Editorial Writer with a Short Attention Span

Presidential candidates, and this runs across party lines, are making a big mistake by leaving Syria out of their Middle East discussions. Let’s face it—say, isn’t there a Syria in Illinois? Or is it—what am I thinking of? Maybe Northwestern—boy, was their football team bad this year or what? They’re the Eddie Money of college football. Baby hold on to me; give me a break. What does that even mean? Hey Eddie—hold this!

Most Eddies, I’ve noticed, are named Edward; damned few are Edwin. On the other hand, Edwin Pope writes for the Miami Herald, the paper that had Carl Hiaasen and Dave Barry on staff at the same time—wonder what that was like. I also wonder about balloons. If a kid let go of me and I drifted up to the clouds, that would be scary as hell. Still, “cumulonimbus” is kind of a cool word. Not as cool as “uvula”, but pretty cool nonetheless.

Cartoonists always draw the uvula when a character has his or her mouth open wide. It’s become habit now to write “his or her” where before I always had to make an effort to remember. Some people call it PC, but most of them don’t even know what PC means. In that respect, it’s sort of like “internist.” It’s tempting to assume those guys are still learning. But when you assume…you know the rest.

I first saw that when-you-assume thing on The Odd Couple. I once met a set of twins that were sort of like Oscar and Felix, except they were females. Twins do some peculiar things. I wonder if all that telepathy stuff is real. I know there sure are some weird stories about separated twins who know more about what the other one is doing than would seem possible.

Something that’s impossible at my local Burger King is actually getting the order right. I order the same thing every time and not only is my meal always different, the price is too. I never cared for The Price is Right. Too many weirdos. Sort of like Devo. What was the deal with those hats?

Dr. Seuss based “The Cat in the Hat” on a list of recommended words for children to learn. Recommendations can be touchy business. If you think someone needs a psychologist, how do you tell them? In that sense, it’s a bit like halitosis.

Women seem to remember the bad breath thing more than men do. When they eat fish or onions, they cover their mouths when talking. I know only one male who does that and he’s not from America. He’s been here most of his life, but grew up somewhere in the Middle East. It might have been Syria. Coincidentally, I was just thinking about that particular nation. To my way of thinking, presidential candidates, and this runs across party lines, are making a big mistake by leaving Syria out of their Middle East discussions.

But that’s a topic better left for another day.