Workmate Ed wore orange pants today.

So I sent him the following emails.

First line is the subject line, the second line is the
body.

Ed, PG&E called...
... and they wanted to know if they could borrow your
pants to shut down a lane on i-5.

Ed, NASA called…
... and your pants are giving their space station guys
headaches.

Ed, the National Institute for the Blind called...
...and they'd like you to knock that shit off with
your pants.

Ed, the Minute Maid people called...
...and they want you to stop smuggling their trees in
your pants.

Ed, the Coast Guard called...
...and their sending a chopper right over. Why?
Because your fucking pants are fucking orange.

Ed, the Liberace Museum called...
... and they were wondering if you could fucking tone
down your fucking pants.

Ed, the International Mariachi Festival called...
... and they asked that you leave those fucking pants
at home, because you'll distract from the trumpets.

Ed, John-Paul Gaultier called...
...he was wondering if you could return his drapes.

Ed, a career counselor called…
...he said “Don't worry. I KNOW what color your
fucking parachute is. It's fucking orange.”

Ed, Starburst's lawyer called...
...just to let you know they want to give you the
patent for the color ORANGE.

Ed, the British Navy called...
...they wanted to know if your pants can prevent
scurvy.

Ed, the Pantone people called...
... and they said that they don't even have a chip for
that crazy shit. (Refering to the color of your pants,
Ed.)

Ed, the Orangina People called...
...they want to know if they could carbonate your
pants.

Ed, the Sun called...
...he surrenders

Ed, a shitload of rabbits called...
...they want to eat your legs.

Ed, Linus called...
...he wants to wait all night in the pumpkin patch for
your pants.

Ed, ING called...
...they wanted to know if your pants wanted to open a
high interest checking account.

Ed, San Clemente called...
...they want their county back.

Ed, Alice Walker called...
...she wants to do a book about your pants called "The
Color Orange"

Ed, Bill Cosby called...
...he thinks your pants escaped from one of his
sweaters.

Ed, Carrot Top called...
...he wants your pants to stop stealing his act.

Ed, Kubrick called...
...he doing a film he'd like your pants to star in
called "Clockwork Orange Pants".

Ed, the Teletubbies called...
...they have the ransom money and were wondering if
you could please send Tinky Winky home.

Ed is a good sport.

Relations

Some are by blood, some are by marriage. All true.

• J. is an enthusiastic apologist for Mussolini, remarking that all the Fascist street fighters in Italy did was force their enemies to drink castor oil, which J. gleefully notes, “makes you crap your trousers -- instantly.”

• P. was a Greek gentleman who served in a godfathering role to one of my siblings. He was a wild alcoholic, one who constantly asked women to feel his thighs at family Christmas parties. “Feel my leg, I play tennis. It’s like steel”.

• V. was married to a closeted transvestite. Lives in sort of a twilight splendor in a decaying manse with large, alarming cracks in structurally important walls.

• P #2. Once was founding frying his balls off on acid in the high school parking lot, dodging cars. His doctor prescribed sitting in a darkened room for a few hours.

• V #2. took family children for long walks, then hid behind trees along the path to take long pulls on a flask.

• I. took acid and made the mistake of being upfront about it with family old people. Was treated with suspicion for decades after.

• A. is a self-published novelist and has had issues with “Jews hiding in the walls” in the past. Note A. is not a blood relative.

• M. once asked if my son Owen’s name was “some kind of Jew name”.

• D. has a shitload of cats

• R. married a Homeopathic Theosophist, a Mormon, and a Mason, back before that sort of thing was done.

• F. was a pachuco.

• Z. had a dog that pissed everywhere. Was swindled by junkie hairdresser

• O. seems to avoid the family, perhaps wisely.

• J #2. was supposed to take me to Disneyland when I was twelve. Never picked me up at the BART station.

A realization I had today.

If you're a professional theremin player, and you're tight with the music arranger for Scooby Doo, your career success is pretty much locked.

I love to singa.

EXCELLENT Merrie Melodies cartoon from '36 about a young crooning owl. I think you'll agree his insouciance is infectious!