Beavis & Butthead revisited

The Shootist

by Hally Abbott

It's the Twilight Zone.... You've stepped into an alternate reality where the West was never lost and women reign supreme. After 20 years on Gunsmoke, Kitty finally got pissed off at Matt and Doc, killed them and all the rest of the low-lives, ran for President and now reigns supreme in Washington. Gunslingers are all women and they only get married to have babies that their husbands stay home and watch. In the evenings, they hang out in bars, gossip and gamble, and maybe give a tip or two to the cute waiters. "Come 'ere, honey, and blow on my dice!"

She was just another gun slinger, as far as I was concerned. How was I to know...well, let me begin at the beginning...

I was perched on my usual comfortable stool in the corner of the bar at Connie's Night Owl Cafe, my usual night club hangout, sippin' my usual Margarita.

I know the folks hereabouts and I felt pretty relaxed, so I took my purse off my shoulder and placed it on the foot rail by my feet. It's pretty heavy after all. Some say fanny packs are the way to go, but I'm an old-fashioned kinda gal who likes the security of a large purse. It tends to hamper my draw, but I like all the room for my extra clips and ammo. Plenty of women hide their extras beneath their skirts, but that's a bit tacky. It's also uncomfortable.

Anyways, there I was, enjoyin' the evening. Jake was at the bar and Leslie was at the piana, honky tonkin' along. Somebody called out for something slow and easy, so Leslie started singin' some Bette Midler thing. We was all hushed and listenin' when suddenly the door flew open and in came this hussy in a red sequined dress. All the men swung around to look. It set my teeth on edge right away: I've always felt red sequins are just plain trashy. I prefer the understated look of rhinestone-studded khaki and camouflage.

Red worked her way across the crowded dance floor over to the bar and sat on a stood about three down from me. She ordered a Bonnie Rait -- a strange concoction of vodka, lime juice and root beer.

I noticed she was totin' some beautiful ivory inlaids. I'd never seen more delicate workwomanship and was dyin' to get closer. I didn't want to be rude, though, so I held my peace and waited a while, watchin'. That's my style anyways -- I just kinda hang out and watch 'til I feel the time's right. I may be a gun slinger, but I ain't rude.

She finished her drink and leaned across the bar to whisper somethin' in Jake's ear. Sure enough, it wasn't but a few minutes later she went upstairs. The place sports some sterling studs in the upstairs bedrooms, if you get my drift, and she didn't look like she was askin' about the ladies' loo.

I danced a few rounds with a couple of the local guys and was workin' my way through another Margarita when Red ventured back down about an hour later lookin' mighty relaxed -- a bit of a smile on her face, a bit of a swagger in her stride. Leslie was takin' a break, so the CD player was crankin' out a Billy Joel song fest. Red sat on her stool and ordered another one of them root beer concoctions.

I didn't mean to stare, but I just couldn't take my eyes off them inlaids. They reminded me of somethin' from a long time ago. I wracked my brains, but I don't have much of a memory. All those guns explodin' near my head through the years has kinda addled me somewhat. But those ivories bugged me. I tried to shrug it off. For all I knew, they coulda once belonged to my mama.

Finally Red turned to me.

"I don't know what yer problem is, Sister, but you're bein' kinda rude," she said with a mean squint.

"I'm sorry," I answered, "I just was admirin' your revolvers. I haven't seen such beautiful work since...." I frowned at the sudden recollection. Since grade school! I had known someone who had one of them guns in grade school! The hairs on the nape of my neck prickled up a tad. I cleared my throat and asked, "Hey, you know a Kitty Blade?"

Her heavily made-up eyelids lowered ominously over steel blue eyes as she squinted down at me suspiciously. "Who wants to know?" she asked guardedly.

I didn't like her attitude.

"Listen Sister, I just asked a civil question is all. You ever run into Kitty Blade?"

She pushed herself off the stool and stood squintin' and glowerin' at me.

"What if I did?" she asked belligerent-like.

I leapt off my stool and made sure I had clear access to my holster. The place went silent and the couples on the dance floor scampered off to give us clearance. Jake, who's a tad portly, ducked behind the bar with a grunt.

Red planted her high heels squarely beneath her and pushed her holster more snugly down on her hips, tearing off a few bright sequins in the process. They fluttered down between us to the floor.

"Oh, for the love of George Krikey!" she shrieked. "I paid $4,000 for this dress and now look at it. It's ruined!" Her eyes filled with tears as she examined the bare spot the holster had torn in the side of her dress.

"What did you just say?" I asked, frozen in horror.

"I said my dress is ruined, ya fool!" she sobbed, her face goin' as red as her dress.

Well, I'm too sportswomanly to duel with a cryin' woman. Ya just can't see straight to shoot when you're all emotional like that. And besides....

"You said 'For the love of George Krikey!' There's only one woman alive who uses that expression. You're Kitty Blade!" I exclaimed.

"Yeah, so what if I am?" she asked, squintin' at me and blowin' her nose on a tissue she had extracted from her cleavage. I realized she was extremely near-sighted. The squintin' she'd been doin' was to see clearly, not to look nasty.

"Kitty, ya damn fool!" I'm Aggie Stiletovich, the Stiletto Queen!"

"Little Aggie from fifth grade?"

We fell into each other's arms and started huggin' and cryin'.

"Aggie! Why, I almost killed you!"

"Probably not, Kitty. I almost killed you."

"Doubtful Aggie. I've always been faster than you."

"Oh yeah? Well, ya look like ya need glasses to me, ya old fart!"

We started laughin'. It was just like old times.

We sat back down on stools next to each other. As we sipped our drinks we admired the beautifully inlaid revolvers Kitty had set on the bar.

"So where'd you get the other revolver, Kitty?" I asked after a while.

"My mom gave it to me as a graduation present from college. Made a matched pair. Ain't they just gorgeous?"

"I shoulda know'd it was you, Kitty, sportin' such a fancy red dress. You always was prone to overdoin' it," I said.

"Watch what you say, Bandit" she retorted, unzipping her bodice to reveal not the two hefty breasts I expected, but two cleverly concealed micro-pistols built right into the dress. "All I hafta do is cross my arms, squoosh my boobs together, and you're history, Sister," she threatened good naturedly.

I couldn't help but stare as she proceeded to show me other clever little devices she'd had incorporated into the dress -- even some nasty little computer-controlled gizmos. No wonder she'd been upset at the ripped sequins.

"Get with the program, Girl," she admonished, referring to my old-fashioned approach to gun slingin'. "That stupid purse will get ya killed someday."

I nodded. She was right: I had a lot to learn even after all these years.

Before we parted company, we vowed to remember the evening's lesson, and may it also be a lesson to all you smart, know-it-all shootists out there: Look before you leap off that bar stool and start shootin'. The woman you aim at might be an old school chum!

Not Your Average Little Old Ladies

Dedicated to Jean Stern, always ready for anything. Rest in peace.

I know What I Heard

by Liz Hoban

I was relaxing on the couch one afternoon practicing levitation on the piles of toys surrounding me, when suddenly my powers of concentration were broken by my six year old. He barged in through the back door toting a toy plastic automatic machine gun in one hand and a dilapidated garbage can lid in the other.

After catching his breath, he blurted, "I need some catsup." When I asked if he had started the barbecue grill without my consent, he quickly said, "No, Mom, don't be silly. I just shot Justin and we need some blood." Sure, take some eggs while you're at it, I thought before sternly telling him "No."

When I tucked him into bed that night, I told him he was playing a little too violently for my liking. He asked, "Then why do they sell guns for little kids?" Good question. I sat beside him and went into a twenty-minute dissertation about how real guns can be very dangerous but can sometimes also save your life. I finished with a brilliant synopsis of the Constitutional right to bear arms.

He paused for a brief, thoughtful second and replied, "Wow, my friend Victor's father has a real deer head hanging in his living room, but I think bear arms would be much cooler. Where can you buy those?"

I kissed him and said, "I can't say for sure, but you can probably find some in the same store that sell turtle necks."

That conversation reminded me of how I came to hold my current opinions about self-defense.

My beloved husband, a Navy fighter pilot, was killed during the Libyan Crisis in 1986. This benevolent warrior left me with wonderful memories, two beautiful sons, and a gun neither of us had ever fired.

We bought the gun after our first son was born. My husband heard an intruder in the kitchen late one night when I was eight months pregnant. He grabbed the fire extinguisher from the hall closet and silently raced for the kitchen. He flicked on the overhead light, armed and ready to spray, only to find me sitting in a chair, scraping the sides of a nearly empty quart of Rocky Road ice cream. I know I've been complaining of heartburn, I thought, but isn't this fire extinguisher thing a little drastic?

The incident led to a discussion about self-defense. We talked about how women prefer to protect themselves as tidily as possible by, say, poisoning a perpetrator. Men, on the other hand, will bench press economy cars and throw them at each other in order to make a point. This is why my husband's idea of a good weapon was a gun and mine was a dog.

Both of us were allergic to dogs, so we were limited to a few hairless breeds that cost in the neighborhood of three grand. In order to ensure adequate protection, this bald dog would have to be male and so large I couldn't be comfortable near it unless it wore underwear. Dog's out; gun's in.

A few months after Justin was born, my husband brought home the gun, and overnight we became nervous gun owners. We never touched it, although we joked that if we ever had a teenage daughter, we would mount the gun on the wall when a date came to pick her up.

Several months after our second baby arrived, my husband died. I continued to keep the gun in my bedside table in a lock box with the key taped under the drawer. The weapon and I co-existed peacefully until one frightening night. I was sitting in bed watching the David Letterman Show with my toddler sons sleeping next to me, safe and sound. Letterman was wearing a wet suit and was swimming in a huge bowl of Rice Krispies and milk. As the show broke for a commercial, I heard a very distinct but strange noise come from the hallway.

I immediately muted the TV and sat paralyzed, straining my ears for another sound. I heard the noise again and knew for certain another living thing was in the house with us and was right outside my bedroom. As if it was yesterday, I know what I heard.

I heard someone fart.

I realize this sounds crazy, but it was one of the scariest moments of my life. I kept repeating to myself, "Of course this could happen." I broke free from my painful, frozen pose when I realized I had to protect my babies. Someone was in my hall, and he had eaten gas-producing food for dinner.

I reached for the gun. Considering the most dangerous thing I had shot up until then was a stapler, I was relieved to find myself holding the correct end of the thing.

Weapon in hand, I took a looming stance over my boys, dialed the police with my free hand, and requested back up. My heart was pounding so loudly I was afraid it would wake the boys. The thoughts racing through my head ranged from hiding the boys in my dresser drawers to contacting my late husband telepathically. Reality crashed in when help arrived.

I could have had Chinese food delivered quicker, but was glad to see the officers. They checked the premises and, finding nothing, proceeded to take a report. When the part of my story came up about the unmistakable sound I had heard, the investigation took a steep, downhill slide.

I can still hear myself trying to bring some shred of credibility to the crime scene by drawing on my medical expertise: "Well, maybe the intruder had an intestinal affliction and ran out to find a bathroom. Come on, stop laughing. I could happen!"

I hated those two rude men standing in my house almost as much as I hated the gaseous burglar; however, in a sick way, I felt safe. I contemplated asking them to sleep over until I realized that request could have gotten me arrested.

Through periodical bouts of hysterical laughter, the officers managed to issue me a warning for not registering my gun. How was I to know they weren't talking about voting when they asked if I was registered?

Before they left, the officers got in one last comedic overture. Turns out the bullet clip was missing from my gun, so the only way I could have hurt the intruder was to throw the gun at him.

To this day, I don't know who made that sound, but having grown up with four shameless brothers, no one will ever change my mind about what the sound was. I do, however, recognize the difficulty the police department might face trying to identify the prowler. The thought of a line-up makes me cringe.

Naturally, I turned to my parents for comfort. My mother started mailing me highlighted articles on self-defense for the non-violent and/or stupid. My father confiscated the weapon and said I could have it back when I learned how to use it responsibly.

I am more comfortable without a gun anyway. Life with two growing sons has altered my mentality so much that if I had a gun, I'd use it on people like the geniuses who decided only one prize per cereal box is necessary, or that it is reasonable to claim, "Batteries not included."

I now carry a key-ring canister of Mace. My only hope is that my kids won't use it on me when they wake up Christmas morning to discover, once again, they didn't get those "bear arms" they've been wanting.

SELF-DEFENSE

And now for something completely different

I'm tired of supermarkets. All that hunting and gathering has gotten me interested in gun control and self-defense.

It started with my boyfriend coming home one night with an NRA bumper sticker. When Christmas rolled around he put matching Glocks under the tree. Eventually he took me for a romantic getaway in the Poconos where we ended up at an outdoor shooting range. I must confess that shooting that Uzi was extremely fulfilling on some level. If it's so much fun, how come there is so much confusion about it all? Women's Harpoon decided to pose the question to its contributors.

The husbands and boyfriends took great umbrage with the whole subject. "It's tooooo serious." "It's not funny at all." "It takes too much research -- too much thinking!" "This sucks."

But I said to them, "Listen, guys, take your bitching over to Kick Boxer's World and Guns & Ammo magazine, we're not interested." Luckily our female contributors were very forthcoming about their experiences. It appears that it isn't the wars women object to, it's the weapons! No woman, if sufficiently provoked, would hesitate to start swinging her purse. But pull out a gun and actually shoot someone in the supermarket aisle? I haven't seen that one on Lifetime for Women yet. Women's Harpoon research shows that 98 percent of our readers have absolutely nothing against guns. It's the bullets they hate.

As for war, Women's Harpoon readers just can't seem to find anything worth starting a war over. There are many things to be upset about, like the economy, our sex lives, and the fact that nobody can seem to find a decent manicurist. The world is going to hell in a handbasket, but fighting over a bad manicure?

So read on, my gentle friends, and let's explore....

SELF-DEFENSE & GUN CONTROL

Shopping With Kids:

Another Joy of Parenting
by Elizabeth Hoban

It's a rainy Tuesday afternoon. I had used every conceivable excuse to avoid grocery shopping the previous week, but when we ran out of toilet paper I had no choice but to go to the store.

As usual, I managed to ignore the warning bells clanging in my head as we approached the front of the store. Even before I could find a cart that had at least three functional wheels and wasn't dripping or loaded with soggy flyers, my sons had run in and out of the automatic doors 19 times. Thanks to some marketing genius, this store now supplies my children with miniaturized shopping carts of their own. Due to previous near-death experiences with these demonic vehicles, I was forced to limit the boys to one cart between them. They took off in a flash to their usual hangout in the cereal aisle.

I used this brief reprieve to contemplate dinner preparations. Cooking has never been my forte: The last time I cooked something in the oven, Justin, justifiably confused, asked if it was Thanksgiving. Luckily my children aren't picky eaters: They hate everything except fast food. They're also born forages and always seem to be able to find something to snack on, like uncooked pasta or salted ice cubes.

In any case, I decided to make meatloaf because the last time I made it no one got ill. I could have made something more elegant; after all, I own a Julia Child cookbook more cumbersome than the slabs Moses carried down from the mountains. Curiously it doesn't contain one recipe calling for Gummi Bears: Julia should really have considered a more appropriate last name.

Before I reached the cereal aisle, my sons came careening around the corner on two wheels, carting a box of Battletoads cereal the size of a footlocker. Examining their treasure carefully, I noted the contents were not pictured on the box, and the fine print listed the number one ingredient as, you guessed it, sugar. After a lengthy argument, the boys assured me that it wouldn't be like before: They made a solemn promise to eat every bit of the contents, no matter what it looked like or how it tasted, before they asked me to buy anything else.

I gave in, just as my older son blurted, "It's about time you bought us what we like!" His younger sidekick, Ryan, bravely added, "Yeah, you never buy anything for us." Then they were off again with the kiddie cart from Hell, headed toward the ice cream section. Meanwhile, I grabbed a huge box of unsweetened Bran Flakes with devious intent: Later, at home, I would switch the contents of the Battetoads box with the healthier tree bark.

I felt rejuvenated enough by this stroke of genius to select toilet paper that actually matched the colors in my bathroom. Just then, I saw a father wheeling his anxious toddler down the aisle. He looked rather frustrated as he reviewed his shopping list -- which was as along as the Declaration of Independence -- and was mumbling, "Why couldn't she write this in alphabetical order according to aisle?" Then Dad did something very foolish: he parked the cart with Junior in it right next to a rack of brooms. Before he could react, the child had grabbed a broom and swept an entire shelf of shoe polish onto the floor.

Dad stood bewildered for a moment and then calmly removed the broom from the child's grasp. Affectionately, he said, "I wish you hadn't done that." Lifting his child into his arms, he added, "Not bad, but next time, choke up a little more on the bat and follow through on the swing."

Now that's creative parenting I thought, as my boys came screeching toward me, one pushing the mini-cart into which the other's hind-quarters had been wedged, the other waving a box of ice pops.

I felt the young father's eyes on me: It was my turn to display my own brand of impressive parenting.

Through gritted teeth, I pried Ryan out of the cart and instructed him to return the vehicle to the front of the store. I reminded Justin of his promise with the cereal and told him the ice pops had to go back. With creative rationalization, he stated he'd changed his mind and quickly removed the cereal, replacing it with the box of colored ice. Then, as if knowing we were being observed, he pointed to a container of mushrooms in my cart and, thanks to an expensive set of kid's science encyclopedias, yelled, "Why are you buying fungus?" He ran off clutching the cereal before I could intelligently explain it was easier than scraping it off the bottom of our shower curtain.

As I stood there with my mouth hanging open, the father and son team walked passed me, smirking. I wanted to tell the Dad it was easy to maintain a sense of adventure when you have only one shopping jaunt per year and that someday soon the tables would turn and he would be the one frantically doing the weekly grocery shopping while his wife stayed home to run her own business. Then we'd see him standing in the front of the store cursing under his breath because all the coupons he'd meticulously cut from the weekly flyers had been left home on the kitchen counter.

Instead, quiet and dignified, I left the aisle only to discover my sons wrestling in front of the courtesy desk, rolling on the floor holding each others in headlocks. I pretended they were someone else's children and got on line at the register.

I spotted the young father again. This time he was attempting to control a now-hysterical child who was demanding candy from the rack next to the checkout. In his frenzy to write a check and hold onto his squirming son, he compromised and let the kid chose one item. The child picked out Rolaids, and the two left.

Perfect, I thought, they can share.

Meanwhile, my sons had moved on to more mature things. They were diligently applying bubble gum machine tattoos they had somehow managed to appropriate. Relieved, I turned back to a riveting tabloid article I'd been reading about a woman who had committed suicide in her dishwasher.

It wasn't until I glanced down at my near-empty cart that I noticed the dog food and shoe polish. Struggling out of my Enquirer-induced fog, I realized we don't have a dog. I had just had someone else's groceries rung up.

"Will that be cash or check?" the polite cashier asked. Just a loaded gun, I thought, as I glanced around me hoping to spot a family therapist or the guy from Totally Hidden Videos. All I got were impatient stares, so I paid and left.

It took me 20 minutes in the rain to find the car and load it with kids and groceries. (I'll never understand how I consistently lose my car: It should magnetically attract my cart to its bumpers with just as much force as it attracts all the other carts in the parking lot!) My stunned silence was broken when my sons asked what I was making for dinner. Not having the slightest inkling of what I had just purchased, I told them it would be a surprise. I grinned wickedly when I realized we weren't the only ones in for a surprise.

If the victim of my shopping stupor is reading this, I want you to know that Bran Flakes and mushrooms really can enhance a meatloaf.

IT'S HELL IN THERE

WOMEN'S HARPOON, the e-zine for women, by women

You read here the reprinted e-zine of the premier issue of what was to be one of the most hilarious women's zines of the 1990's. That's not saying much, since there were only two women's humor magazines ever published. We were a group of women who decided that getting even was more fun than getting mad so we started a magazine for women, by women to protest...well, pretty much everything.

Why did women buy Women's Harpoon? Because when they were young, they read MAD Magazine and wondered why practically every character was male. If there was a female, she was some small, stupid, dorky girl with dorky curls and dorky freckles, and she carried around a dorky doll. Or, if she was a woman, her back was about to break from counterbalancing the size Q breasts she sported.

After all these years, women were just about convinced the humor arena belonged to sophomoric, infantile, flatulent, air-bursting men. But women had finally made it to stand-up comedy, and we decided they should branch into literature, it was about time.

So we now dedicate this updated e-zine to you. We salute you for taking a fresh leap of faith in believing women have every right to laugh at ourselves, at men, and at anything else we damn well please.

Table of Contents

She's Gotta Have It

by Laurie Greenwald Saloman

It's 8:32 pm. My empty Lean Cuisine tray sits on the coffee table. I'm staring glassy-eyed at the tube, wearing my stretched-out green bike shorts and see-through, tie-dyed tank top, braless. I'm not a pretty sight, but then, I don't plan on leaving the house.

Suddenly, I'm hit with a huge Ben & Jerry's ice cream craving. The dark, rich, drool-inducing, chunky richness is calling me from its cooler in Foodtown. Thus summoned, I jump in the car and shoot away from the curb. Ahoy, Foodtown! Oh, no! The store is closed due to a strike! I race to Pathmark, careening over the railroad tracks, up the incline and down a one-way street the wrong way. YES! IT'S OPEN!

Once inside, I head straight for the ice cream section without even grabbing a basket. Why bother putting up a front? Finally, I arrive at my destination in Aisle 10.

Uh-oh. I see many, many flavors of Ben & Jerry's, but not one has the distinctive purple cover that identifies it as Chocolate Fudge Brownie. For a moment I almost break down and take strawberry. Then I remember what time of the month it is...Keep foraging.

A small pile of ice cream and yogurt containers is growing on the floor around me; perhaps other customers will mistake me for a stock person? Who cares.

At the very back, at the bottom of the stack, lies a single, pathetic, drippy container of Chocolate Fudge Brownie. Under ordinary circumstances it would be the runt of the litter, but it looks like Nirvana to me now. I scoop up the pile of containers at my feet and shove them back into the freezer. With prize in hand, I jog toward the checkout line.

I catch sight of myself in the mirror over the lettuce. Did I really venture out looking like this? My eyeliner is now around my temples, and I believe I've forgotten to shave my kneecaps. Well, I'm in the supermarket, so I guess I can look as slovenly as I please. Maybe I should've stuck some curlers in my hair, just for effect.

Amazingly, the market is hopping at this hour. I wend my way toward the Express checkout line, $5 bill in hand. A haggard mother beats me to the cashier; evidently the only light in her day is winning this race. I ignore her superior grin as she unloads her items -- definitely more than 10, not counting the kid. She picks up an Enquirer and nonchalantly reads while reaching down periodically to replace, without looking, the candy items her son is snatching from the stand.

I can feel the ice cream melting as my blood pressure rises. I should've brought a spoon and started eating on line. A few more minutes of this and the craving will be gone, for goodness sake!

Ten minutes later, the mother is finally ready to pay for her purchases and runs a credit card through the automated teller machine. The "Confiscate" sign flashes, the cashier whips the card away and calls the manager. I hear my ice cream sloshing a bit.

Suddenly, manna from Heaven. "Open over here," calls a cashier from the far end of the store. Everyone in my line runs for it, leaving me (once again) at the end.

It's 10:32 pm by the time I arrive home. Passing through the kitchen, I reach for a spoon, think better of it and grab a straw. As I throw myself on the couch and puncture a hole in the lid of the container, I wonder -- was it worth it? I slurp -- it isn't easy getting the brownies up, but yeah, it was.

Dear Jackie!

The Great American Procurement Predicament:

A New Look at Alternative Shopping

We’ve all wandered through the supermarket muttering, “There’s gotta be a better way to put food on the table.” That’s why Women’s Harpoon interviewed three forward-thinking women actually doing something about it. We hope you’ll be as inspired by their stories as we were.

Olivia Marshall lives by the motto “Waste not, want not.” A savvy procurement expert, Olivia makes an art out of food selection. Women’s Harpoon caught up with her behind Leonardo’s Restaurant in downtown Omaha.

“People neglect the obvious,” Marshall said upon greeting us. “Look here -- somebody threw away an entire serving of Fettucini Alfredo. Why, my husband Jeremy can have that for dinner tonight.”

She stepped over to the recycling bin and grabbed several wine bottles as she continued, saying, “If I combine what’s left in these three bottles, Jeremy will have a nice wine to go with his pasta and there will be plenty left for me to drink with the Chicken Marsala I picked out for myself.”

Marshall claims most people are unaware of how much food they waste. They’re also oblivious to how much money they could save making use of what other people throw out.

Said Marshall, “Listen, this is a great way to extend my food budget. There are no lines, no coupons to shuffle, and no snotty stock boys to trip over. All they need to do is put striped canopies over the dumpsters and it’ll be perfect.”

Marshall thinks dumpster diving will continue to be a growing food trend. “People like to rummage; it’s in their blood. Just look at the churches -- they’ve known this for years,” she said. “Anyway, with economy the way it is, we just have to evolve.”

&&&&

New Jersey gubernatorial candidate Golda Fleischmann is also on the forefront of change in the area of food procurement. She recent announced that if elected, she will establish a Hunting & Herding Committee as an adjunct to the Fish & Wildlife Department.

“We have such a wonderful natural resource here in New Jersey, I’m amazed no one thought of this before,” Fleischmann said during a stop on the campaign trail. “We have more deer and geese here in Central Jersey than in the states of Montana, Kentucky, and Illinois combined. For years these succulent beasts have been hurling themselves at passing cars on highways in some strange suicidal ritual, only to rot by the roadside. Oy, such a mess. My Hunting & Herding idea is the perfect solution. Within two months of my election we’ll be feeding the entire inner-city population of Camden and Newark with venison steak and pate de fois gras. I’m drooling here, for God’s sake,” Fleishmann concluded.

The candidate said she expects the unemployment rate to decline by 2 percent a week once the State ok’s her proposed butchering classes for current welfare recipients. BRAVA, Candidate Fleishmann!!

&&&&

Humphretta Bogart of Oakland, California has an innovate solution to the problem of grocery shop

ping: she avoids it whenever possible.“Actually, I do shop, but only to lay in a good variety of cat food,” Bogart said during an interview in her favorite eatery. “Oh, you mean people food? I buy coffee and tea, because I’m perfectly capable of heating water in the microwave, and I can melt cheese for nachos if we have guests. I don’t mind buying the packaged goods, but we a

sk that guests bring their own cheese,” Bogart added.

Bogart said her idea of a perfect dinner is reservations, which led her to design and patent an innovative kitchen appliance: The MicroPhone.

Explained Bogart, “It’s really a small microwave with a built-in telephone. The best part is the MicroPhone has enough memory to store up to 200 telephone numbers. You can input the numbers of your favorite restaurants or buy our ‘Dial-A-Meal’ program that includes pre-programmed information about every restaurant on the West Coast. It’s a real time and energy saver.”

The MicroPhone is the first of many kitchen appliance innovations Bogart has in mind. She said her next project is to develop the “Cook ‘n Serve ‘n Trash Stovetop.” This smooth-surface range can also be used as a kitchen table, and it has a built-in disposal unit.