The woman who describes herself as “the crazy French lady” has done outdid herself by bringing me not one box of Yodels, but three boxes. We’re not talking the cheap knock offs here, either. We’re talking smooth chocolate cakes filled with creamed whatever brought to you by the good people of Hostess. Or possibly Drake’s, it’s hard to tell with those corporate mergers. This settles the whole Yodels-don’t-exist-anymore debate that’s been tearing the community apart since way back in June of 2017. They do exist and I’ve got the stomachache to prove it.
Fruit of my looms
Somewhere in the Twin Cities last Friday, a caller reported that some impish youths were hanging around an apple tree and hurling apples at people as they walked by. You know, sort of like those ugly snarling trees along the yellow brick road that time Dorothy went slumming there. A few minutes after the call came in, a cop radioed back to dispatch. “Absolutely no apple throwing here,” the officer said. And after a moment: “Or apple trees.” There was no immediate word on whether any impish youths were found.
It’s just a literary way of saying “rotten kids,” but I think it has a nice ring to it. It would make a stylish name for a street gang. A “West Side Story” kind of gang, anyway.
Sun Journal sold
I used to have lurid fantasies about buying the newspaper myself and making some changes. Big changes. Oh, what a world that would be. No weather stories allowed, like, ever. I mean, I don’t care if we’re hit by a snownami, six tornadoes and a biblical rain of frogs, we ain’t writing about it. The savings in ink alone would be astronomical.
Had a weird conversation at the Granger Smith concert in Lewiston. I spotted a teenage girl wearing all the obligatory country music garb so I moseyed up to her and asked if she was a fan of Granger. “Oh, sure,” she said. “I think the addition of Shattenkirk will really help bolster the defense, which they’re going to need in order to make a Stanley Cup run. I think we’re going to consider that Lundqvist may be slowing down, and we should think about getting somebody else out there between the pipes . . . Wait, did you say Granger? I thought you said New York Rangers.”
At the same concert, I also happened upon a slightly drunk fellow in a sleeveless flannel shirt who had somehow managed to misplace his pickup truck and his girlfriend. If only there’d been some sad-faced hound dog in the picture, this guy would have hit the cliche trifecta.
They aren’t coming until October and so many hungry people are depressed about it, I think we probably need to arrange support groups to help them manage their feelings. In the meantime, here. Have a Yodel. Psych! I polished the things off the very first night. You get nothing!