Time, Mortality, & Hate

Time again: The end of another month.  It seems as though they’re ticking off like the timer on a bomb and one of these days there’ll be an explosion that only I will hear.  God, I have to stop being so concerned with time passing.  It must just be me.  The first song I ever wrote, begun when I was about fifteen and finished when I was eighteen, was “Time Will Tell.”  So I guess my preoccupation with old tempus and his fugiting has been lifelong.

Mortality Blues: My mother died twelve years ago. Hard to believe it’s been that long. She was in the hospital after she had fallen and broken her hip. Old folks’ hips are like glass and so easily broken and so nearly impossible to repair, so often the prelude to death as it was with her. We flew home in time to see her and say goodbye before she decided to slip away. Such a permanent thing, last goodbyes. About a decade ago, every now and then I’d get this wave of depression at the thought of my own mortality. It was never an intellectual thing, something to ponder. One moment I’d be thinking about what I was doing that day and then suddenly it would overwhelm me and I’d feel this rush of emotion about what it would actually mean when I died. This long (all too short) practical joke will be over and what will it mean, what will my existence have meant? Then the feeling would go away for several months only to pop up again when I wasn’t paying attention. I think I may now be resigned to unfulfilled dreams, lack of recognition for what I’ve written, never hearing any of the songs I penned. With resignation comes acceptance comes a quasi-contentment.

Short Essay on Hate: I’d like to examine the nature of hate and what it does to the soul. Let’s say someone has hurt me badly and I now want to get even. I keep imagining all these scenarios where I confront the person and say the things my spleen really wants, needs, to say. I want to hurt him physically as well as psychically. I want to expose him to the world for what he is, a cowardly little liar. This kind of hate can make the hater physically ill, almost to the point of vomiting. The nature of hate is that it does absolutely no one any good. The object of one’s hate isn’t any worse off for it, but the hater often finds his own soul poisoned, life gray and grainy, nights sleepless, tension in the belly that just won’t go away, a whirling in the brain as he gets so caught up in the hate he forgets about all else in life, the good things. Revenge, that dish best served cold instead of hot. There might even be consequences of the hate—like an assault charge for any physical damage to the man or his property, or a libel suit for what may have been said or written about him. Such is the nature of retribution: Everyone gets splattered and no one wins.

Another Joke and a Few Thoughts about Time

As long as I’m on a joke parade, I guess I can throw in another one. I found this long joke in a Canadian magazine called Absolute Rubbish.  It’s called “The Italian who went to Toronto.” And is recounted by that Italian who went to Toronto:

“One day I go to Toronto and stay in bigga hotel.  I go down to eat soma breakfast, I tella the waitress I wanna two pissa toast.  She brings me only one piss.  I tella her I wanna two piss; she say, go to toilet—I say you no understand, I wanna two pissa on my plate.  She say you betta no piss on plate, you sonna ma bitch!  I don’t even know lady, ana she calls me sonna ma bitch.  Then I go to pharmacia with a cougha.  The man he give me candy ana tell me fa cough!  Fa cough!—I don’t even know man ana he tella me FA COUIGH!  Later, I go to eat soma lunch at Ricky’s Place, the waitress she bring me spoon, a knife, but no fock.  I tella her I wanna fock, she tell me everybody wanna fock.  I tella her, you no understand, I wanna fock ona table.  She say you betta not fock ona table, you somma ma bitch.  I not even know lady, ana she call me sonna ma bitch.  So, I got back to my hotel room, an there’s no sheet on my bed.  I calla the manager and tells him I wanna sheet.  He tell me to go to toilet.  So, I say you no understand, I wanna sheet on bed.  He say you betts not sheet on bed, you somma ma bitch.  I don’t even know man ana he call me sonna ma bitch!  I go to check out of hotel and man at desk he say peace to you.  I say peace on you too!  You sonna ma bitch!  I go back to Italia."

          Here’s something I found a long time ago, a clever observation about the relativity of time. David Martin’s The Crying Heart Tattoo is a most unusual story, a very funny, sad, moving love story.  The narrator is a young/old man named Sonny retelling the lifelong ups and downs of his life and his relationship with Felicity, a woman twenty years Sonny’s senior, but a fascinating woman no matter what her age.  Interwoven with the outer story of Sonny and Felicity is Felicity’s story of Gravêda and Genipur, a tale she spends her lifetime telling to Sonny, which Sonny then relates of the reader.  I just can’t say enough about how good a novel it is, how true it is as a picture of callow, self-centered youth.  But it also says a lot that’s true about life as Sonny sees it later in his life, and says it well.  For example, “When I was twenty, I thought thirty was old, was when you start to uncrank and settle down and go to church and wait to die.  Whatever age you are, I have observed, someone twice you age seems old.  When you’re four, eight seems incredibly old and worldly.  When you’re ten, twenty represents that exotic state of adulthood.  And when you’re twenty, forty seems old—just as when you’re forty, eighty seems old.  I suppose the opposite is true, too: someone half your age seems incredibly young; I know that, now, twenty-five-year-olds strike me as being childlike.

I’ll tell you something I have observed: The older women I slept with when I was in my thirties (although, come to think of it, our liaisons were marked by a distinct lack of sleep) now are collecting Social Security.  The only observation I can make that’s ghastlier than that one is this one: By the time the younger women I now sleep with (and we do a lot of that) are old enough to hold a civilized conversation, I’ll be collecting Social Security.”

Isn’t that nice?

Humor Time

Humor is so diverse. Some jokes are so outlandish that most of us fall down laughing.  Some jokes are so dry and subtle that many don’t even consider them jokes.

Here’s an example of subtle humor: Woody Allen has said that he once took a class in speed reading, learning to read down the center of each page, letting his peripheral vision give him the meaning. When he was done with the class, he reported that he read War and Peace in twenty minutes. He said, “It was about Russia.”

          Now a few very unsubtle jokes.

There were two old guys about to tee off and the one said to the other, “Why do you have a banana in your ear, Charlie?”  Charlie replied loudly, “Speak up, Fred!  I can’t hear you! I’ve got a banana in my ear!”

The same two guys the next day were about to tee off and the one said to the other, “Why do you have a suppository in your ear, Charlie?” Charlie replied loudly, “Speak up, Fred. I can’t hear you!” Fred put his mouth close to Charlie’s other ear and shouted, “WHY DO YOU HAVE A SUPPOSITORY IN YOUR EAR?”  Charlie, with a horrified look, said, “Oh my god, now I know where I put my hearing aid!”

A little old lady, 92, is in a Sun City West nursing home.  She has a boyfriend, 90, and the two of them like to spend the evening in her room watching tv, his penis in her hand.  One night as she’s coming back to her room from the cafeteria she happens to peek in the door of her best friend down the hall, and lo and behold, there’s her boyfriend lying in bed with her friend, watching tv, his penis in her hand.  She throws the door open and rushes in.  “How could you do this to me?  Is she more beautiful than I am?  Is she smarter than I am?  What’s she got that I don’t have?”  He looks at her with a contented smile: “Parkinsons.”

An old guy, 90, is in a nursing home waiting to hear from his doctor.  The doctor comes in his room and says, “I’ve got bad news for you.”  The old guy says, “Yeah?  What is it?”  “First, you’ve got cancer, and second, you’ve got Alzheimer’s.”  The old guy goes, “Phew, thank God I don’t have cancer.”

Jeff Sessions, Donald Trump, and Bill Clinton were in a car traveling cross-country.  They were just crossing Kansas when a tornado formed, picked them up, whirled them up, up, up and away.  The next thing they knew they were set back down again, but they all knew they were no longer in Kansas.  Yes, it was Oz, because they could see the brilliant green of the Emerald City in the distance.  They decided to go find the Wizard. Jeff Sessions said he was going to ask the Wizard for a heart. Donald Trump said he was going to ask the Wizard for some brains.  Bill Clinton said, “Where’s Dorothy?”

The funny thing about this last one is that Trump might have said, "I saw her first, Bill."

Unfair Golf Rules

          I’ve been watching the golf at the Open Championship at Carnoustie, or Carnastie, as Johnny Miller likes to call it. To my American eyes the course is visually ugly, but nearly all the golfers think it’s an excellent example of a links course. Okay, but it’s still pretty unpretty. I’m also closely watching to see how the players mark their balls on the green. I’m trying to see if they all mark fairly, or if some of them sort of mark to the side and then place it down in front. I don’t mean they would do it deliberately and unfairly to gain some advantage. Hell, an eight or sixteenth of an inch nearer the cup would hardly be an advantage or make the slightest difference in the outcome of the putt. Someone jokingly said that if you marked and remarked it often enough, you might get it to tumble into the cup all by itself. I also remember quite a few years ago when some European golfer accused Mark O’Meara of placing his ball an inch or more ahead of his marker. Ridiculous. But in this age of such advanced camera technology, the cameras can scrutinize a player’s every move in extreme slow-motion close-up.

That’s what happened to Lexi Thompson in the third round of the 2016 Ana Championship when she marked her ball from one foot away, a virtual gimmie putt. And some zealous tv viewer called in—THE NEXT DAY!—to say that Lexi had replaced her ball a tiny bit nearer the hole. The tournament officials viewed the tape—THE NEXT DAY!—and determined that she had put the ball down directly in front of the marker instead of infinitesimally to the side. So they assessed her a two-stroke penalty for the improper placement of the ball and then another two strokes for signing for an incorrect score—THE NEXT DAY!— before she had been informed of the first two-stroke penalty. The score she signed for at the conclusion of the third round was correct at the time she signed for it and became incorrect only after the first two strokes had been added as a penalty—THE NEXT DAY! Although the first two strokes for misplacing her ball may have been deserved under the current and too often archaic USGA rules of golf, the second two strokes for signing for an incorrect score were not. Her score wasn’t incorrect when she signed or it. Only after the officials assessed it—THE NEXT DAY! There is no way in hell she should have been given a four-stroke penalty and then been informed about it when she was nearly finished with her fourth round on Sunday.

          I can think of only three other examples of what I would call unfair penalties in professional golf—Roberto DeVicenzo’s signing for a score higher than he actually shot in the 1968 Masters, Dustin Johnson’s two-stroke penalty in the 2010 PGA Championship for grounding his club in what looked to him and the rest of the world as nothing at all like a sand bunker, and Anna Nordqvist’s two-stroke penalty in the 2016 U..S Women’s Open for touching on her back stroke from a sand bunker two or three grains of sand.

First, there’s the sad state of affairs in 1968 when DeVincenzo signed his card in the fourth round of the Masters for one stroke higher than he’d actually shot, because his playing partner, Tommy Aaron, had recorded for him a 4 on the 17^th hole instead of a 3. The score stood as signed for even though the entire world and all the CBS cameras and commentators knew what he had actually shot. Why did they then and still even bother with such outdated scorecards? Let our electronic scorekeepers keep it for them. But that didn’t help poor Roberto fifty years ago.

Dustin Johnson, on the final hole of the 2010 PGA in Wisconsin, stepped to his ball in what looked like trampled-down sand and grass in the rough. He put his club down behind the ball, hit it, and found out later that he had been given a two-stroke penalty for grounding his club in a bunker, a penalty that kept him out of a playoff for the championship. Unfair.

The three grains of sand disturbed by Ann Nordqvist in her bid to win a playoff over Brittany Lang in the 2016 Women’s Open could be seen only after the camera showed the shot in extreme closeup slow motion. The human eye couldn’t detect those grains of sand; Anna couldn’t feel them; and they had absolutely nothing to do with the flight of the ball. And yet, bye bye Open Championship.

It seems to me that if they’re going to use such close camera scrutiny to police golfers, then they should do so for every contestant, not just the leaders. Or not use such Big Brother slow-mo at all.

Oh, yes, and by the way, Tiger is now in contention at the Open after shooting a 66 in the third round. Go go. Tiger.

Football, Again

          I wrote these football bits in 2012 and again in 2016, about the future of football, and now I see an article about the start of an AFFL (American Flag Football League). I think it’s come full circle. And I saw it coming.

This I wrote in 2016:

          I see the demise of football on all levels within the next twenty years, maybe even the next ten. Don’t get me wrong. I love football, as do millions of fans and players around the world. But the game has changed so dramatically in the last half century that no amount of equipment improvements and rules to protect players will do any good. When we’ve seen enough horrific injuries—players carted off the field on stretchers, broken backs and necks and legs and arms, spinal damage leading to partial or complete paralysis, concussions that either kill players on the spot or lead to their deaths by dementia at age fifty—parents and fans and players will all agree to give the game up, ban it forever.

          Fifty years ago, the game was played at half the speed we see in games today. And I’m not talking about just the NFL. High school players are bigger and stronger and faster than they were half a century ago, partly because of weight programs that pump them up but also because every generation is bigger than the last. Nutrition, exercise, genetics, whatever—each generation is bigger and stronger and faster than the last. Many college teams are as good as or better than most of the NFL teams fifty years ago. Quarterbacks are almost all 6-3 or 6-4 and weigh 225 to 245. Offensive lines average 300 or more, defensive lines only slightly less but are faster than lightning. And the hits are much more severe. Remember in the old days? Whatever happened to the “quick kick” on third down, or the old “Statue of Liberty” play, or the quarterback who would leap in the air to throw a pass to be sure to get it over the defensive line, or the triple reverse? All of them required time that in today’s game just isn’t available. And the quarterback who would jump to make a throw would be cut in half today. Granted, equipment is much better today, especially the reinforced helmets with visors and facemasks. Granted, rules are being made to protect not only the quarterbacks but all players—no helmet to helmet hits, no blocks to the knees, no late hits after the whistle, no horse-collar tackles. But does a fifteen-yard penalty save a player’s life after the infraction? Or an NFL fine? No. I have one solution that might prolong the life of the game. At all levels, holding could now be called on virtually every play, but the officials can only see so much or go so far on that one. All right, why not allow holding? If a defensive player can’t free himself from a hold to get to the quarterback or running back, so be it. If a tight end or a wide receiver can’t separate himself from a defender to make the catch, so be it. That could make for an interesting game and could result in fewer injuries.

And this I wrote in 2016:

          More on what to do to improve NFL and college football and to make the game less dangerous. Have you noticed how long it takes for officials to blow the whistle when the play is obviously over? Instead they allow that pack of defenders and offenders to shove each other around like they do in a rugby scrum . . . with the poor ball carrier somewhere in the middle of the mess, with defenders all ripping at his arms to get the ball loose. So, referees, blow the whistle sooner. My other suggestion is to eliminate tackling. Just play it as a two-handed touch football game—no tackles, no slams to the ground, no grabbing, no late hits—just touches.

          There, we can still let our kids play football, we can still watch football, and very few players will get broken to pieces or concussed to death.

Day Brighteners

How about a few jokes to brighten your day?

A woman goes to her doctor to see what he can do to enlarge her breasts. He tells her he is opposed to implants but that she can help herself by religiously performing an exercise he can give her. He demonstrates—arms extended to the sides, then in with hands over breasts, then out again, all the while to the rhythm of “Dibbledee dabbledee dust. I CAN increase my bust,” etc. She agrees to try it. A week later she’s in a park doing her exercise, softly saying her incantation, “Dibbledee dabbledee dust. I CAN increase my bust.” A man comes up to her and says, “I see you have the same doctor I have.” “How can you tell?” she asks. “Because he told me to try a similar exercise.” He demonstrates by marching in place, his feet striking the ground with force, while chanting, “Hickory Dickory Dock . . .”

Henry and Charlie, two very senior citizens, are sitting on a park bench enjoying the day. Henry says, “I feel good.” Charlie says, “Yeah, I feel pretty good too, but every morning at 5:00 I have a bowel movement.” Henry says, “Well, that’s good.” Charlie replies, “No, not really. I never wake up till 6:00.”

A doctor says to his male patient, “I have some good news and some bad. The good news is your penis is growing by an inch a month.” “Well, what’s the bad news, doctor?” “It’s malignant.”

God almost always spoke to man on a mountain.  When Moses went up Mt. Sinai to receive the two tablets, he stopped to speak to God, off the cuff, so to speak. According to some of the less well-known gospel, Moses decided to engage God in some theologically metaphysical questions. He said to God, “A million years is a very long time to mankind, but what is it in Your perspective?” God replied, “About a minute.” “And a million dollars,” Moses continued, “is a fortune to most of us, but what is it in Your perspective?” “A penny,” God answered. Moses was thoughtful for a moment. Then, “Well, would it be possible for You to lend me a penny?” “Just a second,” God said.

Harry was visiting a circus and was amazed to see a man dancing with a bear. The man and bear whirled and danced and danced and whirled. As they danced by, Henry asked the human dancer, “Sir, I am amazed by your animal and your act with him, but even more amazed by your stamina. How long do you dance with the bear?” The man answered with a wry smile as he whirled by, “Just as long as he wants me to.”

Punny Names

It’s been in only the last several decades that “OCD” became in vogue. We’ve always known about those who seemed a bit strange in their behavior, but we just called them odd. I mention this because in a number of ways I’m compulsive but not necessarily obsessive. How do these two words differ? I went to the Net for the answer. “Obsessive” relates to the mind or thought, and “compulsive” relates to action. An obsession is an unrealistic fixation with someone or something (often resulting in stalking), or a fear of something to an unnatural degree—fear of germs, the dark, unlocked doors, etc. These fears become obsessive when we compulsively act to allay them. Cinematically, maybe the best example of this was Jack Nicholson in the 1997 As Good As It Gets. In real life, Nicholson has always struck me as strange, but in this film he was really strange until Helen Hunt came along and pulled him up and away from his obsessions. Compulsive behavior can result in constant washing of the hands, or using shirt sleeves to open doors for fear of what may be on the doorknob, or avoiding handshakes or hugs or (oh, yuck!) French kisses.

          All right, now I have the ground rules established: I’m compulsive but not obsessive. And here’s my latest compulsion, something I’ve already mentioned in a previous post, but here it is again in all its compulsive glory—an alphabetized list of all the punny names I’ve come up with over the years. I think my collecting them and now alphabetizing them is the compulsion. Some of these names are better than others, more clever and surprising. Some are pretty obvious and less clever or surprising. Of all of them, though, my favorite is the romantic couple William Aramy and, in this age of same-sex marriage, his long-time partner Hugh Bettcha.

          If anyone knows of a punny name not on my list, please let me know and I’ll compulsively add it to my list.

Funny Punny Names

A –

Adam Uppen (or, on his IRS form, Uppen, Adam

Al Abord

Al Bearound

Al Besinya

Al Fabeticle

Allen Gudthyme

Allison Vanderlind

Al O’Peeshia

Al Packa

Althea Thune

Al Titude

Al Truism

Al Wayz

Amber Griss

Amber Wayvagrane

Anita Favour

Anita Hand

Anita Schauer

Annette Prophet

Annette Score

Annie Rexia

Artie Choke

Artie Facks

Art O’Fischel

Art Sore

Auntie Dote

Auntie Klymax

Auntie McKasser

Auntie Pasto

B –

Barbara Savill

Barry D’Attchette (a peacemaker)

Bea Keller (or, on her IRS form, Keller, Bea)

Bea Kownted (friends with Stan Dupp)

Ben Dare (long time companion of Don Datt)

 Ben Dover

Bess Amay (who married someone named Mucho)

Bette Nowarr

Betty Euthanme

Betty Kahn

Betty Kahnt (answers to Kenny Duit)

Betty O’ass

Betty O’Bippy

Bill Eamick

Billy Button

Billy Aards (or Billy Yards)

Billy Danser

Billy Dew

Bob Enweeve

Brandon Kattle

C –

Candy Labra

Carlotta Bawls

Carmen Geddit

Carol Ittle

Carol Ott

Carol Singers

Cary Mebach

Celia Laiter

Celia Lipps

Char Donay

Char LaMain

Cherry Pitts

Chuck Stake

Chuck Upp (or on his IRS form, Upp, Chuck)

Clara Zahbel

Claire Voyant

Claude Bawls (the animal trainer, specializing in big cats, brother of

     Harry Bawls)

Claude Tuhbitts

Cliff Dweller

Cliff Hanger

Clyde Eskope

Clyde Sedale

Coco Vann

Curtis E. Kerr

D –

Dan Druff

Daisy Chain

Derry Goze (pal of Harry Kumz)

A whole bunch of Duits

    Kenny Duit

    Willie Duit

    Deedee Duit  (all three related to I. Darren Duit)

    Dewey Duit

    Shelley Duit

    Cheryl Duit

    Woody Duit

    Howdy Duit

    Wendy Duit

    May I. Duit

    I. Darren Duit (a man who could never get married)

Dick Hedd

Dick Tater

Don Chuduit

Don Datt (long-time pal of Ben Dare)

Donny Lukalyve (see Izzie Dedd)

Donny Luknyss

Don Wenaur (friends with Gay Apparell)

Doug Ahdich

Doug Graves (married to Flora Liven)

Duane N. Spayn

Duane Fawdaun

Duncan Donutz

E –

Eben Flo

Ed Strong

Eileen Dover

Emma Hand (Can you guess her maiden name? That’s right, Nolkau)

Emma Bea Leaver

Emma Fein

Emma Fielbadd

Esther Leif-Atterdett

Etta Tumutch

F –

Faye Ling (An Oriental hooker with a penchant  for doing everything

    “wong.”  She screws up when she should be screwing sideways.)

Fess Upp

Frank Lee Muhdeer (starred in Gone with the Wind)

Frank Ensense

Frank O’File

Freddie Katt

Fred O’Nuttin

Frieda Slaves

G –

Gideon Payle

Ginger Snapps

Ginger Vaitis

Gladys Seyew

Grace Noates

H –

Hal Atosis

Hal Palp

Hal Zapoppin

Hank Avair

Hank R. Chief

Hank E. Panky

Hank O’Hare

Harvey Dariet

Hannah Dover

Hans Auff

Hans Down

Hans Upp

Harry Bawls

Harry Kumz (pal of Derry Goze)

Hazel Ayes

Hazel Nutt

Helen Highwater

Helena Hanbasket

Horace N. Bucky

Holly Hocks

Horace Poop

Howard Yew

Howie Duin

Howie Yew

Hubie Karefall

Hugh Bettcha

Hugo Tommy Hedd

Hugo Towell

Hume Adore

Hume Mormey

I –

Ida Noh

I. Darren Duit (a man who could never get married)

Isadora Jarr

Izzie Dedd

Izzie Dunne

Izzie Yewman

J –

Jack Auff

Jack Carr (or on his IRS, Carr, Jack)

Jack Swatt

Jack Pott

Jay Walker

Jerry Attricks

Jerry Boham

Jesse Kenn

Jimmy D’Loch

Jim Saachs

Jose Canusee

Judy Obscure

June Ezbustin

K –

Kenny Duit

Kerry Meebak

Kitten Caboodle

Kitty Litter

Kitty Wampus

Kurt C. Enbaugh

L –

Lance O’Boyle

Lee Mialone

Lily Livered

Lisa House 

Lisa Kerr

Les Tawk (Mo Ackshun)

Les Phalinluv

Les Sizzmor

Les Dans

Les Pardy

Lem Megoe

Lola Palooza

Lou Scannin

Lucy Bowells

Lucy Goosie

Luigi Bored

Luke Warm

M –

Mac O’Damia

Mac O’Ronee

Mal Adroit

Malcom Tent (or Mal Content)

Mal Feezents

Mal O’dure

Mandy Laiphbotz

Manny O’Tier (married Esther Fawl)

Matt Reside

Mark Ettvalyew

Mark Myward

Marty Nee

Marty Pantz

Matt Attchou

Marv Illus

Maude Lynn

Maxie Mumm

Maxie Padd

Max Stout

Meryl Lee Werolalong

Mike Rochip

Mike Rowkasm

Minnie Mumm

Miss Bea Hayving

Molly Coddle

N –

Natalie Attired

Nick O’Thyme

Nick O’Teen

Nina Forty (or on her IRS Form, Forty, Nina)

Noah Kant

Noah Notting

O –

O. Howie Danst

Olav Mihtender

Olive Apperaid

Olive Branche

Olive Oyl

Oliver Klozov

Oliver Sudden

Opal Eeze

Ophelia Draft

Otto Graff

Otto Kratik

Otto Matik

Otto Mayshun

P –

Pat M. Down

Pat M. Upp

Pat Reside

Patsy Fazool

Patty Dew

Patty Trayned

Paul Bearer

Pete O’File

Phil Armonick

Phil Issity

Phyllis Stations

Phyllis Steen

Phil O’Dendrun

Polly Esther

Q – 

Quentin Sam (or on his IRS form, Sam, Quentin)

R –

Ray Zerbach

Ray Zerscharp

Rick Oop (an insurance adjuster)

Rick O’Shay

Rick Rac

Rick Tangle

Ricky Tony

Rob D’Kraydel

Rhoda Dendrun

Roger Oubernoudt

Roy Altee

Russell Mania

Russell O’Leevs

Ruth Less

 S –

Sally Forth

Sally Mander

Sal Monella

Sal Utashins

Sam Perfidaylis

Sandra Packy (or on her IRS form, Packy, Sandra)

Sandy Beeches

Sarah Bonna (or on her IRS form, Bonna, Sarah)

Saul R. Eaklips

Señor Moment

Sharon Cheralyke

Shirley Yugest

Stan Dout

Stan Bimee

Stan Dupp

Stan Doffish

Stella D’Knight

Sunny Beech

Sunny Skyze

Swen Golly

T –

Tess Tickles

Tess Tosterone

Toby R. Notaby

Tom Boreen

Trudy Grapevine

Trudy Lukenclass

 U –

Upton O’Gude

V –

Vaughn Meetball

Vic Tumm (with a brother named Rick Tumm, who’s an asshole)

W –

Wade Inn

Wanda Ball (the nympho)

Warren Peese

Wendy Getthehr

Will Hubie Mein

William Aramy

Willie Duit

Willie Maykett

Will Paur

Wun Hung Lo

X –

Y –

Z –