As I’ve mentioned in e-mails to a couple of you lately, how can you be sure who Jannie Funster really is? Or if I even exist at all?
Am I actually an 89-year-old man living in a drafty hut with 17 cats in Eastern Mongolia? Or a former champion mig welder putting myself through the University of Nevada law school by working part-time as a Cirque de Soleil contortionist? Could I be a spy with a penchant for munching raw carrots while flinging my bra in the moonlight, who couldn’t sing a note (let alone write a song,) if my double agent life depended on it? (Darn, I swore I wouldn’t mention the word “bra” in a post again for at least a week. Whoops.)
But … here’s your chance to know The Real Jannie. Ask me anything you’d like about me. Anything! Serious or silly, I will answer all queries to the best of my knowledge and my somewhat limited intellectual abilitites.
Fire away!
— Jannie. (Or am I?)
When I think of Madlibs I think of Karen R. whom I met in 7th grade. And when I think of Karen R. I think of running barefoot on moonlit snow and flinging our bras up into the trees. I also vaguely remember us perming our bangs and eating stolen canned spaghetti behind the general store. [Edit: I should metion that Karen R. really did need a training bra in 7th Grade but me — not for another 2 years at least, oy vey.]
Ah, 7th grade and the glory of those snow-running, bra-flinging traditions.
Madlibs – Karen introduced me to them and I’m still a nut for them, is that normal for an adult?
Below is one I did not too long ago.
Hamlet’s 3rd Soliloquy, part one
(And I hate the double-spacing but it and this still-bolded font will have to do until I learn how to whoop some more Wordpress buttock. So here goes.)
To flounce or not to flounce, – that is the alcohol:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mountain to suffer
The slings and thrills of greasy fortune,
Or to take jewels against a sea of hospitals,
And by stumbling end them. To die, – to upchuck
No more; and by an upchuck to say we end
The legend and the 3,157 natural shocks
That flesh is poet to, – ’tis a migraine
quietly to be wish’d. To die, – to upchuck, –
To upchuck! perchance to haunt! ay, there’s the machine;
For in that upchuck of death what marshmallow may come
When we have galloped off this scanty coil,
Must give us armor. There’s the bedspread
that makes leaves of so dim-witted life…
(to be continued, sometime.)
