A small blond girl named Sandy was in one of Neal’s classes at State. He dug her. She barely even looked at him. One night at the end of the semester, Neal hatched a plan: invite Sandy out. The details were not very clear to him, that is, what he would say after “Hi,” but it was a good plan nonetheless.
As the teacher was explaining the format of the final exam, Neal leaned toward Sandy. It wasn’t the right moment perhaps, but his courage (or lack of) did not allow him to choose—now or never.
“Uh, Sandy?”
“Shhh.”“You wanna, like, um, you know …”
“Quiet!”
Oh no, he’d blown it, his one big chance at happiness. Neal was a disaster, he’d picked the wrong moment, the wrong girl, the wrong strategy. Everything he did was a mess. His life was ruined.
As he sat slumped in his seat, rejected and dejected, the bell rang. Rush off to your next class everyone. That was it. He’d missed the bus.
But then Sandy came up to Neal with a surprise. She handed him a pamphlet with a smile, a knowing, winning, sexy smile like she wanted to eat him. He just said, “thanks.” And she was gone like a zephyr.
The pamphlet said: March for Indian Rights! and had a date and place. Neal got there early because Sandy had given him a date at last. As the march started and colorful people chanted and drums and musical instruments played and megaphones shouted, angry people around him loudly protested, Neal was searching everywhere for Sandy. He pushed to the front of the long crowd, he wove his way against the flow to the back, he cut down the side to get ahead again. The whole day Neal spent in a demonstration of thousands of passionate folks looking for his lost love, never to find her.
When he went home and lay in bed that night, Neal wondered. Had Sandy stood him up? Had she been unable to attend because of an accident, a death in the family, or was she in bed with some guy on the football team? Would he ever get what he deserved? And one final question especially perturbed Neal’s sleep:
Was that a march for Asian Indians or American Indians?
Happy trials, Martin
Mutt: "Doctor, doctor! Birds keep building nests in my horses' manes! What should I do?" "Sprinkle yeast on them and call me in the morning." "But why?" "Yeast is yeast and nest is nest and never the mane shall tweet!"
Jeff: You’ve got to be kidding.Mutt: "Doctor, doctor! Some days I think I'm a teepee, others I think I'm a wigwam! What do I do?" "Relax, you're two tents."
Jeff: Rerun.
Mutt: Have you got bills to pay?
Jeff: Yep.
Mutt: If you do, please give it back. He looks silly bald. Ha, ha.
Jeff: P.U.
Mutt: A male snake charmer married a female undertaker. Their bath towels read "Hiss" and "Hearse".
Jeff: I’m warning you …
Mutt: A man hit another on the head with a pop bottle, killing him. In court, he claimed he was influenced by the song "Let's Get Fizzy-Kill".
Jeff: That does it. I’m calling the cops.
