Setanta wrote:I don't know why the old lady was called Mother Hubbard, but a motherhubbard is a type of baggy, shapeless shift that has been associated in the mind of the general public in America with old women for a long time. In the classic headache remedy commercial from the late 1950's, when the young woman snaps and says: "Mother ! ! ! I'd rather do it myself ! ! !" --the elderly woman is wearing a motherhubbard.
Sure you've got a headache--but don't take it out on her !
Would this be the same thing that my wife refers to as a "tent dress" when we're people-watching?
Daughter coming down stairs:
Da-dum...da-dum...da-dum
Older son:
BaBUMP BaBUMP BaBUMP
Younger son:
Thumpity-thumpity-thumpity-thump
Hee hee. Love that George. Girls so patter, patter, boys go clump, clump
Little ones sometimes whine, sometimes keen like banshees.
Funny sound joke:
Big war. nothing left in arsenal. Psychologist advises men to use the mind over matter approach.
Just pick up a stick, think bayonet...bayonet...bayonet. Then go stabedy--stabedy--stab. Pict up wood block, think gun...bangedy..bang...bang.
One soldier finds it works just fine...banging and stabbing the enemy. He looks down the battlefield and sees a huge man in uniform of foe, moving relentlessly toward him. He bangs and bangs..stabs and stabs..NOTHING. the last thing the young hero remembers as the man runs over him is:
Tankedy...tank...tank...
Like the beat beat beat of the tom-tom
When the jungle shadows fall
Like the tick tick tock of the stately clock
As it stands agains the wall
Like the crickety creek crick of my porch chair
When I settle down for a rest
Like the squish, squash, squish of its cushion
When my weight it can no longer bear.
Like the drip, drop, plop from my spigot
When its washers need a fix
So a voice within me keeps repeating you, you, you.
Everybody sing along:
Night and day, you are the one ......
P. S. (I thought the lady who went to the cupboard married Mr. Hubbard. Has someone heard something I'm not aware of?)
only you and you alone,
Under the sun,
Whether near to me or far,
No matter, darling, where you are
I think of you night and day.
(bridge)
Day and night,
Deep in the hide of me,
There is oh, such a lonely yearning
Burning inside of me,
(and this something won't come true)
Til you let me spend my life making love to you,
Day and Night...Night and day
And there goes Raggedy dragging Letty into another zing...zing...zing.
Q: What goes clippety-clop, clippety-clop, clippety-clop, BANG! BANG! clippety-clop, clippety-clop . . .
A: An Amish drive-by shooting
Love that one lab-rat.
And speaking of Cole Porter:
Bull dog, bull dog, bow-wow-wow
Eli Yale.
(not one of his better creations)
My slot machine keeps yelling "Franklin, Franklin"....my name isn't Franklin. I don't get it.
the sound of cleaning my glass top stove after a plastic container was inadvertently placed on a hot eye.
scrape--scrape--scrape(expletive)..more scrape--scrape--scrape (more expletives)
Franklin, Cav? I thought that was a stove that yelled.."crackle and pop"
I must be channeling an old Twilight Zone episode Letty.
do de do do...do de do do....dahdahdahdahdah.
Poor Rod.
My floor goes "F*CK!" in a mookish sort of way sometimes.
Though I'm starting to suspect it's the mookish people underneath it...
Hmmm. patio. You must have a bunch of mooks living underneath your apt.
Sic that doberman on 'em. gnarlgrrrrrrgrowl.
Putting Cav's and Patio's dogs together.
Rip, snarl, tear, grind, gulp.
Here, Franklin. Here Mook. Silence!
I think ehBeth and Set have taken their dogs for a walk. pant..pant..pant..pant.
'tis true.
the coffee roaster's going, and has two voices.
One sings out, "oooooooooh," in A above middle C. The other whispers underneath -- "ssshh shhh tsk ssshh sshhsh tsk tsk shhsh tsk shshshsss tsk."
Is that in major or minor, patio?
and in what key, <smile>
Sooooooo. I see you tinkle the ivories.
Just had a memory Pop up....
Even onomatopoeias remind me of a song.
No key, just a note and whirring percussion (like a brush dragged across a snare drum with ball bearings on it).
I tinkle ivories and pluck strings, but music seldom results...
Once, when we were living in the rectory in Virginia, a very impulsive musician, for lack of a better term, played the snare with a Christmas tree branch. The effect wasn't bad, except the needles made an interesting mosaic on my carpet. The sound was something akin to a swoosh and a sweep.
Still smile at the black hole singing in B flat....
