The Water Closet

It seems that a little old English lady was looking for some rooms in Switzerland. She asked the local village school master to help her. A place that suited her was finally found and the lady returned to London for her luggage. She remembered then that she had not noticed a bathroom, or as she called it, a "water"closet." So she wrote to the school master. He was puzzled about the the initials "W.C.", never dreaming, of course, that she was asking about a bathroom. He finally asked the help of the parish priest who decided that W.C. stood for Wesleyan Church. This was his reply:

Dear Madam,

The W.C. is situated nine miles from the house in the center of a beautiful grove of trees. It is capable of holding 350 people at a time and is open on Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday each week. A large number of folks attend during the summer months, so it is suggested you go early, although there is plenty of standing room. Some folk like to take their lunch and make a day of it, especially on Thursday when there is organ accompaniment. The accousticics are very good and everyone can hear the slightest sound.

It may be of interest to you to know that my daughter was married in our W.C. and it was there she met her husband.

We hope you will be there in time for our bazaar to be held very soon. The proceeds will go towards the purchase of plush seats which the folks agree are a long-felt need, as the present seats all have holes in them.

My wife is rather delicate, therefore she cannot attend regularly. It has been six months since the last time she went. Naturally, it pains her very much not to be able to go more often.

I shall close now with the desire to accommodate you in every way possible and I will be happy to save you a seat down front or near the door, which ever you prefer.

School Master

T'was the night before Christmas and old Santa was pissed-
He cussed out the elves and threw down his list.

Miser'ble brats, ungrateful li'l jerks-
I've got a good mind to scrap the whole works.

I've busted my tail for darn near a year
Instead of "Thanks, Santa", what do I hear?

The old Lady crabs when I work late at night;
The elves want more money, the reindeer all fight;

Rudolph got drunk and goosed all the maids;
Donner is pregnant, and Vixen has AIDS!

And just when I thought things'd get better-
The IRS up and sends me a letter.

They say I owe taxes (now that ain't funny-
Who ever sends Santa Claus any MONEY??).

And the kids these days-they drive me to fits-
They're just plain impossible, those mean little Shits!

They spike "Santa's cookies"-with ExLax (no joke!)
(It happened last year, when the sleigh's plumbing broke!)

I spent the whole year making wagons and sleds;
And inspecting dolls, for arms, legs, and heads.

Yo-yo's and drums? No one wants THEM-
Just computers and robots...I hate IBM!!

Weaving through buildings, and dodging 'round trees;
Falling down chimneys and skinning my knees-

I'm quitting this gig, there's just no enjoyment;
I wanna sit back and draw unemployment.

If you don't see me this year, there's a good reason-
I've found a young blonde; I'm headed SOUTH for the season!!

I just realized that while children are dogs, loyal and affectionate-teenagers are cats. It's so easy to be a dog owner. You feed it, train it, boss it around. It puts its head on your knee and gazes at you as if you were a Rembrandt painting. It bounds indoors with enthusiasm when you call it.

Then, around age 13, your adoring little puppy turns into a big old cat. When you tell it to come inside, it looks amazed, as of wondering who died and made you emperor. Instead of dogging your footsteps, it disappears. You won't see it again until it gets hungry, then it pauses on its sprint through the kitchen long enough to turn its nose up at whatever you're serving. When you reach out to ruffle its head, in that old affectionate gesture, it twists away from you, then gives you a blank stare, as if trying to remember where it has seen you before.

You, not realizing that the dog is now a cat, think something must be desperately wrong with it. It seems so antisocial, so distant, sort of depressed. It won't go on family outings.

Since you're the one who raised it, taught it to fetch and sit on command, you assume that you did something wrong. Flooded with guilt and fear, you redouble your efforts to make your pet behave.

Only now you're dealing with a cat, so everything that worked before now produces the opposite of the desired result. Call it, and it runs away. Tell it to sit, and it jumps on the counter. The more you go toward it, wringing your hands, the more it moves away.

Instead of continuing to act like a dog owner, you can learn to behave like a cat owner. Put a dish of food near the door, and let it come to you. But remember that a cat needs your help and your affection too. Sit still, and it will come, seeking that warm comforting lap it has not entirely forgotten. Be there to open the door for it.

One day, your grown-up child will walk into the kitchen, give you a big kiss and say, "You've been on your feet all day. Let me get those dishes for you." Then you'll realize your cat is a dog again.

THE NINETY AND NINE

By Michael McLean on CD at LDS bookstores