A new monthly spotlighting the funnier side of the Golden Age and even the years before, after, or during!  Wanna see more funny?  Write us some! Send it to braedenalex@centurytel.net if it's funny and you may see it here!

"McNee!"  Horace Ignatius Jehovah Kibitz exploded from his office door, the windows up and down the hall of his factory trembling with his thunderous voice.  The voice matched H.I.J. Kibitz' appearance, big and noticeable.  He plodded down the hall, moving like a three legged elephant, and that was a dead run for him.  Men and women both dived to the right and the left, much like extras in a war picture escaping a madman driven tank, as their cantankerous, much despised boss barreled by, throwing doors open as he went, screaming as he often did, "McNee!  McNee!"

"Yessiree, Mister Kibitz!"

The last door on the left of the hallway opened just as Mr. Kibitz's ham of a hand brushed the doorknob.  A pale, skins and bones man wearing clothes nearly two sizes too big for him walked out into the hall.  A single patch of cherry red hair sprouted out of his nearly circular head.  Glasses thick like bricks dangled dangerously on the end of a long, carrot like nose.

"Great Cleopatra's Pannies!"  Mr. Kibitz stopped as quickly as he could, of course resulting in him grabbing the closest thing to him, that turning out to be a coat rack burdened with jackets, hats, and other things.  Both tumbled back, Kibitz' barking the entire way.

"Mr. Kibitz, Oh my!" Flivver McNee pushed his glasses up on his nose with one hand and shuffled forward, his other hand out to help his bulky boss up.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Kibitz, I didn't see you there, sir.  Those weight reduction pills I gave you are really doing their job."

"Yes," Mr. Kibitz complained as he finally stood up.  "I gain five pounds every time I take one of the blasted things.  But that's not what I want to talk to you about, McNee.  There's something that's come up, something I need your help on."

"Yessiree, Mister Kibitz!"  McNee snapped a salute, slamming his hand into his forehead.  "Anything I can do, sir!"

"Just got a call from the U.S. Army, McNee."  Mr. Kibitz started back down the hall, McNee nearly walking up his back to stay behind him.  "Seems the war is heating up for our boys.  They're very pleased with the uniform shirts our girls downstairs are turning out.  So pleased as a matter of fact that they need more."  He stopped and looked at McNee.  "Five thousand more. In a week!"

"Yessiree!"  McNee pressed a button on the side of his Whatchadoosit.  Two reels turned on the left side of it.  He wanted to make sure he recorded every word so he wouldn't get confused.  Of course, he'd left it on high speed after an experiment yesterday, but he'd deal with that later.  "And what can I do, sir?"

"I need you to make one of your crazy, but somehow effective devices. Something that can help our girls make those shirts!"

"Yessiree, Mister Kibitz," Flivver McNee was already headed back toward his makeshift janitor closet/laboratory.  "I'll work day and night till I get it done!"

Three days later, on the main production floor of HIJK Clothing...

"This," Mr. Kibitz said skeptically, "Is the doohickey you made to help our girls make shirts?"

"Yessiree, Mister Kibitz!"  Flivver McNee patted the big red box he stood beside as if it were his own child.  "It'll do everything you told me to make it do."

"Well, then," Mister Kibitz smiled, "Let's see it in action, McNee.  You've got it set up right here behind our sewing line, our twenty best girls on their feet all day!  Let's see what your machine can do for them!"

"Yessiree!"  McNee slapped his hand down on a black button sticking out the top.  The box sputtered with a cough and then trembled as twenty tiny robotic arms sprouted from all sides of it, and each arm made its way toward a seamstress on the line.

"Oh my!"

"How dare you!"

"Ooooooo!"

"Oh, baby, not here!"

"McNEE!"  Mister Kibitz shouted, his body quaking like anxious jelly. "WHAT IN BLAZES DID YOU MAKE?"

McNee stood confused as he watched his machine do just what he designed it to do.  "Just what you asked, Mister Kibitz.  You wanted me to make something that helped the girls raise their skirts!"  McNee scratched his head.  "Didn't make much sense to me, but you're the boss!"

"McNEE!"  Mister Kibitz fell over backwards, shouting, "I said help them MAKE SHIRTS!  MAKE SHIRTS, MCNEE!"

A quiet midwestern town. Vacant of noise, save for cheerful laughter of children. Hopscotch, merry-go-rounds, dodgeball, and other activities for the kids to enjoy. The peaceful serenity of the scene is enough to make anyone sit and watch in wonder at the pureness of a child at play. Not a care in the world, as their chuckles and smiles could brighten anyone's spirits.

WHOOSH!

"Look!" One wide-eyed youngster exclaims. "Its Captain Man!"

Indeed, flying over the gathering of youth was the almighty Captain Man. Hero to the free world. Champion of justice, and scourge to evil in all its forms. Golden cape fluttering in his wake as he began to descend from the heavens towards the playground, a sparkling-white grin etched into his face as the children ran to greet him.

"Hello, faithful citizens!" Captain Man spoke, never allowing for his smile to break. The kids began to speak in a group, asking numerous questions for their hero. Some grabbed at his costume, but the blue spandex that coated his form held true. Still others reached for the mighty golden "M" stationed upon his chest. But one little boy's question was heard over the others, enough to gain the good Captain's attention."

"What are you doing here, Captain Man?" The boy asked. "Are you here to stop Dr. Naughty?"

"No, young friend." Captain Man spoke, one hand dipping behind him into the secret compartment of his cape, before he could continue. "I'm here to speak of the virtues... of smoking."

The group of children's eyes once more grew large, taking a few steps back at that which Captain Man had produced. In his gloved digits was a brand new pack of Newbros, America's #1 Brand of Cigarettes!

"But Captain Man..." the boy spoke again. "...My mommy told me smoking is bad. That I should never smoke, not even to fit in with others!"

"Timmy," Captain Man said, oblivious to the fact that his newfound friend's name was Kevin. "You're mother was talking about those 'other' cigarettes! Not the flavor-rich and completely non-addictive Newbros Cigarettes! America's #1 Brand of Cigarettes!"

"But Captain Man," another boy spoke up from the gathered crowd. "What makes Newbros, America's #1 Brand of Cigarettes, better then all the rest?"

"I'm glad you asked, Timmy!" Again the grin stretched itself further against Captain Man's face, as he produced a single cigarette from his pack. "Other cigarettes have harmful side effects. Things like becoming overweight, going blind, causing cancerous growths to appear at random over your body, along with a variety of other nasty things! But Newbros, America's #1 Brand of Cigarettes, has all the qualities of a cigarette without any unwanted side-effects! Smoking Newbros, America's #1 Brand of Cigarette, is like smoking heaven! They can make you popular, promote penis growth in males and breast growth in females, cure baldness, grow back amputated or lost limbs, plus many other incredible values that you can only find in Newbros, America's #1 Brand of Cigarettes!

"And..." Captain Man spoke again, with his smile reaching skin-tearing levels. "...every pack contains a rare Pokemon card!"

"YAY!" The crowd of children exclaimed, reaching diminutive fingers up for the pack of cigarettes that Captain Man held high above his head.

"So remember kids! Ask for..."

"Newbros!" The group shouted in unison. "America's #1 Brand of Cigarettes!"

"They're Flavortastic!" Captain Man said with another smile, while passing out the precious cigarettes to all of the small children.

Space!

The final frontier.

And, coincidentally, what we find a lot of between Carl's ears.

But cut him some slack, he's a nice enough guy.

However moments ago, in the dead of the night, Carl - on his way to the all-night market to buy eggs for his wife - was abducted by aliens.

That can't be good, I don't care who your tailor is.

We now rejoin our program, already in progress.

They were tall and white, with strange symbols carved into their chests.  Their eyes were like saucers of gravy.  Their heads were pointed, and their fingers were covered with little suckers - you know, like they have on an octopus.

"Where am I?"  Carl asked.  "And who are you?"

One of the aliens squeaked in reply.

"No, I'm not interested in a free subscription to Sports Illustrated.  Have you seen my car?"

Squeak.  Squeak squeak.  Squeakity.

"In the shop?"

Squeak.

"What shop?  And why am I here if my car's in the shop?"

Squeak squeak honk.

"What do you mean I rear-ended you? I've never been in an accident in my life."

Squawk.

"Oh, you rear ended-oh.  Where am I again?"

Squiggle.

"Is that near Washida?"

The aliens looked at each other and shrugged.  A squirrel floated through the room.

"Well if that don't beat all.  Don't you boys have a map?"

A holographic display popped up.

"Say... you're in the wrong county.  What is that?"

Squuuuuueaaaaaaak.

"No, I prefer Almond Joy.   And don't try to bribe me!  If my car's not in perfect condition I'll sue you out of existence!"

They panicked.

Lawyers frightened them.

In fact, they were still paying off the settlement from abducting that car salesman from Beverly Hills.

And that's not even to mention the fact that they were being picketed for being racist - the NAACP demanded an equal amount of colored people be abducted on a yearly basis.  Or maybe they just wanted more white people abducted.

The ol' universal translators were a bit fuzzy on that point.

In any case, after that moment of terror, one of the aliens touched Carl on the forehead.

He woke up in his car.

...With a 'buy one, get one free' coupon in his hand, good until the fifteenth, down to the local Dairy Queen.

Life was good.

...But he forgot the eggs.

"Broc Steel!...Jake Ramsey!..Trent Trenterson!..."

This was proving a hard case to crack...all these names...somehow connected. But how?... Ok, so they're not names of suspects. I'm a P.I. that means two things. One, you get a lot of spare time. Two, you gotta' have a great name... And
Bat-Man's already taken!

That's right, I mostly spend my time trying to think up a name to work under. I mean what kind of name is Herman Spittlefarth for a P.I.? ... For any profession?

"Mr. Spit N' Fart I presume?"

She was a looker, this dame. 5'7", red hair, creamy thighs, buttery lips, kinda' made me hungry. I had missed lunch today and I wasn't at all too pleased about it.

"That's Spittlefarth sweetheart. And how'd ya find me? I'm not an easy guy to track down. I ride in a wolf pack alone. If you get my meaning."

"I used your full color ad in the Metro Pages. And no."

Damn! She had me! Like an Albanian monkey rat in a wicker cage. Ever seen one of those? 'corse not. Nobody has.  That was a silly thing to say in the first place.

... I need a drink

"So what brings you to my front door? Husband cheatin' on you? Yeah... I get that all the time. Listen I'm not some back door man you can come callin' on. My name stands for integrity, and I won't tarnish it!"

"Spittlefarth?"

"Yeah!..So!...What about it?....shut-up."

Damn!..she was good.

"Mr. Spittlefarth, I've came to you to ask a very important favor. However, I don't want to talk here. Can we go to a more public place?  Perhaps the bar down the street?"

She's lying. I could tell. Just about what, and why? I had no idea. I was getting nowhere fast with this broad and I knew it. But I think that she knew that I knew and was trying to cover her tracks so that it looked like that she didn't know that I knew that she knew about me knowing... she's pretty clever that way.

"Mr. Spittlefarth?"

Well too bad, baby! You can't come waltzing into my world, turn it upside down like a baby albino Turkey in a sandstorm. I'm on to your clever mind games! I know that you know that I know that you know that...well...we'll just leave it at that....

"Mr. Spittlefarth?"

Yeah... that's right.keep battin' those pretty lookers of yours... I could tell that if I wanted to get to the truth, that I would have to go to bed with this woman... I mean the bar... the bar... that's where I needed to go... for more reasons than one right now.

"Mr. Spittlefarth? Why are you looking at me like that?.

Yeah, this was all going too work out, I could tell. I can see the headlines now, SPITTLEFARTH BREAKS UP CRIME RACKET! And PROHIBITION HALTED AT DEMAND OF SPITTLEFARTH! Yeah... oh wait... prohibition was halted... I really need that drink.

"Mr. Spittlefarth? Are you all right?"

"Huh?.. Yeah why?... Never mind, let's get outta here."

I could tell this was gonna be a killer case... Whatever it was..."

On the corner of 38th and somewhere, stands Officer Robert Tatters.  He stands there because Timmy the paper boy always has him a paper waiting when he walks by.  He stands there because Gino, the owner of Vermucci's Grocery around the corner every day sends his little girl Sophia over to the corner to give 'da good cop' a free apple and pop.  He stands there because the Harbin twins stroll past him every day on their way to dance lessons with Madame Olga Schwartz two blocks down.  And he stands there so that lovable rascal, that jovial, silly little clown of a brother of his, can find him. Yes, Bobby stakes out that corner so he can be sure he'll run into his older brother that everyone knows and loves, Patch Tatters.

And just as any other day, Patch came strolling by.  His nearly round body bounced like the dancing ball over the words in Saturday Matinee sing-alongs.  He smiled so wide and brightly that Bobby or anyone else couldn't help but smile back.  And he wore his coat.  That raggedy, gawdy multicolored coat that was little more than rags sewn together.  Patch wore it as if it were the greatest thing on earth.  Because his brother'd had it made for him.

"Howdy ho, Brother Bob!"

Bobby Tatters chuckled.  "Hey there, Patches.  You look unusually chipper today.  What's going right in your world?"

"Well, Bob," Patches shoved his hands into his pockets, the right one peeking out through the hole at the pocket's bottom, "It's like this.  Have you heard about all the problems our boys in the Arm-ed For-ces of the US of A are havin' overseas?  Have you heard about that?"

Bob grinned.  "The War?  With Germany.  I've heard rumors, Patches."

Patches rocked back and forth on the heels of his oversized loafers.  "More than rumors, Bob, more than rumors.  It's a rough road over there, so's we all gotta help out.  Do our part!"

"Yes, Patches, I suppose we do."

"Me, I'm on my way to do that right now, Bob.  I'm gonna do my part.  You know Ol Truthful, Bob?  You 'member Ol' Truthful?"

"Your car?"  Jalopy was more appropriate, Bobby knew.  "Yeah, saw you in it just yesterday."

"No more, Bob, No more at all.  I'm on my way to save on gas, rubber, and everything else.  Goin' to see a man from across the seas about a horse."

Bobby scratched his head.  "A horse?  A man from where?"

"Don't know right for sure, Bob.  He's from over beyond the oceans, he says its really fancy.  All I know is he's got a horse what he wants to sell cheap.  And me, I'm gonna buy it.  Help out the war effort."

"But Patches," Bobby knew this was pointless, waste of his breath, "You don't have any place for a - "

"Sorry, Brother Bob!"  Patches waddled away, a rainbow colored penguin.

"Gotta go see that man about a horse!" Bobby Tatters just smiled and shook his head.

Two hours, later, Bobby Tatters saw Patches' bulbous nose peeking around the corner of Vermucci's store.  He waved for Bobby to walk over to him. So, Bobby did just that.

"Howdy ho, Brother Bob."

"Hey, Patches.  Whatcha doing standing over here."

"I finally..I finally figured out what foreign land that guy with the horses came from, Bobby.  Dagblast it."

Bobby could tell Patches was unsettled.  "Really? What country is that, Patches?"

"Egypt!"

"Egypt?"  Bobby scratched his head.  "Why would you say Egypt?"

"Cuz," Patches stepped out from around the corner, tugging a rope behind him, a fat, hairy, smelly camel stubbornly stomping along behind him, "that rascal, 'e gypt me on this horse!  Look at it, Bob!  It's all warped and bent out of shape!"

Bobby Tatters slapped his forehead, shaking it, and doing the only thing he could ever do at Patches.  He just smiled.