Hanaba Welch

One of my favorite "Mad" magazine cartoons, circa 1963, shows a guy reading the instructions for a hand towel dispenser:

My cellphone earned itself a new name by getting run over and not quite living to tell about it:

Refrigeration. What a word. Why does it start with "re?"

Buying a car is like getting married. Life is better if you don't do it too often. My opinion.

All four women at the next table have had knee replacements. That's how I'm hearing it. I feel left out.

The good news: The Geiger counter didn't go off.

The helicopter flew in low over the hotel and dropped a teenage girl and an elderly Hispanic woman onto the roof.

New blank document. Those words stare me in the face. So does the untouched white canvas, except now I've started writing on it.

The nicest thing about finding someone else's garbage on your property is that they usually leave an address. That's the difference between dogs and garbage. Nobody ever leaves an address with a dog.

The grandkids are coming to the farm, maybe.

A woman is judged by her luggage.

"Shows initiative." That little phrase was one of several criteria listed on the deportment section of my first grade report card.

If the days of our lives had titles like books, today would be "Goodbye to a Car."

The nice thing about being an existentialist is that if you decide to be a novelist, you don't have to come up with a plot.

Vandalism has given graffiti a bad name, even in Italy, where graffiti sometimes get written in English, which gives English a bad name.