This is an experiment.

From time to time, my dad and I will exchange e-mails of an utterly nonsensical nature. We do this to amuse ourselves, and because it has become a cherished family tradition. I've often wanted to share the humor with others, but it sometimes becomes politically oriented, and I suspect that would alienate some of our readers. However, we have managed to refrain from making political comments in these recent e-mails which I have posted below, and I'm curious to see if you OSers find them amusing.

~

Dad:

As Nigel Workhaven once said while addressing the semi-annual convention of Chiropractors Against Nuisance Law Suits and Overripe Figs, “If you can’t remember the Gettysburg Address, at least try to remember your own address.” Actually, that was his entire address, for which he received a sitting ovation, a glass of swamp water, and two tickets to the 1934 World Series. Unfortunately, he gave the address in 1983, so the tickets were a bit out of date. But then so was Nigel. In fact, Nigel was just about out of everything, including clues. He went on to chair the Committee to Re-Elect Calvin Coolidge and run a successful combination brothel and lamp repair shop, called Betty’s, in Newark. I believe he’s retired now, although the CTRCC is still quite active in a suburb of Portabella, Indiana called Pigweed.

Me:

Perhaps you have heard of Nigel's mother Fusillia Wicket-Bungle, one time owner of Grippwit's Museum of Notable Deviations in Fashion and Also the Deviations That Were Less Than Notable.
Then again, perhaps you haven't. She resigned her post after she claimed to have been attacked by one of the more "notable" exhibits, featuring Georg Zuftnooker's famous mechanized flyswatting gown and mantle, which whacked her soundly about the head and derriere with multiple brass flyswatters of considerable size that left grid patterns on her face for years to come. The upside of this was that it enabled her to assist her son with his many failed attempts to graph linear equations.
Not sure if this explains any of Nigel's behavior, but it does make for an interesting tidbit, I daresay.

Dad:

There is almost nothing that explains Nigel’s behavior. As behaviors go, it is somewhat akin to trying to calculate the pi to 250 decimal places. It might be possible, but who really cares?

However, I have heard of Fusillia, who later became Vice-Dictator of Zimbabwe and co-director of simultaneous carburetor adjusting at Mrs. Winblat’s College of Abnormal Facial Expressions.

And by the by, Georg Zuftnooker, aka Miles Bandenfleef (pronounced ban den fleef), once sponsored an entire fashion show around the theme of the history of overhead camshafts and quick release parachute straps.

Me:

Strangely enough, Miles Bandenfleef was not his real name either. It was merely another of his many pseudonyms created to divert suspicion from his shady links to the illegal nose hair tweezer trade. I'm not sure why. Georg Zuftnooker alias Bandenfleef, etc. took no such precautions regarding his equally shady links to the illegal cultivation of kumquats shaped like bassoons in Bavaria. Be that as it may, he was spotted at Mrs. Flingstorcher's tea parlor and balloon rental just last Tuesday sporting his newest much-coveted croquet-playing gown (despite the fact that it was only 3p.m., which duly scandalized the onlookers) and having some difficulty getting all the wickets to lie flat while he sat down to tea.

Dad:

Wickets do not lie flat easily, as Flemia Glepewagon is quick to point out, as she did at the Past Masters of the Pernicious annual fund raiser and ink well design contest, which was held in Snurfboggen, Ontario last July, at the home of Marvin and Lorna Fallwacker, on Lake Umpter-altogamp. She was later caught behind the pontoon boat eating the running board off a 1932 Hupmobile and singing the middle stanza of God Bless Mrs. Finnerty and her Dog, Bort.

Me:

Of the peculiar Flemia Glepewagon, much has been said. In addition to her auto-culinary faux pas at the Past Masters event, she has been known to fashion butterfly nets from bits of used dental floss and to crouch behind the potting shed with said nets, awaiting her prey. Certain members of the Sneedville Ladies Gardening and Pond Stomping Club have ventured to speculate that Ms. Glepewagon is not actually trying to catch butterflies, but rather to capture the attention of one Col. Mort Fladcrumple whose veranda happens to have a view of the potting shed. Uncertain members of the club have not ventured to make any such speculation, nor do they tend to venture even as far as their own mailboxes without a considerable amount of reassurance from someone of authority.

Dad:

As it turns out, the Colonel, a semi-known letch and retired member of the Illinois House of Fruit Buyers and Party Favors, became quite fond of Ms. Glepewagon and took to calling her Isadora when he spoke of her to his cello, which was more often than not. His grandson, Ike Spratchet-Ogleby, once caught him doing this and upon inquiring as to the meaning of it was hit with the loose spindle from the rocking chair until he was senseless, which did not take all that long since Ike was not, shall we say, the most illuminated compact florescent bulb in the bath house.

Me:

How unfortunate for Ike. However, you may be relieved to know that his spindle-beating did not prevent him from attending the 32nd anniversary of Gertrude Bunstrode and her pet flamingo, Jose, adorned in his (Ike's) Aunt Trillian's favorite moss-green lampshade. You know, the one with the ladybug pattern on it. It was a lovely occasion, as I recall, despite the fact that Ike's recent bruises clashed rather horribly with the lampshade.

Dad:

Sorry to be obtuse, but was it the flamingo, Jose, or Ike that wore the lampshade? I ask, because I am cognizant of said shade and would not have pictured it on a flamingo. However, it would surprise me not in the least if Ike had chosen it as proper attire. His sister, Noreen, you may recall, once wore a Mexican flag and a liter bottle of papaya juice for several days while waiting for her dry cleaning to arrive. And his mother, Lady Zanzibar-Blump, was fond of adorning her husband as a rectal thermometer, which, as I understand, may have been the cause of his unfortunate mishap with a circus elephant named Butch.