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	<title>Mister Comedy</title>
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	<description>You&#039;re here anyway--you might as well read something...</description>
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		<title>i should read more poetry&#8230;</title>
		<link>http://mistercomedy.net/revealing-the-process/i-should-read-more-poetry/</link>
		<comments>http://mistercomedy.net/revealing-the-process/i-should-read-more-poetry/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Fri, 09 Sep 2011 00:08:14 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>MisterComedy</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[IT'S WHAT I DO]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Gerard Manley Hopkins]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Ginsburg]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Howl]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[humor]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[meat mallets]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[poetry]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Robert W. Service]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[satire]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[yard sales]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://mistercomedy.net/?p=1763</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[I did a very bad thing last weekend. It was an impulsive moment, but I&#8217;ll be dealing with the consequences for a long time. I&#8217;m not even sure why I&#8217;m writing about it, because it was so incredibly stupid. I just need to clear my conscience, I guess, so here it is: I bought books at a yard sale. The yard sale part isn&#8217;t the problem. I&#8217;ve gotten some real bargains, like five bucks for a four-year-old printer/copier/scanner, with a handwritten tag that said &#8220;PRINTER STILL WORKS!&#8221; (in fact, it didn&#8217;t, which I should have guessed from the handwritten note, but it was only five bucks.) Also got something to nurture my inner foodie&#8211;a meat mallet! I never thought I needed one enough to justify buying a new one, but this cost a dollar, fer chrissake! Everything&#8217;s worth at least a dollar, isn&#8217;t it? OK, in this economy, that&#8217;s not saying much.  All I know is that I intend to start buying really crappy cuts of meat from now on JUST so I can tenderize them! No, the problem with this particular yard sale is that I bought books. Eight&#8230;eighteen, eighty&#8211;I&#8217;m not sure, it&#8217;s all a blur. I am sure [...]]]></description>
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		<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
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		<title>a pain in the neck</title>
		<link>http://mistercomedy.net/thats-personal/a-pain-in-the-neck/</link>
		<comments>http://mistercomedy.net/thats-personal/a-pain-in-the-neck/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 21 Aug 2011 02:57:05 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>MisterComedy</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[IT'S PERSONAL]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[comedy]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[humor]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Marcus Welby]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[MRI]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[neurosurgery]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[spinal injuries]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[stenosis]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://mistercomedy.net/?p=1741</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[If you’re following along at home, you’ll remember I visited a neurologist recently to find out why my body seems to be breaking down like a car with a just-expired warranty. Like any older car, it’s a little sluggish to respond (especially in winter), and I’ve definitely got some alignment issues. Begrudgingly, I agreed to take their fancy tests, because, well, I’ve always been good at taking tests. Of course, these weren’t like the exams I used to ace in school. My English teachers never hit me with a hard rubber hammer or poked me with needles or shot electric current into my arms and legs, although that might have given me more incentive to actually read “Paradise Lost.” I was hoping the tests would be both definitive and reassuring. They were, I suppose, a little of both. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Buried a few paragraphs down, in amongst these 1,689 words, you’ll find what the diagnosis is, but first I should talk about the tests. Whatever’s wrong with me, I still have an understanding of dramatic structure. (If you don&#8217;t mind spoilers, the answer is in the twenty-first paragraph.) The Neuro-Conductivity Studies were done by a very [...]]]></description>
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		<slash:comments>3</slash:comments>
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		<item>
		<title>seeing a guy about a thing&#8230;</title>
		<link>http://mistercomedy.net/thats-personal/seeing-a-guy-about-a-thing/</link>
		<comments>http://mistercomedy.net/thats-personal/seeing-a-guy-about-a-thing/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 25 Jul 2011 04:41:47 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>MisterComedy</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[IT'S PERSONAL]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[EMG]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[fear]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[health care]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[humor]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[MRI]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[neurologist]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://mistercomedy.net/?p=1587</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[I saw a neurologist today, and by that, I don’t mean I spotted one from a distance (“Look, there’s one now!”)—I had an appointment. If you know me, you know that I’m dealing with some health issues, and I’m irrationally afraid of going to doctors. But, thanks to the State of Minnesota, I have insurance now, and my friends would kick my hypochondriacal ass if I didn’t at least start the process. So, I saw a neurologist today. Actually, I told myself I was just ‘seeing a guy about a thing.’ That’s not scary—and it sounds a helluva lot better than SEEING THE NEUROLOGIST. People don’t see THE NEUROLOGIST unless something is seriously wrong. But this is just some guy—just gonna talk to him about some stuff. And besides, I’ve realized something that makes this ‘process’ a little less daunting—whatever I ‘have,&#8217; I’ve already beaten it so far. Now I don’t want you to think you’re gonna have to suffer through regular updates on my condition and progress—I don’t intend to become the inspiration for a Lifetime original movie, “Tingling and Numbness—the Michael Dane Story.” I will let you know if my case gets written up in any medical journals, [...]]]></description>
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		<slash:comments>6</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>fine, i&#8217;ll see a doctor</title>
		<link>http://mistercomedy.net/thats-personal/fine-ill-see-a-doctor/</link>
		<comments>http://mistercomedy.net/thats-personal/fine-ill-see-a-doctor/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 27 Jun 2011 23:34:00 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>MisterComedy</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[IT'S PERSONAL]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[doctors]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[health]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[humor]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://mistercomedy.net/?p=1411</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[I&#8217;ve never been too worried about my age, and I&#8217;m sure when asked &#8220;When did you first start feeling old?,&#8221; everyone can point to something different. For me, the first time I sensed a ticking clock was one day about a year ago, when I looked at my hands. See, you might look like someone out of a Bowflex ad from head to toe, but the hands don’t lie. I can’t say time has treated me badly—if you never saw me walk, and were looking at me from a distance, you might even think I’m in my forties. Losing my hair never made me feel old—that started in my twenties, and I’ve been shaving my head for twenty years. But those hands. They have some explaining to do. Truth is, in fifty-plus years, I had never really worked with my hands, unless you count…typing. But there they were, looking (and feeling) like they’d been on an assembly line installing tiny widgets for the last thirty years. It looked like someone had Photoshopped my stepfather’s hands onto my body. I had Larry King’s hands. Even my fingers looked old. I think as I’ve stumbled on in later years, it seems I’ve [...]]]></description>
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		<slash:comments>2</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>elmer</title>
		<link>http://mistercomedy.net/thats-personal/elmer-2/</link>
		<comments>http://mistercomedy.net/thats-personal/elmer-2/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 19 Jun 2011 03:08:24 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>MisterComedy</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[IT'S PERSONAL]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[comedy]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[elmer]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[father's day]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[stepdad]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://realcomedy.wordpress.com/?p=205</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Weird name, Elmer. It probably sounded old-fashioned a hundred years ago. But I knew an Elmer once, only thirty years ago. He was my step-dad. I never knew my biological father, and I deliberately use the word ‘biological’ and not ‘real.’ The man who was ‘really’ my father is the man who drove me to band practice, not the man who apparently just drove away. You know, sometimes language is so limited, and so limiting. ‘Step-dad’ is an awkward construction, implying someone who&#8217;s at least one step away from being a ‘real’ dad. Since I’m a baseball fan, I’d like to suggest a new term—‘relief dad.’ In baseball, a relief pitcher comes into the game, in a tight spot, to help the team out of a jam, and if he does his job, the team has a shot at winning. That was Elmer. Relief dad. Growing up, all I really knew was that my mom met Elmer when she was a nurse, and that he was a patient at a V.A. hospital. I learned most of what I know about Elmer after he died. About once a year, I do some searching online to try to find some clues to [...]]]></description>
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		<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>found in translation</title>
		<link>http://mistercomedy.net/thats-personal/found-in-translation/</link>
		<comments>http://mistercomedy.net/thats-personal/found-in-translation/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 16 Jun 2011 04:47:14 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>MisterComedy</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[IT'S PERSONAL]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[comedy]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[dialogue]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[foreign language]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[French]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[German]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[high school]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Pooh]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://mistercomedy.net/?p=1154</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Recently, I joined a Facebook group dedicated to my high school, and as we chatted back and forth, the names of my teachers came spinning at me like calendar pages in a film noir. Then I realized that, while I remembered the teachers, I wasn’t as able to remember the things they taught. Oh sure—I remember random fragments—bits and pieces of mid-seventies curricula. But I&#8217;m pretty sure I wouldn&#8217;t be able to pass a midterm exam in any of the classes I took in high school. For instance, I can picture Mr. Simonds (I even remember that his first name was Ira), but I can&#8217;t recall much of his American History class. I think the South lost. That&#8217;s about it. Or Mr. Hague and Mr. White, good friends (of each other) who taught chemistry and biology respectively, and looked a bit like Penn and Teller. I remember using a pipette to distill something in chemistry, and I think Mr. White had us cut up earthworms. I&#8217;m not sure why. Yet for some reason, I remember most of my two years of high school German. When I went to high school, in addition to knowing the capitals of  all forty-five states, [...]]]></description>
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