Misconceptions and Their Resolution

Guns are fun.

Grown-ups don't wear shorts. Or t-shirts. Or baseball caps.
But cuff-links, wing-tips, blocked hats and carry a handkerchief.

Girls enjoy being teased. Then get jarred - they volley, "Skinhead!"

You thought you'd never get over being called "pizza-face."

That "so-called" Italian people (who are really Americans with hard-ons for WASPs) would be as good as pizza. (Anti-inimically, rectified; Moonstruck.)

How going to the moon was a mystical adventure and not a pissing
contest with the Russians' (Solaced by "Effn' Nazis! We hate 'em.") Nazis.

That fedoras and mothers didn't raise their sons to be archaeologists or screen scribes, farriers or ornamental metalworkers, but to settle for the "security" of Civil Service until you've put in a few years and can't wait to retire, old before your time in no country for old men.

Old men dispensed wisdom on "the benches" while the womens' "Telling your mother." when you wasn't doin' nothin'; waiting on "the strap." Who needs this?

When you were afraid to go home, but now it's easy to go to WebMD.

When you aksed them, "What's 'my sciatica'?" they said,

"That's for me to know and you to find out."

You couldn't inquire of punctuation neither --
they didn't know; nor when you got parried with

"Just who do you think you are?!" interlocute:

"It's whom." (See Horrible, Hagar) or a networking site

where everybody tells you to have them arrested.

And remember to stay away from bad influences... “I don provoke.”

So, shocked, you round up the usual suspects and recall a disciplinarian imparting how Odysseus lived by his wits as you find out what it's all about and "Don't worry about." as you get a word in edgewise when she's all yes I will yes during cue up Pinball Wizard and maybe watch The Milagro Beanfield War again. (Let’s rustle us up some ribs and slaw.) We were campestuously artful at fixin’s. And expiration. Drama lordlings. "Capish?" Machine Gunner! On the Rue.
"Who's Madeline?"

But you only got threatened with being shipped to "the farm,"

then settled down to read. Maybe that's how come you still

like girls so much, undreaming on of latent dead wrong idea entirely,

all us good boys going "You touch, you die." and she goes

"Ah, they ain't hurtin' nobody." so you go (composed

of a deuce of millennial reserve and magnanimity)
"What the Sam Hill you talkin' 'bout woman?

Bullturdy; they've inverted the country."

Then, unavoidably, "Daddy, what's a 'hanging crime'?"
"Poachin'." I see; we, listening to Hard Hearted Hannah,
waited upon a witty (not shitty) time to decimate . . .
"Barak H. (for Hossanna) Obombination - what a schmuck."
A pretentious, unctuous, turgid zilch. (Whoaa, made a acronym!)

"Prepare to come about." we heard.
Oh yeah, strategy and tactics: "Red Rover, Red Rover, la de da."

What's "enfilade?"

"It ain't crossing no T; I'll say that."