sndhight.com: fun & games

Hight's Law of Adages
For every homily there is an equal and opposite re-homily.

Hight's Axiom of Ablutions
Some mornings it's Shit, Shower, and Shave,
but other mornings it's just Flush, Brush, and Rush.

Hight's Two-Party Rule
Democrats speak no evil of any government program.
Republicans speak no evil of any government policy.

Steve's Bad Anagram Riddle:

What do you call a mentally challenged shopkeeper who's been run out of town on a rail?

Homophones are words that have the same sound but differ in meaning. Homophones can lead to confusion, but they are also the basic elements of puns, wordplay, and shaggy dog stories.

See how many of the following homophones you can identify. We tried not to make the clues too difficult, but we didn't want them to be too obvious, either. Each answer will consist of (at least) two homophonic words. Some of them are a bit of a stretch, but that's part of the fun. The answers are in the column located directly to the right of the clues, but they will be invisible until you highlight them with your mouse's cursor.

One fine, sunny-but-cold day in December, Mrs. Brown, who had been fully reclined on the couch, eating bon-bons and watching her "stories," as such women are wont to do, was suddenly and simultaneously struck with both the inspiration to make Christmas cookies and the ambition to rise from the couch and do so. Mrs. Brown said to herself, in her well-known dulcet wheeze, "I think I'll get my carcass off this couch and make some Christmas cookies. I like Christmas cookies." And so she did.

Lumbering gracefully into the kitchen, Mrs. Brown approached the pantry wherein were kept many of the sundry and varied supplies — flour, sugar, vanilla, baking powder, and cookbooks — she would need for the task at hand. "First," she rasped, "I need the cookie cookbook." After retrieving the dog-eared and well-read cookbook from its place of honor on the center shelf of the pantry, she realized a decision must be made. "I need to decide," she labored, "what type of Christmas cookies to make." She chewed absently on her lower lip and stood for a while in thought. Then, with a sharp snap of her delicate, sausage-like fingers, she exclaimed, "I've got it! I'll make sugar cookies. The cut out ones with the red and green sugar on top. I like cut out sugar cookies with the red and green sugar on top." She paused a moment, then added, "Mr. Brown likes them too." She often referred to her husband as Mr. Brown.

She opened the cookie cookbook to the butter-stained page marked "Traditional Sugar Cookies," and began to peruse the recipe printed there. Having made sugar cookies many, many times in the past, Mrs. Brown glanced at the recipe only cursorily, and began to collect the necessary ingredients. "First," she rumbled joyfully, talking to herself as she retrieved the ingredients she listed, "I'll need some vanilla and baking powder." She placed those items on the counter. "And I'll need the red and green colored sugar I bought on sale last January." She placed the packages of red and green colored sugar on the counter as well.

"And I need the Christmas cookie cutters," she gasped. "Can't make cut out Christmas sugar cookies with the red and green sugar on top without the Christmas cookie cutters." And so she retrieved the Christmas cookie cutters from a drawer and placed those on the counter as well. "And the rolling pin. Mustn't forget that." She did not forget the rolling pin. "Oh, and I'll need a mixing bowl." She reached into an upper cupboard to get the nice stainless steel mixing bowl Mr. Brown had bought her last Christmas. "And I'll need to plug in the nice electric mixer Mr. Brown bought me to go with the nice stainless steel mixing bowl he bought me last Christmas." And so she did.

"Oh, and I mustn't forget that I need to soften half-a-pound of butter." She reached into the murky depths of her refrigerator (the light bulb had burned out some weeks before, and neither Mr. nor Mrs. Brown were very mechanical) and secured the tub of butter. Using a pie server, Mrs. Brown served what she believed to be enough butter — "Four chunks should do it." — onto a plate, which she placed on the counter so the butter would soften.

"Now," she groused, wiping her oleaginous hands on the hem of her pink housecoat, "Now I need a few eggs and a little sugar." So saying, she broke four eggs into the nice stainless steel mixing bowl, then proceeded to rummage through the pantry for some sugar. The search did not last long. "There should be more than enough sugar in this lovely little tin here." She hefted the lovely little tin with a grunt, lugged it over to counter, where she managed to set it gently enough to avoid cracking the Formica, and began to ladle out sugar into the bowl. "Four scoops should do it," she panted.

After a brief rest, Mrs. Brown knew she could no longer put off the inevitable: She had to get some flour. "I have to get some flour," she whinged, "But first I need the sieve." She lowered herself gingerly to the ground accompanied by the creaking of her arthritic knees, opened a lower cupboard door with a matching creak, and began to dig through the chaos of pots, pans, and mismatched lids to find her sieve, stirring up quite the metallic clamor in the process. "I found it!" she exclaimed, then cried "Ow!" as she bumped her head while straightening up. She reached up to the counter with one hand and pulled herself more-or-less upright, set down the old metal sieve, and began to rub the knot forming on her head. "I may have to change to rum cookies," she moaned wistfully.

Now the sieve Mrs. Brown dug up at the expense of a goose-egg was of the old metal variety and had been around the Brown family household for many, many years. The holes were a bit too large and spaced a bit too far apart, requiring that flour be sifted through it two or even three times to make it fine enough for baking, and the whole thing was crusted over in spots with the residue of many years of straining and sifting. In short, it was ready for the trash heap. "What rubbish!" growled Mrs. Brown, "This is ready for the trash heap." With a sigh of resignation, Mrs. Brown prepared for the arduous task of sifting the flour.

As she was just about to upend the bag of flour into the sieve, the doorbell rang. "Now who could that be?" wondered Mrs. Brown aloud in her well-known dulcet wheeze. "I suppose I had better answer it." And so to the front door in her pink bunny slippers and matching housecoat she trundled with dignity.

She opened the door, and there stood an unfamiliar man in a brown suit, carrying a leather case. Mrs. Brown grated a greeting to her mysterious caller: "Hello," she grated.

"Good afternoon, Sir or Madam. My name is Smith, and I am here to sell you our wonderful new Universal Flour Sifter."

"I'm not sure I need that," replied Mrs. Brown with a doubtful snort. "I already have my mother's heirloom sieve."

Smith answered rapidly, "Yes, indeed, I'm sure you do, and I'm sure many memories, and even more rust, have attached themselves to that sieve. But, if I may be so bold as to hazard a guess, that sieve doubles or even triples your workload by requiring not one, but two or even three repetitions to sift your flour fine enough for baking. Am I correct in this?"

Mrs. Brown ruminated on this question for several seconds, re-running the salesman's rapid speech through her head. "Yes," she finally answered, her doubtful snort having softened to a doubtful sniffle, "Yes, I believe you are right. I do have to sift the flour more than once."

"Then allow me to demonstrate the wonders of our wonderful new Universal Flour Sifter." With that, Smith snaked easily past Mrs. Brown and strolled casually into the kitchen, as if he had lived in the house for years. Mrs. Brown waddled uncertainly behind.

"Now, Madam — it is Madam, yes? — Now Madam, our wonderful new Universal Flour Sifter is an amazing piece of machinery. No batteries or cords required, you just pour a cup of flour here," he demonstrated, talking rapidly throughout, "and turn this handle here. You see these blades moving? You see how finely they chop up the flour before it falls through the special chromium-plated screen? What does that mean to you? No more chunky flour! Why these blades are made of the finest quality Japanese stainless steel. With these razor-sharp, imported blades, our wonderful new Universal Flour Sifter slices, it dices, it even circumcises the flour. I tell you now that it would make julienne fries if julienne fries were made of flour. Isn't this gadget a miracle? Isn't it a wonder? It can be yours for the special introductory rate of just nineteen-ninety-five, that's right, just nineteen-ninety-five. So what do you think of that, Madam — it is Madam, isn't it? Isn't it better to use our wonderful new Universal Flour Sifter once than to use your old sieve twice?" Smith paused and waited expectantly.

Mrs. Brown thought on her answer long and hard. She chewed absently on her lower lip and wiped her hands automatically on the hem of her pink housecoat. Snow began to fall outside. Smith waited. More snow fell. Smith waited. Darkness approached. Smith still waited. Christmas lights began to blink on houses throughout the neighborhood. Smith still waited. Finally, as the last buzzing street lamp bulb warmed up to cast its eerie green pallor over the snow, Mrs. Brown spoke in her well-known dulcet wheeze. What she said was: "Yes, I believe you are correct. It is better to sift than re-sieve."