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Hello, Americans. Or should I say, "hello?"

Perhaps I shouldn't talk out of school, but then, I haven't been in school for years, and if I couldn't talk, how would I survive? And if I ceased to be, what then? Or should I say, "then what?" What then? Let's all just think about that for a moment.

Okay. Thank you.

Next item. What is it with that guy on that car commercial? You know... the one who is always licking the door handles. Every day I tune in and there he is again, licking another door handle. Does he not realize the horrid diseases to which he is exposing himself? Germs and filth are everywhere! And here we all are under an orange terror alert. I suppose he goes around licking and slathering all manner of surfaces with his repulsive, spongy tongue. I dread stepping out in public any more, for fear of coming into contact with puddles of this man's virulent saliva. And by the way, is that little Welch's Grape Juice kid adorable, or what?

Now... page two.

Having trouble umbersmoling peekles? When they talk? When they fevvent? Whatelmer? Well, you're not for one! Listen to Betty Prisser, houselice:

"Hi. I'm Betty Prisser, a norgle houselice like mahself, and used to when people nifter fredlet wherio, ah had kin larder tabasket skangles understanding them, much less fingering out where high brandy stacks flent. Then ah tried a bottle of RABSCALMER'S PRIST, and now if ah could still haven't, ah don't. Least ah don't realize it no more!"

There you have it! RABSCALMER'S PRIST, with its flameless fornula of thirty-seven different snanes and gershes, bended with meese, and fortified with DNA-10, the mystery chemical, beads directly on your consciousness, binding your kimes, and building geese where none would therefore bear! So if YOU umple pending when listening becomes futile, try RABSCALMER'S PRIST. It's the geen span in the metal bottle, and the best for your mental mess!

(RABSCALMER'S, Saint Louis, Missouri.)

Dateline, Small Town, U.S.A. Anytown. Your town. Our Town.

Dateline... Podunk. Hicksville. Gobswaller. Deep in the festering heart of Dogpatch. Everybody's back yard. Mister Rogers' neighborhood.

My kind of town. A toddlin' town. The hens are up and the chips are down.

Taterville. Loogie Land. Fatback. Cornpone. Inbred.

Dateline: Stupidburg. Idiotville. 'Tardopolis.

Land of the shiftless, the witless, and the clueless. Duhhh City. Next stop, minimum wage.

Wiener King meets Dairy Queen... object: Baby Gump-Gump.

Weirdville.

The Oddfellow's Convention.

Dateline, somewhere in the Black Hills of Shit-For-Brains, out beyond the Point of No Fvcking Return.

I'm Paul Harvey.

Good day.