Milk, milk, lemonade
If you giggled at this blog title, you likely shared in the great American experience of Dirty Little Playground Ditties.
Oh, c'mon. You remember.
First, second and third grade. The wonder years where witty poems and naughty little songs were forever etched into our shiny new little brains. Timeless humor classics like:
"Milk, milk, lemonade; 'round the corner fudge is made." This is accompanied by a hand gesture, pointing out various body parts.
"Army, Navy, Preacher, Teacher." Again, naughty gestures make this visual joke work. You never forget your first dirty sight gag.
Other works in this very special genre: the Comet song; the Bus Driver song; several politically incorrect Asian references involving pulling the eyes into a forced slant; "Jingle Bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg;" "Great big globs of greasy grimy gopher guts;" and so on.
Are they coming back to you now?
What prompted this trip down memory lane was out tonight's dinner at our favorite dive pancake house. I had the kids and Kate's friend Kelly with me, and the waitress asked which of us wanted milk. I pointed to Kelly and myself, saying, "Milk. Milk." Under my breath, "lemonade" sort of slipped out for my own (I thought) private amusement.
When the waitress came with a tall lemonade a few moments later, we were all puzzled, until I realized she had heard my little utterance.
"Oh, I was just kidding about the lemonade," I apologized, scanning her lined face for any signs of recall of those fun Cold War days. "Um, you remember the old playground rhyme, don't you?"
"No, ma'am. I thought you ordered lemonade."
She was blank and all business. I was getting lemonade.
Hmmmph, I thought to myself. Surely this woman spent time jumping rope on a school blacktop during the sixties. Or perhaps the fifties, judging by that crepe-y neck. Perhaps her monkey bar years were just too far behind her.
Or maybe I just have a sophomoric sense of humor, one that didn't fade as I crossed over into parenthood.
I remember being secretly pleased when my daughter came home from first grade, breathlessly informing me:
"Mom, Blake Ballinger is a genius. Listen to this song he made up himself!"
I stepped in when she got to the part where Comet tastes just like gasoline.
"Honey, I agree that Blake is a comic genius, but I gotta tell you, I learned that song in 1965. Don't be disappointed. It's kind of like folk songs— they just get passed from one generation to the next. Like spirituals, or bible stories. Okay, maybe that's not a good example."
Kate skipped away, a bit miffed that she wasn't getting original material, but happy to pass the torch onto the next playmate.
Isn't it nice to know the schools are still offering the classics?