We start today with breaking news from The Onion:

Trump Defends Wearing Fruit Hat, Samba Dancing During Transfer of Fallen Soldiers

WASHINGTON—Maintaining that his conduct was well within the guidelines for the solemn occasion, President Trump on Thursday defended his decision to wear a fruit hat while samba dancing during the dignified transfer of soldiers killed in Iran. “There’s no reason I can’t honor the sacrifice of these brave men and women while wearing a headdress piled high with bananas, oranges, and papayas,” said Trump, adding that only a corrupt media desperate to attack him would fault a president for clapping and shimmying in six-inch platform heels as the flag-draped caskets were carried past en route to their final resting place.

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Two short answers carried a lot of freight in the puzzle Wednesday. They were ONE and NUTS, both very nicely clued. For ONE, the clue was ‘Answer to the riddle ending “How many are going to St. Ives?’” So you had to have heard about the riddle/poem. Here it is:

As I was going to St Ives I met a man with seven wives. Every wife had seven sacks. Every sack had seven cats. Every cat had seven kittens. Kittens, cats, sacks and wives. How many were going to St Ives?

It’s a trick question. The speaker was going to St. Ives, as it says. But there’s no indication that anyone else is. So the answer is ONE.

For NUTS, the clue was “The place you least want to be kicked.” No, just kidding. It was “McAuliffe’s one-word reply to a German commander’s demand of surrender.” I hadn’t heard of this either.

Here’s what one commenter explained: During the Battle of the Bulge, the 101st Airborne was surrounded by German forces in the strategic town of Bastogne. On December 22, 1944, German officers demanded the surrender of the US troops.

Upon reading the demand, McAuliffe initially muttered “Aw, nuts,” and subsequently typed “NUTS!” as the official written reply. When German officers asked for clarification, they were told the phrase meant “Go to hell.”
The reply boosted morale and became a defining moment of American resolve during World War II.

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When I read through the obits in the Times, only once in a great while does one clutch at my heart. You know, since I’m so tough. It happened when I read about the passing of Matt Snell. Snell was the hard-running fullback for the Super Bowl Champion Jets of the Joe Namath era. Yeah, let that roll around for a bit: “the Super Bowl Champion Jets.” It’s as rare a phrase as “honorable Republican.”

Anyway, as team leader, Namath was named Super Bowl MVP, but many felt (including many Jets), that it was really Snell who carried the day. He had 161 total yards and was key in grinding out the first downs we needed to run the clock to hold the 16-7 lead. He scored the only TD the Jets got. BTW, if you don’t recall, it was one of the great upsets in NFL history. The then-Baltimore Colts were 18-point favorites. It was the game for which Namath made his famous pronouncement “We’re going to win.” He later explained it wasn’t boasting or bravado: he had just watched some game films and determined that the Jet receivers should be able to outrun the Colt defense. So it was simply his professional assessment. Anyway, getting back to that Super Bowl MVP award — even though it went to Namath, the Jets recognized Snell and gave him a green and white Cadillac. Nice gesture.

The greatest competitors rise to their occasions. At the Orange Bowl that day, Snell ran with or caught the ball in 34 of the Jets plays: the most in his career. On most other plays he was blocking to protect Namath, who was not very mobile due to bad knees. Just about the only thing Snell didn’t do in the Stadium that day was man a hot-dog stand.

Snell was motivated by the pregame hype lavished on the Colt running backs and was miffed that he was being dissed. “For the first time in my life, I’m going to be looking for people to run into,” Snell told his backfield partner Emerson Boozer. “I’m going to be looking to punish people.” Boozer had a good reply: “Be looking for the goal line, too.”

Snell was born in Georgia and raised on Long Island. While in college at Woody Hayes’ Ohio State he took summer jobs as a laborer, and worked on the construction of Shea Stadium, where the Jets played for many years.

Matt is survived by his wife, Sharon, two children, a grandson, three siblings, and the rest of us long-suffering Jets fans, who will never forget our one moment. Rest in peace, 41.

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Stu Davis, of the Dull Men’s Club (UK) shared this story with us:

The Art of Being a Twin…

Before I start this, I would like to make it clear, this is not written as anything more than a carthartic attempt by myself to make sense of the world on a night where sleep would be a miracle, but will probably not be as inexorable as it seems, the sun always rises.

Every since I was in the womb I have been an identical twin.

In medical terms this means that the egg that was fertilised split into two and created two identical people, both sharing the same genes.

How freaky is that?

In practical terms this means that when two babies are being born and one gets in the way, the other gets stuck, which is what happened to me.

Not an amazing start, I know.

A lifetime of being claustrophobic has followed.

The first few years of our lives were unremarkable, then at some point we must have realised that there was mischief to be had…

This started with simple things, like swapping our different coloured glasses and progressed to swapping our carefully picked clothes.

Much fun could be had until, quite frankly we got bored and settled down, the joke just got old, I suppose.

I could go on for hours about the pranks we played, but I shan’t tonight.

As we moved into our teens, we started to develop slightly different personalities, mine was a little more easy going, we also got into a little bit of trouble because anything one of us had done wrong was automatically blamed on both of us, so to the perception of any adults around us, the trouble was, quite literally double.

We also started falling out a little more, the love was always there between us, but mixed with the inability to ever back down in an argument, we had some absolutely epic battles, some epic laughs and some rare late night chats putting the world to rights.

The telepathic bond that twins are purported to share never existed for us, we didn’t care about that anyways.

Later in life, we slightly went our own ways, moved in slightly different circles with some mutual friends between us, trying to define our own identities.

We both found girls, settled down and got married, then I had one lovely daughter and later, a lovely 21st century daughter and I also became an uncle to a lovely little lad.

We always shared a massive passion for motorcycles, don’t know why, having and riding was and still is a need.

We would always try to outdo each other in the riding stakes, which I suppose was ok on smaller 1980s machines, but could get a bit scary when we moved up to big monster machines.

I still maintain I could ride corners harder than him, but will concede his massive wheelies were beyond my ability.

I would love to have an epic argument about this, neither of us would back down.

One thing I have been thinking about was the summer morning thirty years ago when we welcomed his son into the world…

We were driving down to Mater’s house to wake and annoy her and watch the joy of her having a brand new baby grandson.

We kept saying silly things like…

“That’s the first rabbit I’ve seen since you were a Daddy.”

“That’s the first crow I’ve seen since I was a Daddy.”

“That’s the first sunrise I have seen since you were a Daddy.”

A joyous, happy time, shared, between two people, who could happily sit in each others company and just enjoy what we had.

Two nights ago, my twin, Graham, Gravy, Grumpy Gray, let his inner demons get to him and took his own life.

Last night I stood alone and watched the sun go down for the first time as a single person.

I tried saying about the sunset out loud, but no words could be formed.

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The outpouring of support from dozens of DMC members was nearly as moving as the story. Other twins chimed in (and one triplet!). Much warm advice on handling grief. Some were short like this one by Martin Wreford-Bush: “Obviously I don’t know you mate, but I am so sorry for you.” Others spun a sincere para or two on loss or grieving.

My own small note was: “Dear Friend, I hope it matters to you, and helps a little, that this group of lunatics who will most likely never meet you, care about your loss, care about you, and are grateful for your sharing your story. We are all enriched by it.”

Hope he’s okay. Rest in peace, Grumpy Gray.

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We’re not sure if we’ll be watching the Oskies on Sunday. Only saw one of the Best Pic noms (Sinners), although we may stream One Battle After Another over the weekend. How out of the loop are we? I was surprised to learn Jessie Buckley is a woman. (Guess I was thinking of Jeff Buckley.)

She’s from Killarney! Let’s let her pretty Irish face close us out today.

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Thanks for dropping in!