Good morning and welcome to Summit Up, the world’s only daily column that knows the meaning behind the stupid words in the “Yankee Doodle” song.You know you’ve wondered, as have we, about them since you were a little kid:”Yankee Doodle went to townRiding on a ponyStuck a feather in his capAnd called it macaroni!”Who could come up with dumber words! There are lots of other words that rhyme with pony! Starting with phony and bony! That’s all we can think of right now.But.We have since learned that the Southerners in the Civil War used to sing this song as a sort of taunt to the Yanks up north, who weren’t well prepared for battle.Seems macaroni is a – gee, surprise – Italian word for finery, and the Yanks didn’t have much in the way of military uniform. So they’d say the Yanks would merely stick a feather in their hat and call it a stromboni!Ha! You’ve learned something; you can go home now!***Another interesting factoid we’d like to share is the reason women shave their legs. What a hassle! Americans often compare the hairless legs of their women with the hairy arms and legs of, say, the French and the accompanying odor that sometimes goes with them, and deduce that hair must really stink!Alas, that’s not the case.Seems during the War to End all Wars, women needed to forego nylons so the Navy could tie them all together and use them as those nets to catch 150-foot-long planes as they land on 140-foot-long ships.No. We jest. That’s not the case at all. During the War to End All Wars, the women had to forego their nylons (cost? The nylon shortage?) and once they were removed, they (the women) noticed all this unsightly hair that previously was covered up! They were appalled! They were disgusted! They noticed they smelled!So they stole their men’s strops, razors, mirrors and lather and shaved it all off. Can you imagine the razor burn? How ’bout the occasional nick?Ouch!Hence began the custom that is, we think, uniquely, and thus stupidly, American. Another thing to celebrate (or not) on this Day After Fourth.***We are suffering from hot dog bloat-itis combined with a little pink-o-the-skin from doing it up big time at four towns, three resorts, two concerts and a partridge in a pear tree yesterday.Pheeeeewwwwwwweeeee! Are we zonkered! (And pink!)Which brings us to the entire purpose of this column: making no sense of anything that comes our way.We were wondering about federal erotica. Not the kind that got Clinton in trouble, mind you, just erotica, at the federal level. We forget what made us think of this – probably something we misheard and then decided to turn it into a missive – but there you have it, folks. Federal Erotica. Coming to a concert venue near you!***Speaking of parades, which we were, then weren’t, and are again, we couldn’t help but notice some of the “Let’s Do Something Other Than Bikes” entrants in the Breckenridge parade. Overheard: “Look at those kids, dressed up as beer cans! How horrible! How Fourth of July!”Correcting: Those aren’t beer cans; they’re space rockets.Overheard: “Well, what about that woman running around with that … that … red-tipped thing!”Correcting: Paintbrush. Calm down; paintbrush.Overheard: “And what about that green leafy thing? What do you call that, huh, huh, huh?”We’ll leave it to our creative readers to determine what it might have been. At that point, we’d had enough and wanted to douse our face in a snowcone.***We’re out, trying our dandiest to put a git-up in our macaroni. Over and out!
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