I mean "Obama," dammit.

"Obama," dammit.

I predict that phrase will find itself on Saturday Night Live sometime between now and November.

Yucky.

I came in to talk about my prize in the crackerjack box. My favorite was the whoopee whistle.

The last time I had crackerjack was at a Mets game. These days the prize is usually made out of paper, probably after some lawsuit inspired by some idiot tyke who shoved a whoopie whistle in their eye socket. Lousy safety nazis.

Yeah. And 90% of the goodies in Kinder Surprise eggs have those teeny parts you get to put together (which is what makes them fun and cool) so of course we can't get 'em here. Humph.

I, too, came in to talk about the prizes in the Cracker Jack boxes.

At Christmas, I gave out some big bags of homemade caramel corn (hereafter to be known as Sweet Fancy Moses, I Can't Stop Eating! Caramel Corn), and in a moment of inspiration, I picked out tiny toys, temporary tattoos, and some antique lino type stamps, packed them in pillow packs, stashed the pillow packs inside the partially filled candy bags, and covered 'em with more caramel corn. Voila! Caramel corn with a prize inside!

I was disproportionately proud of that.

I always liked the tattoos best.

I always liked the tattoos best.

There was a kid at the YMCA day camp I went to as a kid who was into the crackerjack tats. Little guy looked like a tiny sailor. Betcha anything he's inked up like crazy these days. I hada similar thing going with the free iron-ons they were giving out at McDonald's one summer. My YMCA t-shirt was plastered with 'em.

In the late seventies, which were my playground years, our slippery and vitriolic principal regaled us with fevered tales of childhood dangers. His favorite among these were:

- The Mad Bomber, who sure as shootin' would one day arrive at our school during recess, call all the children to him (despite the teachers' pleading to return to the classroom), and BLOW US ALL SKY HIGH! The clear implication was that the disobedient little scamps who ignored their teachers deserved their fate.

- The Drug-Crazed Hippies, who lived only to hook little children on The LSD, which they would slip to us in temporary tattoo form. And our unformed little minds would melt and be forever ruined. Or we'd instantly become slobbering drug addicts --- he seemed a little unclear on the outcome.

This, of course, only reinforced in my mind the notion of temporary tattoos as highly desirable --- anything that could make this hollering fool of a fellow so very furious and frightened was A-okay in my book, even at 8 years old.

I remember the drug-crazed hippies! They were going to tempt us with MIckey Mouse acid!

We also had The Guys From New York, who were going to steal your bike. They apparently ran a kid-bike chop shop. I seem to remember that this somehow turned out to be real - it was like a gang thing - but I wouldn't be able to recall the detail.

I gave out some big bags of homemade caramel corn

/connives to get on Elsa's list next year

You never know, it could be a book-smoking pipe. If you're on enough crack, the stories permeate your lungs and go straight to your ticker.

Strangest crackerjack prizes:
-crackpipe
-tiny crackerjack box
-a note that said "sorry try again"
-a note that said "best prize ever!"