BUNS OF (DANIELLE) STEEL.

If you want to submit an application to work at the spice factory, you have to visit Cumin Resources, you chives turkey.

Cold weather rarely affects Andalusia, but when it does, they call it the Brr-Brr of Seville.

The lead singer of the forgettable pop band, Duran Duran, has announced a joint venture with an iconic home cleanser. The new product, Simon Le Bon Ami, will be sold in the music aisle (under “American Mafia to Amish Mafia”) and the housewares aisle, under “Remove Crud.”

Charlton Heston vomited so many times on the set of a famous Roman-era film, the production was almost renamed Ben-Hurl.

If you sit on your buttix [sic] all day long and write several novels with critical reception of “fluffy”, you too can have Buns of (Danielle) Steel.

“Intertextuality. Yeah we had that in the joint. When you longed to have coitus with a fictional character—that was a case of intertextuality. I was very comfortable with my intertextuality.”

“Hey Bro. Did the other Bros steal all the pasta from the sorority house?” “Yeah Bro.” “So they carried out the Penne Raid?” “It was such a Penne Raid!” “Cool Bro.” “You know it Bro.”

Von Bismarck has been kidnapped! It’s grand theft Otto!

Let’s say the most haughty rooster is the cock of the walk, then it follows that the most haughty stir fry chef is the cook of the wok.

Fond of removing earwax at every opportunity, the former Speaker of the House, Tip O’Neill, was known among colleagues as Q-Tip O’Neill, as he often wielded the gavel and the cotton swabs with equal dedication.

You’ve had the sensation that you’ve seen the same witchcraft before, so it’s likely that you experienced Déjà Voo Doo. On the other hand, if you think you’ve simply seen the same old crap before, it’s probably just Déjà vu Doo Doo.

(C)HARM CITY.

An arm thrown around defunct machinery. The prevalence of sorrow, sorrow as common ambience. What stoppages a grid offers, what off-ramps. The pale, sifted orange of afternoon windows. The pale, sifted orange of careful thinking. The same clouds for two weeks. It needs to rain, and it rains, dotty fabric, the rain. Not enough to discredit the integrity of structures, okay okay. A vehicle cannot pass-through another vehicle. A towering support isn’t two, but one. The skin of obedience as opposed to the metastasis of anger. How many ways to beg, “No.” An insinuation of relief despite the full moon of a lamppost aglittering the sidewalk purified by a victim, just leaking blood. And the footsteps, the babble of footsteps in too many directions, to be understood. . . .

TOOTH PICK.

Starring:
Passenger Doe as . . . .  Tooth-Picker

Set:

Commuter Rail

Produced By:  

Blood And Gutstein Films

Running time:

0:30

Advance Praise:

“This film gives you nothing to chew over and everything to brush.” –Crown Town

“You still gotta floss.” –4 out of 5 Dentists

“I saw this movie and masticated immediately!” –Paste Haste

Other Films You Might Enjoy:

Push-Ups

The Hand
Wake Up, Bro!

SONNET (FOR DISSIDENCE).

We are full of anger and decency—the anger of a fragile cliff, and the decency of a broken lock, the circularity of its loneliness. Consider the percentage of news that arrives staticky,

over walkie talkies. A fact happened. I say “eek!” Jokingly! How the hell do you say “eek.” The eek shall inherit the earth? It’s raining on the freight tracks beside the smokestack,

top of which grows a flowering-forth, deciduous beauty, these flowering moments tend to mimic the rugged optimism that might abandon itself in the commercial forays of our

narrow-gauge politics. It’s raining on the freight tracks near Baltimore, outrageous stocky drops, the mineral concept of dollar coins. A departure bell swims around like (grayscale)

fingertips in (lenitive) wind. Later, the upward smudge of the moon playing above the ruckus of chairs arriving, or the upward smudge of the moon playing above the ruckus of

chairs packed off for another destination. What, therefore, cannot be enumerated? The wavelengths of distal objects? Here swerves the leaf-like trajectory of an idea, forgotten,  

the years-in-relevance of a lifespan or redemption-as-industry despite witnesses. A special prosecutor arrives, sweaty and bloated. He receives one (1) office in the basement

beside the Feudalist, one (1) stack of documents, differing in content from that of the Feudalist, and one (1) forehead-mounted flashlight, to enable the examination of fissures

and cleavages. In time, the Feudalist will steal the special prosecutor’s cigar-pinching device. All citizens shall be classified as “essential personnel”, and as such, issued signage

that reads “Break out of the cycle good” and “Break out of the cycle bad.” American deer, in particular, will offer stern topographies of the weather: doe as hotfoot pelt, buck

but for the branch bristling, the leaves bright with water, the shrink-wrap woods. Strip malls adjoin every hardscrabble America, especially districts that foretell a quilt-work of

calamity. The halo of a drive-thru! All these worlds natural, the heaped-up galaxies gleaming amid the despondent wisdom of coherence. (Too many cars rotate like cakes in

glassy buildings.) Man weighs his deficits on the greengrocer’s scale. I’m so stunned—wordplays flail me. I should aspire to be more than a kindly fellow occupying a space

at the denouement of a crisis, eternally sporting greaser attire with “you betcha” scorn. Let’s consider the pastels of soft-spoken resistance, many such kingdoms, borderless. . . .

WORLD OF WHARF RAT.

You can’t imagine the inherent challenges in the new video game, World of Wharf Rat. First, there’s Henry Winkler, who promises you great wealth, but ends up thieving your life savings as part of a Fonzie Scheme. You think back in time, as avatar wharf rat, to a love affair in a British territory, when your partner Left You at the Gibraltar, a figurative Brexit. Penniless (ahem) and loveless (ahem) and needing a tailor (a hem) you slumber on the docks with your best friend, Steve E. Dore, who also joins you in scrapping for meals. The two of you once found some pretty good Maxi Pad Thai, but you don’t limit yourselves to incontinental cuisine. “Mein krampf,” you think, “in mein rumpf, mein trampf stampf of mein Donald Drumpf.” Now you can send emails from the very gasser of your dyspeptic condition—sent from my iBS, reads the automated message.

Day by day in World of Wharf Rat you encounter such shallow, insincere people—you wish each would undergo a glib-otomy. You decide to emulate William Faulkner’s first published short story, and in your version, “Afros for Emily”, a bunch of bushy-haircut dudes reflect upon a southern spinster. Another story comes to mind, “Arose for Homily”, a morality tale about attending church. In your stories, the characters amass lavish lifestyles, and as a generous writer who properly endows your peeps with great wealth, you also oversee the transmission of prickly amorous diseases: these folks are living in The Clap of Luxury. Walking up and down the wharves, you discover a single literary agency—Bald Egalitarian & Assoc.—but its window (boarded) and its signage (toi let) resigns you to pondering your fate afresh. Henry Winkler avatar beckons, Steve E. Dore avatar beckons, Emily avatar of “Afros for Emily” beckons.

“El El,” says a Spanish-speaking avatar, referring to the above-ground subway gusting into place. You may guide the avatar wharf rat in whichever direction you please, pilgrim—El El, barquentines, foodstuffs, Fonzie Schemes, Brexit—but in reality, you’re guiding avatar every last one of us, and the next joystick maneuver matters.

also see: duck rescue

DUCK RESCUE.

Cast:

Seven baby Drakes and Hens. . . . as themselves

Voices of Baltimore. . . . as themselves

Running Time:

25 seconds

Director’s Note:

Thanks to my colleagues for bonding together as Team Duck. Seven baby mallidz (whose mother is thought to have perished) were transported to a nature preserve where they will develop oil glands and become the best drakes and hens they can be. We were proud to give back to the duck community!

Critical Reception:

“This film inherits plenty from Duck Soup. . . . and squanders it all!” —Lucy Goosie

“Two wings up! Mallard valor!” —Fowl Bawl

“Three mallidz in the Tupperware! As they say.” —Pole Tree

Other Animal Shorts You Might Enjoy:

Critter

Tug-O-War

Speaks to the Cat

also see: world ofwharf rat

PHOTO ESSAY: PROUDLY WEARING MY BROTHER'S HAT AFTER THE CAVS ENDED CLEVELAND'S CHAMPIONSHIP DROUGHT.

This hat belonged to my older brother, David, who passed away in 1990. Anybody who knew David knew his obsessions with Cleveland sports. A native of Cleveland, like me, he followed the Browns, the Indians, and the Cavaliers. He bet on them (to win) and suffered (both emotionally and financially!) when they inevitably faltered. David witnessed some crucial near misses, such as the Browns losing in agonizing fashion to the Raiders during the 1980-81 NFL playoffs, not to mention numerous failures versus the Broncos in ensuing years. He didn’t live to witness the Indians dropping a ninth inning lead versus the Marlins in Game Seven of the 1997 World Series, losing the game (and the Series) in the bottom of the 11th inning. Basketball fans, of course, know the LeBron James saga. LeBron carried the Cavs to the 2007 NBA Finals, only to suffer a sweep at the hands of the Spurs, and then, seeking a ring, “took his talents to South Beach”, where he won two rings in four trips to the Finals with the Heat. When he returned to Cleveland, but lost in the NBA Finals to the free-shooting Warriors last year, it seemed as if Cleveland sports might continue to feature some genuinely great players without actually achieving the greatness last demonstrated by Jim Brown and the rest of his Cleveland teammates in 1964, when the Browns upended the heavily favored Colts to clinch the NFL Championship. With the Cavaliers down three games to one in the 2016 Finals, before completing a shock series comeback, still another Cleveland team appeared to have squandered another chance at a title. Yet, with the score tied 89-89 late in the fourth quarter of Game Seven, the Cavs played spectacular team defense, punctuated by LeBron’s muscular, athletic block of a sure Andre Iguodala layup, and produced four points—the final cushion—via Kyrie Irving’s three point shot and one-of-two free throw shooting from LeBron, who’d been injured before going to the line. James’s performance in the series, especially on the road at Golden State for Game Seven, should go down as one of the great performances throughout the history of all North American sports, perhaps Top 10 or Top 5. For Cleveland fans, it was probably The Greatest Performance of All Time, and today, I enjoyed wearing my brother’s hat during walks through Baltimore and Washington. It’s too bad David didn’t live to witness the end of the ‘championship drought’, but it gave me great comfort to remember my brother’s devotion to Cleveland teams, by wearing the only possession of his that I retained. Today, I realized why I’d kept it after all these years.