Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Thursday, December 18, 2008
The new defibrillators restart the heart and uncover the lies, as well. You can't expect to suffer a heart malady and conceal an untruth any longer. The World War II era Germans considered -- briefly -- world domination of breakfast foods, almost naming their secret police the Waffles S.S. Pancakes everywhere shivered in their griddles, but for a typo, some shivered in their girdles, some women found petrified toastcakes in their bloomers. Lord forbid a greater typo -- the girdle cake -- but why not offer shortstacks in the stacks? Pancakes amidst the musty volumes, as it were, if only our librarian entrepreneurs showed some spine. Why is it such a big deal to sell a seat, I've sold a chair, I've bought a chair, I'm a chairman, in that I seat myself, I chair, I prefer to swivel or recline. A charwoman, on the other hand, cleans the flue, proving that there's a fine line between sitting and dirty politics, Mr. Blog Goy of Itch, Mr. Income Bent. Cherub dub dub, three angels in a tub, or rhymes you'll never hear again, and never did. Saying "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" is like saying "The Grime of the Ancient Grammarian" or "The Lime of the Ancient Librarian." Speaking of which, Citrus is the greatest marketing device since The Great Diversification. I mean, GM, Ford, and Chrysler have been selling Lemons, successfully, for years. Barnum & Bailey considered -- briefly -- running a Citrus instead of a Circus, no rings but rinds, instead, causing Lion Tamers and Loin Teamsters, alike, to shiver in their bouts. With regard to bouts, had the Poultry rumbled with the Samoyeds, you'd've then had the Chickens on the Spitz, whereas true Hybridity is an inebriated wedded woman, a wet dame, so to squeak.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Awful can be Awe Full while Offal is a Circuit, as in a Troupe of Performers from Lesser Bulgaria who lament the virtues of Cowguts au Poivre. Bulgarian officials once pontificated a national name change from "BOOL-gary-UH" to "Pineapple" and a national anthem, hence, that began, "O Pineapple / I opine for thee / I pine for thee / O Pineapple." Emergencies may include Deprivations but are not limited to the Extremities and do not, in general, require Handsaws and Clobber Mallets, unless the Emergency is related to a Derailment, in which case, everyone should don his or her Clobber Mallet, and speak his or her mind without any inhibitions. I was last struck by a Clobber Mallet in the Millennium, and by "struck", I mean moved, physically, by skid steer loader. Back in the days, that is, when a little Despair used to be good for you. "I'm prescribing a little Despair," the doctor would say, whilst scribbling furiously in his Rx pad, then the patient trooped across the boulevard to Woolworth's and sucked down a few Eggcreams while the pharmacy fulfilled the prescription: A Little Despair Twice Daily Take with Bonbons or Dilly Creme. According to legend, Isaac wanted to beget a son named Isau because he believed in Tradition, namely, that the name-bearer would saw, proudly, himself, rather than be Esau, who would saw electronically, on the Internet. Instead of begot, Isaac forgot, and begat a spat with Jacob, who ate the pottage and minded the cottage, until he was cot age, and slept in the Mudroom. "Du tout," say the French. "Do toot," say the Dealers. Which is a Circuit, as in a Troupe of Performers from Lesser Bulgaria. For all we know Confusion may be our salve, and the associated religion, Confusionism, may be benevolent. Desireable, even, in an auto-erotic kind of way, you know, the arousal we all feel at the sight of the Clunker, the combustion of the petroleum. It is Aweful if it is Offal, it is Awe Full if it is Awful, it is Offal if the light dawns on the nation-state of Pineapple, and its armed forces, sporting Hawai'ian Pizzas on their Epaulets, storm the Taverns, the Caverns, the Houses of Multigrain Toast Cakes.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
When the Deer Tick bit the Heretic in the Arctic, it was the Deer Tick that suffered a chilly Apostasy. The Heretic, meantime, applied an Epoxy to his Piety, his devotion, that is, to baked dishes which feature savoury ingredients. To cure its economic ills the U.S. Government ought to encourage more Savouring, hugging one's self, in essence, whilst beaming a beatific smile. Left alone, Demand Side Economics will default to the Ultimatums of Old Tomatoes. The Seventh Day Dentists believe in the filling of cavities, offshore drilling, and looting the billfold -- on Sundays. The Great Gingiva, himself, awards the highest honour, the Plaque of the Holy Molar, to that Seventh Day Dentist who seeks the Lucrative Path to the Wisdom Teeth. The earth, meanwhile, faces not only The Greenhouse Effect, but the loss of its vast and valuable Carbonated Waters. These waters have gone flat in recent years, threatening our Soft Drink, beloved Cola, thereby imperiling all Cost Of Living Adjustments. Households may have to switch to Hard Drinks, instead, nails in a bucket of water, or Graceless Drinks, abusers of which often end up in the hospital, in The Awk Ward. Skeptical? Consider the case of the "escort" who received no formal training before going on that first call. A real Layperson, as it were. "Next!" shouts the Clerk. "Next!" shouts the Cleric. For these are the days that fjord the very trickle.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
The Swede sets out everyday at sunbreak, dressed in blue, in his turtleneck diamond pattern sweater. Nobody ever says "good morning" or "nice axe" or "your postmodern haircut." No, The Swede departs in a silence so Swedish it is Appalachian. To be Swedish is to be sugary-like, to be Sweetish. The Swede takes a nip from his Ass Pocket of Stockholm Glögg and commences to chop. The Swede chops This and The Swede chops That. To be a Swede is to chop, afterall, the wind does he chop and the water, too, in Sweden is a hard, heavy water, in need of regular chopping to effect a kind of order, oh, the chop of the Briny. At times, every Swede faces a band of marrauding foresters who attempt to yank his blue underoos out from beneath his blue trousers, and those Swedes caught in that kind of malevolent horseplay must then live in The Northern Land of the Wedgie, in that, they become Norwegian. That doesn't really happen so much anymore as most Norwegians are a stoic group. At the end of the day, The Swede mutters a time-tested, focus group-tested, market-tested joke that he calls his Nordic joke: "I am Finnished," he says, followed by, "heh heh heh." He has, by then, axed himself and his clan a varmint that he places, each day, in a fresh paper sack, folks, a fresh paper sack. He then walks the sad, isolated, chilly road that leads to the traditional Swedish ski lodge betwixt a spray of spruce pines. It is amazing, thus, in those sub-Arctic moments, with snow weighing down the land, that the woman, in blue top and mini-skirt, comes out of doors, leading the traditional eight Swedish children. We can never see The Swede in that instant, for every such Swede is turned away from the Swedish folk artist who accompanies him home each evening, but that Swede does wield "a searching pride" as he does wield his paper sack: "This life," he thinks. "This varmint. This axe. This Sweden!"
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Do you think that Basques ever made Bisques? I know this: Had they ever cooked a jiffy pancake they'd've called the mix BasQuick. If you've been hearing the same goat again and again, then clearly you need Bas Relief. Speaking of which, it may come to pass that all Americans will soon be eligible for Relief. Defined, to each, in his or her own way, of course. Some of us may need money kind of relief; some of us may need spell-you kind of relief; yet others will wish to enter An Era of Regularity, no doubt. Kind of like The Era of Good Feelings except I'd characterize the Feelings as, well, "dependable" and "right on schedule" as opposed to "amicable" and "of orotund fraternization". Keep Dreaming. i.e., That bus is always late. Never not. In the meantime, we'll have to consider the Current State of American Signage versus The Signage That Could Be. For instance, I'd like many signs erected that might warn: Imminent Risk of Dumbass. Or: Imminent Risk, Dumbass. Instead, all we're told is, "It's a quarter mile to the next McNugget", that famous be-breaded Scottish chicken chunk.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Sunday, September 21, 2008
The rate of surplus value divided by a thirty ought six continued to result in Lunchmeats. There will be, Fellow Citizens, some day, a National Museum of the American Lunchmeats, which will feature papier mache replicas of submarine and other nautical sandwiches. According to the bloated blue mimeograph that the young worshipper relied upon for restroom reading, one should pray to one's guardian angel to help free daddy's skid steer loader from the water table. The cool dew lubricated the deep grass, and that's when the attentional difficulties came on, Religion, Venison, Religion, Venison, although reverence toward one typically resulted in plenty of the other. The neighbor threatened to power up his scraper box. Those were dimestore, jokestore antlers, they had been stapled to the buck's head, if only it were a buck, if only there were carbohydrates, then the opportunity for a bipartisan BBQ may have fruitionated. The Cosmonaut endured his epigastric difficulties because he re-galled the epigastric difficulties of his Cossack forebears and the types of Caucasic Distress they had overcome, and this exercise resulted in the type of Orbital Weightlessness never possible at Dairy Queen or during a snackchips felony. Lunchmeats is a reward system though in the wrong hands Lunchmeats can be a false summit. Consider the DSM-IV Manual of psychiatric diagnoses: no. 823.09 -- Lunchmeats Disorder, Moderate. Symptoms include speaking to Lunchmeats in frank, rational tones, demanding to know what became of Youth. "Give me some answers," the sufferer can be heard to say, whilst harrying an English muffin. The hurricane remnants came through for half an hour. The worshipper's daddy and the neighbor stood there, hands on hips, lamenting how hurricane remnants whuddn't what they used to be. The neighbor powered up his scraper box. The game animal came out of the woods, then -- shoot, it could've been the Duchesser Windsor, but it was Fourth and 2, and Coach was sending out the taxi squad, or so said the Television Set, Religion, Venison, Religion, Venison.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Remnants are a loom product and Remnants are the exhaust of a dead storm and Remnants are the hours we typically devote to anxious pontifications or subdued debauchery. Doctors have performed the first Beatific Smile Transplant in history by removing the Beatific Smile from the Arse of a Mr. [censored], and attaching it, bravely, to another man's countenance, thereby restoring Beatific Smile to a second Mr. [censored], who'd suffered Loss of Beatitude. Ah, the tilt of the beret. The receipt of cultural information. It must be Academe, you know, written exams, oral exams, digital exams. Did a dog once Retrieve the entire land mass of Labrador? Rote chores or wrote choirs. To fool the I, to fool the Oeil, trump, trompe, chump, chomp. To attain the rank of Middle Manager is to develop skill sets in correlation with long term goals, or, how to serve that lunchmeat, Inertia, with a side order of Props. Habitat is where your Habit is At. Don't be all, like, up in my face with this "Boers 'n' the Commuter Rail" nonsense because I espied those wild Boers, and heard their "kookete kookete kookete" who says "kookete kookete kookete" anyhow or were those the blooming railroad wheels bracketing toward the municipality of Halethorpe and its adult video landfill? Oh, Sameness of Waterfront Errants, Oh, Every Culture and Its Gravy, Oh, Whap Whap Kneady Jones. To "Whopper the Colonel" is to deliver, yes, a Flame Broiled Burger to a ranking officer, and to deliver a Bent Truth, i.e., Angled Artifice the size of, say, a Dirigable, to a ranking officer, kookete kookete kookete.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
I'd vote for Hoss but not for Haas. I ain't electing nobody who got no splotch on they billboard. That there is a SPLOTCH or my name ain't kicked around the paint factory. I don't keer if his ealdormen fought with that dumbass at Essex. He can color himself blue and run around the woods all he wants, I don't keer. I have a convection to make. I told my priest that I have a confection to make. That's not true. I ain't got no priest. I don't have no busfare, yes, I have no milk money. The big spiders hide in the banana bunches. The banana bunches travel, coach class, on banana boats. Hence, by the transitive property of mathematics, the confession was a perjury, per the jury's instrumentation. Ever heard the Jury Quartet and their new single, "Guilty, Guilty, Guilty, Guilty-y-y-y-y?" It's pretty bad, actually, it's a "tet" offensive. Okay, kay, kay. A member of the elite border policemen stops a car on the Italian/Austrian border but it could be anywhere, kay?, anywhere. He asks the driver to unlock the trunk, which is standard procedure. A search of the trunk reveals an enormous pumpkin. "Vass ees thees?" he stammers, "Vass ees thees?" That's the question. Now, choose the correct answer: (a) The policeman as the "avant gourd" (b) For shame: Manwich is a Meal but a pumpkin's a SQUASH. Drizzle that vinaigrette on your little grape tomato, little cherry tomato confab, Hoss.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Odor in America. It's not just funk, it's a ritual, a Rite. A right protected by the constitution. Men wearing mirrored glasses and three piece suits can eat submarine sandwiches, wrote the Founders, and bear arms, even as they expose they stinky armpits -- they Flounders -- in the process. Bearing arms is kind of like doing the hokey pokey, kind of like a potluck, in Marianna, Fla., a little Fish Fry, which is healthfoods, by the way, specially if said Fry is held at a place of worship. Eat a little sole, to save your soul. Eat a little sardine if you dig The Dumb Animal. But don't eat no smelts, if you are what you eat. Else, you might smelts, bad, so sayeth Leviticus: As in Foundry as in funk (20:20). Hint: don't bring that Strange Odor before the Lord lest the Lord smite you. On the Q.T., backchannel, we all know that the Lord gets a little loosy goosy, in that regard. He digs his Smote Salmon, with a little Garden of Eden cream cheese, on a Deuteronomy Bagel. Speaking of which: Dude, where's my Economy? Didn't we, like, hand Dubya a Surplus? Some will pull the lever for the McCain / Abel ticket, and if McCain / Abel win, I hope they Do the Rite Thing. O, Do Rite, I want to tell them: ODoRite. We'll need it: Odorite.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Let's face it: We can control our climate but not our primate. Adulterers are those who criminally impersonate adults. I send you my (r)egrets because I'd rather you be visited by a seafowl. Depressed about protocol? Take your antideprecedents. The British have it right: Their raincoats, the way they talk. The Scot took a doomp. A brick layer is a mason in the trowel-wielding sense, that is, one who specializes in the "escapades" (and ice capades) of sunbaked or kiln-fired clay products. Perversely, a marine layer is not an individual who specializes in the urges of our fighting men but a cloud pattern blown (ahem) ashore from the see the holey see. To be swayed by suede is to stand in deference to indifference. A summands is a noun; derives from summa; a term in a summation. An addenda to an agenda. What kind of society debates the availability of "free condoms" when it won't offer free condiments? Us and our low carburator diets. Our liens and our leotards. Our neins and our neo-tards. God Bless the Good Ol' United States of Corporation! (Lo-o-o-o-o mein!)
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Scene 1: Alleyway. Muggy night, post-thunder, pre-cool. Ferocious mewing and metal garbage can overturned. Screeches of pain. Pain of screech. The ill wind of an evil moan and garbage can overturned, spill of bottles and spin of tops. The kind of calm, then, ensuing, that chills the very steel of steely, the very iron of irony. You: Urban ooh-ooh. Your wingtips and your vegetarianism and your vote, chump. Fighting, you aver. It should be broken up, says you. The poor beasts, in an environment devoid of regulation. Policies, you say. You thump your fist into your palm. Policies and enforcement. The leonine brutality. The Modern Age. The Lesson: Yam, slam, oop bop sh'bam. Sexy kittens. Scene 2: Fishing hole, central time, Panhandle, a starter storm that is here, that is there. Piercing shriek mid-tree, fanning of tail, and squonk. Shocking squonk and shriek climbing in thunder-light summands. The fear of the fish in the fishing hole, the fear of the hole, itself. The horror of blood beating the eardrum. "Salt Peanuts," goes them ears. "Salt Peanuts. Salt Peanuts." You: Food Jr., batter the cinderblocks, bulk chaw, yeahright. Up there, says you, where the limbs ramify, re-ramify, and play the trades. The love the peacock feels for the peahen. That the peahen would accept the peacock's tailfan and not criticize his stature in the larger peafowl taxonomy. The love, says you, that awaits us all. The Lesson: Oop bop sh'bam, a goo goo mop. Scene 3: The beasts about us. They covet curve of hindquarter. They covet wisp of arsefeather. They struggle and they mate. What greater perversion, then, that the human would prefer a snack chip? The glue that secures the bag. The tinny struggle to liberate the Dorito. The cheesy crunch. Whilst the television promotes acts of competition. Note: This entry posted from breezy Carlsbad, Calif., underneath the baobab, underneath the watchful eye of the hawk, beside the restless, relentless Pacific, a goo goo mop.
Monday, July 7, 2008
I once drew the Éire of the Irish eyer. She: none other than [censored] who lectured me in languages at an institution of lower learning. She bade me translate and I did: Some fat dude, I said, alofted his sword and noted that he had the Norse pinned between the Irish cliffs -- as spare and severe as the face of [censored] -- AHEM! -- and the Hard Rock Cafe. But the Viking leader appealed to the furnace of the fat dude's fairness and the fat dude allowed the Vikings to stew until Tide Subside, so there could be a fight. "Salami," he yelled, which meant Discount Carpet, Hello, and Family Values, in one word. It evolved towards, or from, the Hebrew "Shalom" and towards or from the call to supper, known as Salami Aleikum. Well, I went on, the tide subsided and the Vikings climbed toward the English King, there, at Essexshire-on-Schrod, he hadn't moved, and his arm -- alofting the sword -- was mighty taxed. His name! demanded [censored]. Uh, I said: Ruddy the Reddy? Unruddy the Unreddy? [censored] held aloft her yardstick and crashed it whapwhap on me knucklebacks.
The Vikings plundered Booty, and plundered Booty, for there were two kinds of Booty: the Onion, and -- That's not in the text, shouted [censored] and brought down the whapwhap. Some Brits painted themselves blue a while, whereas the Vikings rarely felt depressed, for they had carried aboard boxes of Uncle Abe's Sardine Kit and Uncle Abe's Venison Kit. The Vikings returned to Denmark, and emigrated, eventually, to Minnesota, where the Venison Kit finally made sense. Meantime, descendents of the descent of the decent few who'd been beheaded at the behest of the King Viking, formed a support group. They met to discuss fears of canoes and assorted dugouts, the panic they felt at the slightest butter knife "quickly dipt" into oleo. Well, I said, that's about it, except the part where they cook Brown Sauce for the priest, I think his name was Buckle, Mickey Buckle. Bra-VO, said [censored] in a way that made me think of Seagrams, second, and bosoms, first. She served tea and animal crackers. Handed me an "A" and a "Minus." She said: Sum assembly rechoired.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Friday, June 6, 2008
Out in Montgomery County, Md., as the crow flies, cries, and pries, one can find two entire Worlds: Leisure World and Privacy World. They are, as it were, housing developments, the former for Senior Cits and the Latter for Private Cits. There are no other Cits. You are either Senior or Private. I will now wait a minute while you choose sides. [Pause.] Thank you. Now, there has been arranged an Olympiad between the two developments, which abut one another along Georgia and Connecticut Avenues, in the sprawling 'burbs and 'burps. There will be competitions, specifically, in Leisure and in Privacy. Residents of Leisure World are expected to excel at Leisure, and acey-ducey, in that the residents of Privacy World are expected to excel at Privacy. There was talk of a hybrid Leisure-Privacy Decathalon, but negotiations stalled and then coffee cake and coffee were served. Coffee was chosen because it was Healthfoods. But it was also chosen because it can be both Leisure and Privacy. Coffee cake is not Healthfoods, however, and it is not Privacy. Coffee cake is 100 percent Leisure, folks, and controversy will always dog Leisure until The End. Did you hear the one about Leisure and Privacy? Okay: Leisure took legal action in order to communicate more effectively with Privacy. It was Leisure's suit to write to Privacy. [Ba-doom tish.] John McEnroe: Please: The last name of the No. 3 ranked men's tennis player is not pronounced JOCK-of-Itch, it is JOKE-O-vitch. Not JOCK-of-Itch, like the man, JOCK, is the son of Itch, eh, John McEnroe? Have you hugged a Slav today? Huh, John McEnroe, have you hugged a Slav? Please rise, turn to your left, and hug the nearest Slav. Thank you and: [Eggseunt.]
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Friday, May 23, 2008
Saturday, May 17, 2008
If you bring strange fire before the Lord, the Lord may (1) raise your rent, or (2) smite you with Vibrato. "Well, pickle my herring," I say. I say, Vibrato derives from the Latin, "Vibratus," which is translated, literally, as the Rabbit that eludes the Snow Cat. There was, too, apparently, a man named Vibratus, and he wrote, and his writings, known as The Collected Sheathes of Vibratus, featuring such works as "Acey Ducey" and "Vicey Versey," were very powerful, according to Thucydides, and he was, Vibratus, thus appointed Vibrator of the Lower Duchies. There is, to this day, a Vibrator of the Lower Duchies, and his role, though largely ceremonial, is, according to the Chinese Instruction Manual, "to achieve Vibrato in a calm and confident manner, such as would lead people to pronouncements of personal discovery -- that, or lead them to drum madly in the woods." And then, read the Postcolonial novel, "The English came."
There are big kids who live in Hershey, Penna., as well as little kids who live in Hershey, Penna. -- you know, Hershey Squirts. It means either "Buttocks" or "choking the Coach" when a Corporation acts. Where else would the violinist live, but in Upper Caucasia? You may apply a poultice to yourself or you may apply a poultice to poultry or you may apply a poultry to yourself or you might apply for a job at the Great Pince Nez / Nez Perce Susurrus of 2008. Someplace in this country, a man who wields some power is demanding his Bib. It is furthermore conceivable that a man named Posey is fetching that Bib. "Posey," says the former, "bring me my Bib!" At the end of the workaday, people ride conveyances toward destinations, with their iPods and their Debt. Call it "The Sum of the Songs at Nightfall." We have, collectively, set our Vibrato on Vibrate. Is it the Funeral for our excess Qualities? Or the Qualities of our excess Funeral?
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
The fact is, Trees do talk, even if they do it chemically. "For the record," they say: "Fetish ain't no river in Serbia though Fettoosh is a salad in Syria." But Salads, Folks, are Trees, like it or not, and those Trees are talking a lot of gibberish about Toe Jam and Futbol Scores, etc., that the Syrians swallow when they eat they Fettoosh. And by Syrians, I mean Syria, Ohio, eh? The Trees, moreover, predicted that the Cavaliers would defeat the Celtics in 6 games, but Superdelegates would award the series, anyway, to Boston. Okay. Kay. Kay. Kay. A Tree and a Rabbi walk into a Lumberyard. Or is it a Tree and a Rabbit walk into a Lumbaryard? A Priest and Poplar? A Debutante and a Doppler? Lots of talk about "Eras" in Our Great Nation. We live in The Associative Era, no matter what, meaning that you cannot, repeat: cannot, even sit next to someone in a waiting room without being blamed for their Obese Cultural Value Set. Consider that the next time you sit beside an Elm, a Sugar Maple, a Hickory, a Ficus, or a Fettoosh.
Do you think that, when he wrote, "Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill," Shakespeare was thinking of a classic hard-on? It's poetry, Yo, so it has millions of possible interpretations. Mine is, the Bard had a (massive) morning woody whilst staying in his lodge at Birnam, i.e., "Great Birnam wood," and had to otherwise depart immediately with Mrs. Bard "to high Dunsinane hill," and thus, the whole experience served as an inspiration for his famous, and lethal, Scottish play, MacBeth. Don't listen to your English proffs. The F do they know, anyhow? (That's a pun, folks.) I'm not much of an actor -- I do play a small role in National Geographic's RAT GENIUS -- but it's not a recurring role and I have not, Ahem, seen any royalties yet -- but I do hear that actors are loath to participate in a staging of MacBeth, because, apparently, the play is cursed. I think that a Japanese film company should produce Hamlet vs. MacBeth. In it, I would expect MacBeth to kick Hamlet's ass, even though Tokyo and outlying Prefectures would be devastated in the struggle. "Domo!"
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
If it's a pump, it's a sump pump. Why sump pump? Because it's pumpin' sumpin'. You could address the pump directly, "S'up pump?" Or: "Whattya sumpin', Pumpin'?" A pump is a heel and you are a pump. And by that, I mean "you" -- not you. Why do you always think it's you when I say, "You?" There is an increase in people getting hit by more animals falling out of trees than ever before. There is an increase in trains approaching more dysfunctional depots than ever before or other versions of the underworld. There is an increase in Taco Bell orders at the Wendy's drive-thru. So, what is de-creasing, you ask? Beside wash 'n' wear pleats and furrowed brows, it ain't much, Meshach-a-belly. Everything else is good and creased. I mean, look no farther than the tomatillo, the wasp, the bannister, the canister, and the purple martin. Eh? Add that to the rainfall totals and the result is: The deficits are so ridiculous, they become imaginary.
Imagine the imaginary. It ain't so easy, ain't it? Somewhere in the panhandle of Fla., is a man named Joe Shores, who once told a good ol' boy to go knocking door to door, and to say that "Joe Shores sent me." Sent you to do what? "Odd jobs." You can say that again. "'Scuse me?" All righty. "Huh?" All righty. If a Good Ol' Boy is a GOB then a man who defeats him is a GOB Stopper. I, personally, have many complaints about stoppers, eh? My landlady stole the stopper to the bathtub for instance and now I have to use a sock. Consider the shame felt by the sock, which was once a lovely place to glove the foot. Now it stoppers the tub. There are such devices known to mankind as flopper stoppers, dropper stoppers, and proper toppers. What goes where and who goes with who is a mystery to me, and if it ain't no mystery to you, I sure would like to hear from you, whoever you are. I'd call you a heel, and by that, I'd mean to pump you for information. What you got?
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
The Boy with the Broken Heart and the Boy with the Overflowing Heart sit, tables apart, at the Howard Johnson Breakfast Buffet. You can tell who's who by noting which of the two presides over a plate heaping with home fries and ketchup and which of the two presides over a plate of melon cubes and yoghurt. You can tell who's who by noting which of the two has groomed himself a fancy facial hair display and which of the two has allowed his facial hairs to grow unkempt like a weedy lea. There are girls, oh, there are girls. There are hopes, oh, there are hopes. There is bacon, oh, there is bacon. And there are Hearts, oh, there are Hearts. One of these Hearts is Broken and one of these Hearts is Overflowing. The two Boys write poems. They write sheathes of poems. In one of the sheathes, the Heart Overflows. In the other sheath, the Heart Breaks. Perhaps you can guess which of the two Boys wrote which of the two sheathes. Things tend to correspond -- to correlate -- to arrange themselves for devotion -- in these ways.
The Boy with the Broken Heart wins the Pulitzer Prize. Well, not yet, but many years from now, his Collected Sheathes will triumph. He will be easy to spot in a crowd. He will sit in an armchair surrounded by Boys and Girls who wear goatees on their chins and flowers in their hair, respectively. "Whipped cream," he will say, and "My time in Venice," and "Grotesque dreams." Those sitting about him will say, "Ohhh." The Boy with the Broken Heart will be awarded an Endowed Chair at a Prestigious State University. It will be called the Broken Heart Endowed Chair in the Literary Art of Poetry Sheathing, and all will be well in the House of Babel, as they say, in the song. But what of the Boy with the Overflowing Heart? He grows bitter. In his opinion, those who advance in the world of poetry sheathing say the word "F**k" too often and curse the current president. There are no chairs for him, poor soul, cept the ones at HoJo's. As my friend, F. Nouns, would say: "There is a morale to this story." There is another kind of Heart out there. There are many such alternatives. Cultivate one of them. Then sing yr @&*$ing song.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
I had an Aunt Yeti, once. Nobody talked about her much. And her whereabouts were always just a bit too vague for discomfort. In my family, we say the person's first name and then the town where he or she resides. Because everyone is named the same darned name. For example, there's Abe Long Island, Abe Toronto, and Abe California. Abe California really lives on a vegetarian commune in Oregon, but he's always been Abe California -- as in, the man does not have a telephone, or a homing pigeon, or a blow-up doll. And there's another Abe, like, Abe North America, or something, or Abe Daylight Savings Time, or Abe Witness Relocation. Aunt Yeti, on the other hand, was an exception. You didn't have to say Yeti Himalayas or Yeti National Forest, because there was no other Yeti. She was Aunt Yeti. We had all kinds of terrible rhymes that we'd sing, running around the empty lot where we kids used to play that great old game, Missing Link. "Yeti spaghetti," we'd sing, for example. There was talk, for a time, of a Yeti/Teddy ticket, way back in 1980, just before the Miracle on Ice. Yep: Yeti and Ted Kennedy, although it was unclear whether America was ready, at the time, for a woman on the ticket.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
There is a world of difference between Musk and Must. Ask an elephant. He could use the former, in his every day, and he comes charging down, out of the mountains, when he is In Thrall to the latter, and when that happens, all the other elephants scatter -- except one of the gals. Former // Latter. Doesn't that drive you Barmy? Which is not my word. No, I picked it up, like a bad habit, in Charm City. I want to say, "I ride the train." So I will: "I ride the train." There are other men who wish to say, "I ride the bus" or "I ride the twos and fros of my biorhythms" or "I ride the whims of society's thrillseeking" or "I ride the political currents like the wimp I am" or "Somebody stole my milk money" and to them, I would say: Diversify. Chase the Cheese Truck & ride the train. Apply the Musk & ride the whims of society's thrillseeking. And if you can, seek out Robert Mitchum's most celebrated flick, DIP IN ROAD. He played the Dip. The road played itself. Yeeup.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Tom Archia (L) played sax and sang the "Downfall Blues" (R).
According to Gwendolyn Brooks, out there are some folks who "Lurk late" and "Strike straight." While she may not have had jump blues musicians in mind, exactly, (she apparently had in mind "The pool players. // Seven at the Golden Shovel." instead) these are certainly some of the latest lurkers and straightest strikers, ever. Tom Archia, who played with many of the greats, sang the "Downfall Blues," a dirge about the perils of the Drink, then played cool bop & jump horn before there there were appreciated rock 'n' roll musicians, never mind unappreciated rock 'n' roll standouts. In effect, he is the unappreciated of the unappreciated. As was Freddie Mitchell, who comes to mind, too. On his "Sugarfoot Rag" and "Pony Express," it seems as if there's a musician in the back playing his baritone sax "Brooommmp // Brooommmp" in time with the rhythm section. Freddie Mitchell presents a manic horn akin to the (celebrated) excess of Big Jay McNeely, a west coast bar walker and tenor sax R&B man extraordinaire. Mitchell eventually became a cabbie and died in obscurity, whereas these two sides are some of the rockingest music you'll ever hear. Herb Hardesty lurked late behind Fats Domino, and Charlie Singleton lurked late, and a guy named "Dale" lurked late behind Rosco Gordon, who, himself, lurked late by banging the ivories while a whisky-drunk chicken danced atop the piano, and when I say "lurked late," I mean they waited, and waited in the song, until it was time to blow the daylights out of their horns, i.e., time to jump, and they did, "Lurk late" and "Strike straight." Morris Lane, Big Joe Houston, Chuck Higgins, Johnny Sparrow, Tab Smith, Lee Allen, Joe Morris on trumpet, and so forth. Gwendolyn Brooks wrote that her lurkers late did "Sing sin" and were "Thin gin." It's tragic, of course, at the end of her great poem, "We Real Cool," that the pool players -- "We // Jazz June. We // Die soon." -- may perish young, and it's tragic, in real life that raw, brash jump musicians (some of whom died young) never got credit for the social & emotional riot they blew out the bells of their horns. As if they were the "bad kids" in the poem whose anger and rebellion, in effect, were expressed, without compromise, in their music. We need more of that ("raw art") today. It is sorely lacking in our Land of Corporate Sameness. Hoy Hoy.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Should it not be One Drink Minimum // Two Drink Minima? If you've got to tell people that they need to drink three drinks, we've moved beyond what I'd call Standard Practices and into the realm of Problem. The Bard sang of his Cougar: "40 inch bust -- BAHdum -- 40 years old -- BAHdum -- 40 inch waist -- BAHdum -- and a 40 ounce malt liquor in my haaaaands -- she's my 40/40/40/40 gal, and I love her yes I doooooooo." To whit: A particle is here and a particle is there. It is the same particle, simultaneously. A man is here and a man is there. If his alibi doesn't hold up, that is. Try it again. A man is here and a man is there. It doesn't work, does it? "Every rat needs his hole," said an elderly gentleman to me, one day. He was renting a bachelor apartment in my building, even though he was married, and lived with his wife. True, the ceiling had just fallen down on him, but he was cheerful, and that should be a lesson to us all. BAHdum.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Ninety-two plus Ninety-three makes 185 -- perhaps the number of stitches required to close all the wounds on the assistant coach who seated these two -- in chronological order -- on the West Virginnie bench. Get this straight. No. 92 should never, never, never, never, never sit to the left of No. 93. No. 93 could sit to the left of No. 92, but, I mean, that should probably never, never, never, never, never happen, either. What fool stitched the name "Dingle" onto No. 92 and "Berry" on No. 93 and didn't remark to himself -- ha ha, chuckle chuckle -- this would remind our enemies of the twist that one might develop in one's asshairs? Had he given them Nos. 90, say, and 96, this catastrophe could have, could have been averted. But still. Still. The two men (aka 92 & 93) must have considered the possibility of this event. Their teammates and sage coaches must have considered the possiblity. The news media, Lord, the news media. A cheerleader. A cautious fan. Somebody -- one person -- in all of West Virginnie must have seen this one coming. Surely, yes? Or do the Mountaineers require a Compound Noun Coach?
In addition to being the former half of dingle/berry, 92 is: The atomic number of Uranium; the total faces in The Snub Dodecahedron; a figure that runs through the films of Peter Greenaway. In addition to being the latter half of dingle/berry, 93 is: The atomic number of Neptunium; the code for international direct dial phone calls to Afghanistan; the title -- Quatre-vingt-treize -- of a Victor Hugo novel. You may recall 1992 with fondness but you do not, at all, personally, remember 1893. Safe to say that numbers divide us & numbers unite us. Consider, for a moment, the numbers 87 and 36. At first glance, they have nothing in common. The former is considered to be an unlucky number in Cricket, while the latter represents the number of inches in a yard, which is the primary unit of American football. In keeping with football, if No. 87, a Mr. Cody Nutter, on those same W.Va. Mountaineers, stood beside No. 36 on the Urbana Blue Knights, a Mr. Emmanuel Butters, well, then, you'd have Nutter/Butters, a compound noun and snack food upon which all people, Football and Cricket athletes, alike, can agree.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
I once bought a muffin mix that advertised "artificial blueberries." Just what the heck is that, exactly? It's not a blueberry or else it would be a blueberry. It was, I must conclude, a substance made to resemble a blueberry in any number of ways: texture; odour; psycho-emotional hangups. I assume that the antioxidant qualities were simulated, as well. If I was what I ate, then I was artificial blueberry. We, as Consumers, have grown accustomed to / swallow hungrily replicas of our cherished foodstuffs. So much so, there has been a backlash, much in the spirit of TV programming, a countercultural movement that has led to the use of the word, "Real." That same muffin mix now has "real blueberries" -- like that's some big Favor -- and we apparently use "real squirrels" in all our lamps, where artificial squirrels once ruled. To the point where corporations will Reinvent the previous version of a product. You remember how Coke became Classic Coke. It's not going to be long, mark me, before we have Classic Artificial Frog Clocks or Classic Real Rabbit Nightstands.
Just what is the word, Real, though, anymore? Real, as in Quite a Bit. Real, as in Not Hypothetical, as in Verifiable or Proven to Be the Case or Not Made from Air. Real, as in the Informed Choice of Two or More Options. The Squirrelest. The Verifiable Squirrel. Of Squirrels, the Hardcore Squirrel. Which is a fine segue into Politics. We have, for instance, McSurge, on the one hand, versus either Hillarious or Classic Artificial Hope. Americans will have to decide. What kind of decision will it be? Will it have lots of calories or will Taxidermists pause in their work, as the Electoral College votes, this November, while record temperatures encourage the critters to bound and abound? Who's courting the Taxidermist vote, I wonder. O, Taxidermists of Omaha, Nebraska. O Taxidermists of the Lower Forty Eight, What Say Ye? Will we have four more years in the Dark Ages? Will we Knowingly Elect Our Finest Candidate? Shall the Squirrel Illuminate Our Way of Life?
Monday, February 11, 2008
This is Grigsby. He is my colleague at [--censored--], where I toil, in Charm City. He is a Marxist. I know that because he eats everything in my office. He ate my yellow hi-lighter and he ate my stress brain. And that's just last week. This week, I'm missing a set of headphones and my surge suppressor. Grigsby and I don't loiter, the way we used to, in the '60s. Back then, Grigsby walked on hind legs. Chicks dug those pudgy little paws. And his guttural jowls. And his love secrets. In addition to being a Marxist, Grigsby can be a French Bulldog. He favors nuclear power and la préface de la riff. One of his grandparents sniffed Mitterrand's wife's dog's butt and barely escaped the guillotine. Grigsby is very popular, as it were, with the student body. Nevertheless, the administration makes him take a crap on the quad. Sometimes Grigsby and I engage in deep conversations about the future of the world. He is a pessimist and says that the world is flattery than every before. I give him pats that he Ho-Hums, yawn. He sure doesn't Knock my Utz Gourmet Medley. A chip in the hand is worth a Grigsby 'neath the desk. "Awroo!" he snorts. "Awroo."
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
The new penalty for doing 55 in a 40? Arrest & deflation of Hoodie love doll.
It's not enough that the Basket of Goods and Services cost 4.08% more in December, which is up a full 2.00% from the start of last year, but now police are targeting Another Kind of Inflation. Our love dolls. In what has come to be known as "Puffin' em and Cuffin' em," a sting operation from coast to coast has led to the detention, and in some cases, deflation of the dolls, even as these figures have provided a valuable service to American motorists. Designed to Supplement airbags in cars, the love dolls inflate at the minute one car impacts another, offering motorists the illusion of Sex at an otherwise troubling moment. "Or," says an industry spokesman, "the illusion of just about anything. We offer a full array of dolls to represent the spectrum of human possibility: The Just A Friend Doll; The Lead You On Later To Break Your Heart Doll; and The Identity Theft Doll. You'd be surprised at what people would like the illusion of -- while their cars do a cruel, cruel marimba with other automobiles!"
Despite law enforcement efforts to the contrary, Inflation is on the rise. There were more balloons around, for example, in FY 2006 than a any other time in Human History. Lungs are larger and filled to capacity with air and other substances. And egos? Ah, forget about it. Egos, Eggs, and Eggos -- that is, the human "selves," chicken eggs, and commercial frozen waffles -- have swollen, too, and according to some studies, these gains are interrelated. Just as the nooks and crannies of a waffle hold the tender lovely swirls of melted butter and syrup, so does the mind collect, as it were, its grandeur. Just as the mind folds itself over and around its theoretical and emotional ingredients, so does the flipped, stuffed omelette gurgle in the saucepan. Taken to mean "Increase" or "Rise" in the General as well as the Abstract, Inflation is Everywhere and could attain Deity status before long. Until then, should Inflation arrive on your doorstep: take off its boots; give it a glass of scotch; and scratch its freaken Itch.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Terrified Mouse (L-top) Hitches Ride on Vigilant Frog (L-bottom) As It Flees Insane Broasted Chicken (R) with Numerical Tats Top-Hat and Bloodshot Eyes Ensnared in Massive Barbed Wire Trap Set by Rioting Evangelicals (Everywhere) in Wake of Huckabee (4th in Fla.) Admission of Secret Ark & Saw Genetic Poultry Experiments That Resulted in Football Shortages & BLT Dustup
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
The Smithsonian Institution has announced a new folk life initiative. It will be dispatching Lummices to resort towns, in the hopes of capturing, on reel-to-reel, American Administrative Narratives, and the Like. "Don't judge a person by his or her Noise, White or Otherwise," my Forebears stressed. What we could use, instead, are some Broasted Chicken Narratives, and the Like. Such as just W/T/F is a Broasted Chicken? Breasted / Rested / Broiled / Educated / Fluent in Clarinet / Fluent in Mellophone / Tested / Bested / Roasted / Broasted? I feel like I've asked people before, about Broasted Chicken, and I've been answered. In that, I'm having Broasted Chicken Deja Vu. Say this, like a Rap Star: "Greta Garbo-o-o / Brigitte Bardot-t-t." Let's go to a Chock House for some Swamp Gas (!!!)
According to a Russian Scientist we are approaching conditions akin to the Maunder Minimum, a Period that involved Sunspot activity, or the lack thereof, and the return to which may signal a Little Ice Age. Like the one that gripped the world (and gave it The Grippe) a few hundred years ago. I sure as hell hope so. We could use a little Maunder Minimum to counteract our Maximum Dumbass. In fact, our Maximum Dumbass may still defeat the Maunder Minimum. In that case you won't have, let's say, Junior, anymore, but Jumbo. You won't have, say, Hank Williams, Jr., but Hank Williams, Jumbo, or rather, Hank Williams, Jbo. That's as much Noise, in fact, as Healthfoods, All-weather Radials, and Bicameral Legislature, combined. I don't know about you, but I'm praying to the Sunspot Activity. Save us!
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Against the backdrop of a banking scare, in the early 1930s, Franklin Delano Roosevelt asserted his firm belief that the only thing we had to Fear was Fear itself. It was another Time, another Era, as they say. Today, we have many things to Fear, including a shortage of essential condiments. There may be no Mustard for italics; no horseradish for Chiaroscuro; no capers for toilet pranks; no half & half for feelings of inadequacy; and no salad cubes for trigonometry. Many Americans lack Stimulation, to be sure. They feel listless. So so. A little bit of this and a little bit of that. Suction has not worked. Aroma Therapy has not worked as has not worked Art Therapy & Visualization. Deprivation of Celebrity Porn has not worked. The mouse has chewed through the Oleo and Americans could give a damn. The mouse has sniffed the peppermint oil and Americans could give a damn. The mouse has bested the stickytrap and Americans could give a damn. O, for the days of Fear itself. O, to fear sensations. Intuitions. Concepts. Attributes. O, to fear a good, crisp Abstraction, say, as opposed to the green apple flying into the snack bar.
It kicks me in the seat to think of someone being the first to do something. Like, throw a flint at a hazardous material. Or scare the nut out of a squirrel's jaw. Or say something provocative in the middle of the lake. Have you ever seen clouds that slid around like patio doors? Or clouds that looked like sutures after an emergency appendectomy? Or clouds that showed all kinds of favoritism to you-know-who? If I had traveled, I would've missed the man who applied a soft drink as underarm deodorant, I would've missed the Ouija Board talking about tort reform. What if there was (1) a machine; (2) a requirement; (3) a happenstance that, basically, ended up as: Every time one declares his or her candidacy, then one receives an electric shock? At least, then, we'd know a little bitteen about the dedication of our politicians. Look: the weather advisory goes into effect and we purchase all the staples that we otherwise would never purchase: milk, eggs, butter, bread. Still, let's hope said Stimulus succeeds, whatever that means. If not, we'll then hear of Stimuli, a word that sounds like the aftermath of a snakebite.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
It's not enough to say that there is more Information available than ever before because there is more Too Much Information available than ever before, as well. The sign could read Marital Aid, after all, then employ an arrow (that looks, suspiciously, like a marital aid) that points toward Marital Aid, which, apparently, is a town in Canada. I mean, was it named after a natural rock formation? A bend in the river? An asparagus or other Native Healthfoods? But enough, enough, enough. Let's talk Hope. Let's talk Change. Let's talk like Candidates. What does it take to be a Candidate? Well, it takes (1) Money and (2) Vocabulary. The latter often influences the influx of the former. But, I mean, don't stand on the corner, as a Non-Candidate, and say "Hope" or "Change" because you'll get Margarineized by the Society in Which We Live. Yes, Margarine-ized. Which I would define as "Converted into Useless Vegetable Spread," as it were.
If there is a couple out there (read: two people who Make Sweet Sweet Love) in need of a new thrill, try Couples Judo. It hasn't been invented yet but will be, if life is long and the Oleander is listing gently in the Trade Winds. Throw each other. Evade each other. Wound each other. Three useful relationship techniques and a discounted marital aid, of one's choosing, in Old Man Dildo's Factory Outlet. (Is there, I wonder, a Dildo Police Force? Does it say "Dildo Police" on their uniforms? Do Dildo cops wield marital aids when subduing suspects?) But enough, enough, enough. Let's talk Hope. Let's talk Change. Let's talk like Candidates. For the first time in American history a candidate for a major party's nomination may have owned (or still does own) a marital aid. Although it would be improper of me to suggest who that candidate may be. We should see the person, I think, not the gender. The road sign, not the Dildo.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
I've heard of people wanting to be Spanked, but not always Lifted. Also note the Blindfold and (apparent) Electricity and (apparent) Distress. Good Gravy. What will we ask for next? To be Understood? To be Hiccoughed? Is there an Understanding and Hiccoughing Machine out there? Yesterday, in the unoccupied Fourth Floor Men's Room at the Institution where I work, an Automated Toilet flushed, and flushed, and flushed. What ghostly arse was haunting that toilet? What ghostly turd was that toilet flushing again and again, like Sissy-fuss? For eternity. Or, at least, for Wednesday. Maybe it's just the Advance Guard Toilet for Today's Busy Professional: "Always Ready for Your Ass." I bet there are some pregnant women out there who'd want a true Labour Saving Device, huh? Maybe even Tony Blair needs a Labour Saving Device. Fo' shizzle, but we should have a Labour Saving Device Day, shouldn't we? And by that, no, I do not mean that people would reatreat to their bedrooms with Marital Aids in hand. To the contrary, Ladies and Gents.
I have made the acquaintance of one LaShakespeare Jefferson, a Baltimore entrepreneur who Labours all over town, but some days at Penn Station, where he will relieve you of a dollar or two, so you don't have to struggle with the extra weight of those bills all the way home. LaShakespeare dreams of going to Coney Island, to get some Papaya King. And I tell you what. If Shakespeare lived today, he may very well have written King Papaya instead of Lear. It would be a story about a man having to divide up his Hot Dog & Juice Empire among his daughters, and in the process, find True Love. In the end, all the characters don't die, exactly, but grow complacent, due to all the Labour Saving Devices they own. It would be, Thus, a uniquely American tragedy, that would also involve Pizza Hut, Cable News, and dyspepsia. "It burns," King Papaya would say, after eating an Oreo Pizza on the couch during election returns. "How now, Nuncle?" would say the Fool. "Dost thou have Heartburn or Acid Reflux Disease?" There ensues a pause. The pause is everything.