Monday, July 28, 2008

Ode to Odors

Right next door to Funkin' Donuts.


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

Reverting to Feral Ways

Sugar in the Raw!


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

The Similarity Between Feline and Peafowl and the Snackchip Habits of Us All

Same racket. Different act?


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

Battle of Maldon Recital Memoirs

That means you!


I once drew the √Čire 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.