Frog & Mouse Flee Broasted Chicken

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

American Administrative Narratives

"We have experienced such Hardships as Steak Tartare."

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!

Without a Stimulus Package . . .

. . . the supply of condiments could plummet to historic levels.

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.

Too Much Information

For travelers in Need? In the Communal sense?

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.

Labour Saving Devices

Thank you, Machine! May I have another?

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.