Monday, February 25, 2008

On Accidental Meaning & Numerology

Can nobody count? Lord, strike me blind!

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

Wearing the Lampshade ---- Forever

Squirrels don't just die -- they go to The Big 60-Watt in Omaha

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

When Treats Do Marxists Tempt

"Sit!" "Stare!" "Repeat!"

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

Inflation on the Rise

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.