Wednesday, April 30, 2008

The Worst Things Ever Done

Silly wabbit!

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

"Up, Up, Up, Up -- AAAH!"

The Big Yellow Up Arrow: Sign of a Healthy Universe?

The Dictionary defines "Recession" as an indent, a hairline, a tide, and a greensward where European schoolchildren used to play with rubber balls before a Pogrom. Oh, and there's a word or two about The Economy. In that, it must contract for a while in order to be considered a Recession. For two Quarters, to be exact. Thus, at halftime, with your team, "The Economy," down by 12 points, Yes, then, it's time to float-about the "R" word, especially if, up until then, The Economy has been having a winning season. Speaking of teams, and names -- it might be more fearsome for The Yankees, let's say, to go on the road and face The Recession. Or The Depression. Or The Dustbowl. Or The Layoffs. Or The Foreclosure. Or The Rate Cuts. Why do we insist on all these potentially offensive American Indian references -- Braves, Chiefs, Redskins, etc. -- when, instead, The Yankees could lose 3 out of 4 to The Vacancy? Or to The New Deal?

I once knew a guy named Charles Osbourne the 2nd. Or, if you will, C-O-2. He was funny. He was a gas. Although he was Not Noble and he was Not Inert. He always had a fever and threatened to "take" karate. Take it where? I would ask myself. To the movies? To the park? TO THA STREETS? Question: Is it a Fool who is a Dolt or is it a Fool who fools us? Our Great Country of the Ponzi Schemes and Venison Stew. Our Great Country of the Airplane Growling above the Nature Preserve. Our Great Country of the Televised Calisthenics and Cholesterol Mishap(s). Say "perchance" if you must say "perchance." Say "per annum" if you must say "per annum." Say "periodontist" if you've got them nasty molars. Question: Is it a Fool who is a Dolt or is it a Fool who fools us? Answer: Think of a fish. Who is both a Fool (Dolt) and a Fool (Trickster). Note: I said nothing about Politics. That, my friend, is your worried mind re-booting. As well it should.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Oh, There Are Hearts

Commentary: Beware the tongue! when Kissin' the King.

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

The Post-Hoax Era

The head is REAL. The rest is a GAS. Go figure.

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.

I think the funniest possibility regarding the famous 1967 Patterson-Gimlin Film (frame 352 appears above) is that a dude who neither Patterson nor Gimlin knew dressed up like a Sasquatch and ran out in front of the camera. If you subscribe to that possibility, then, no, it wasn't a hoax, because suddenly, out of the forest, strode Aunt Yeti, as far as you knew. This film, by the way, probably inspired the disappointing, yes, disappointing "Blair Witch Project," which was not scary, because you knew it was a film. Had the BWP folks not told us it was a film, then it might've been scary. As a kid, Leonard Nimoy (aka Spock) scared the crap out of me because I didn't know he was a film. When I found out later that Leonard Nimoy was a film, I laughed it off by guzzling a 40 on the back stoop. That's how you celebrate the end of a Hoax: "Like a MAN// with a 40 in yr HAND." (Bumpa bumpa.) Anyhow. Let's get something straight: This era that we're in -- call it what you will -- but I'll call it The Post-Hoax Era -- sucks. We don't have true Hoaxes anymore. We have, what? Shoplifting? Grand Theft Auto? We have Theft. Our Hoaxes, meantime, cry the proud, stiff tears of a dying language.

Wednesday, April 2, 2008

Mit Charlie und Chaplin

"Die Trout swimmen mit die Kraut!"

Und die Doubt in der Bats-in-der-Belfry. In der Belfasten Irisher Cabbagevolk in der Belt und der Fastener inkommen zee Fasten das Lenten. Das Boot! Oh, Das Boot! Neathen sie Atlantikken wheren die Trout swimmen mit die Kraut! Der Krauten toppen dem Sausage. Der Sausage mit der -- HO HO HO! -- die Petzel in der Kavern. Sich dem Tavern wheren der Busten bulgen der Blouse. Der Frau frownen zee Snookums mit der Pepperspray. Iffen die Snookums eaten dem Chocolates den die Snookums givven dem Grossenfarts inder Nacht. Under lachten die Moon. Siden dem Loch Ness Monsteren zooten die Casbah. Zooten dem Sims und die Sins offen der Distance. Und die Dirtydeeds? Oh, dem Dirtydeeds dunder cheep. Dem Dirtydeeds dunder cheepen kommen sie Birden indie Hands und sie Birden indie Bushen. Oh, die Bushen! Die Bushen! Adden zie One und zie Two und getten der Dummkopf!!! Der Kopfen mit der Assenbrains und Acidrains uppen der Bats-in-der-Belfry. Kommen sie Baconfry sizzlenoisen.

Der Max Baer hitten sie Max Schmeling inder Sizzlenoisen und der Schmeling cryout kommen der Baby. Oh, der Baer wearen dem Starren Juden und wearen dem Starren Juden zee Louis, comma, Joe. Swingen sie Louis. Swingen sie Schmeling. Losen sie Louis hurrah hurrah der Schmeling der Schmeling smelling gut kommen sie Rosen. Button sie Louis kommen sie time-und-again. Swingen sie Schmeling. Swingen sie Louis hitten der Schmeling in der Sizzlenoisen und der Schmeling cryout kommen der Baby. Dender Schmeling stuffen dem Knockwurst und dem Bratwurst und dem Wienerschnitzel offen dem Kroger und das Food Lion. Iffen der Lionroar den runnen mit der Brisket offen dem Distance. Iffen dem Lionroar offen dem Distance eaten der Brisket under dem Oleander mit der Sweatheart und zie Saltenpepper und lissen die Wolfgang, die Amadeus. Den joiner das Deutschers kommen der flushentoilet und crappen der Deuce. Tuggen sie Gerbil. Volken sie Yolk. Javol Herr Charlie. Bravo das Nonsense! Das Improv!