Pride and Pejorative

I'm so proud, I could privatize myself.

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.

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.

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!)

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.

Battle of Maldon Recital Memoirs

That means you!

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.

To Kick a Mockingbird's Ass

This bad actor is a LARGE part of the pantomime.

Days ago, during a muggy jog up towards the Cathedral, a soldier from D.C. Beaks, a gang of mockingbirds, assaulted me in front of the Australian Embassy, while a uniformed Secret Service officer ate a submarine sandwich. It is true, that I was wearing my gang colors, at the time: A Baltimore Orioles cap. The mockingbird pecked the oriole on my cap, then swooped again, leaving me Twice Pecked, Once from Cleveland. He proceeded to alight in a distant oak, and did what mockingbirds do, he mocked me. He discussed the importance of swing voters in the presidential race, he spoke to me in rusty French, he submitted some poems for publication. Just before I jogged out of earshot, he wondered why it wasn't he, a mockingbird, on the cap, when there are plenty of mimidae in Baltimore, and to boot, the oriole doesn't exactly frighten the blue jay, the tiger, the ranger, etcetera. He didn't say etcetera. He said, "Recession." He said, "Try pissing into a dixie cup during a Category Five Twister." Then his song faded.

A mockingbird could best a Finch, even one that nested in the Atticus. No, a mockingbird is not innocent, not the mockingbird I banged with, while the Nation of Australia did nil, and the Secret Service ate some Subway. Still, I agree with Harper Lee, in noting that a mockingbird should not be killed. To wit, we should kick its ass, instead, if only we could confront the thug where he alights. O, Lord: Why is there perch? There is perch, sayeth the Lord, to remind us of what a serpent is not. Why is there serpent? There is serpent, sayeth the Lord, to administer justice. Justice? What does the serpent know of justice? It knows not, sayeth the Lord. That's the point. O, Lord: I'm confused. Take a seasalt bath, sayeth the Lord. Engage in the utility of lavender. Lord: why didst thine mockingbird assault me? Mine mockingbird, sayeth the Lord, assaulteth even me, that pesky son of a gun, with those dilly wings and that dilly tail. Tis why I createth the hawk, but yesterday I didst espy the mockingbird routing the hawk. We must soaketh the brisket over-night, sayeth the Lord, then leave it beneath the distant oak, for the mockingbird dost judge our fate. Huzzah!

War of the Worlds: A Slavonica

"Lookit yonder subURPS."

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.]