She's Back, Too
Click here bottom. Elizabeth Kucinich is back. Her husband, Dennis, is running for some office or other, too.
Have you noticed... ... how leftists lionize JFK while "Ask not what your country can do for you," sets their mouths afroth?
Miami Archbishop: Trump is Archie Bunker Without the Charm" The good bishop probably doesnt remember that Archie was written to be a detestable bigot and it irked Norma Lear to no end that viewers generally cheered Archie along while disparaging Meathead at the same time. Mickey Rooney waslk originally slated to be Archie, BTW.
Its nice to know the bishop finds Archie Bunkers acceptance of stereotypes and the behavior that resulted was charming.
Same thing happened with Wall Streets Gordon Gekko. Michael Douglas is irritated to this day that people remember Greed is good more than any other line he had, and that movie-goers generally sided with Gekko.
Historians of Conservatism Stumped By Trump
Trump isnt an across the board conservative. For that matter, neither am I. It is possible that the only true conservative is a chinchilla rancher in Elida, New Mexico, the rest of us, by the grace of Venn diagrams, overlapping enough to form a coherent tribe. Some just overlap more than others.
He's All You Can Stand
I'm convinced Ray Stevens got the inspiration for Guitar-zan from Popsicles/Icicles.
It's where they sing ....
"We love bright stars and guitars and drive-ins on Friday night "
They blurred guitars into 'and,' giving "guitarzand."
Steven's song came out a few years later.
"Whew. Oh, mein Gott!. Did you fart, mein Fuhrer?"
"Fuhrers don't fart."
"Ach! Zen it must haff been me."
"It must haff."
Goodell defends NFLs drop in TV ratings
NFL commissioner Roger Goodell defended the leagues declining TV ratings Sunday, pointing out that 20 of the 30 highest-rated shows in 2017 were NFL games.
Waitin' for the Karma Train
Mother: What you looking at, boy?
Son: I'm watching out for the Karma train, Ma.
Mother: Well, I swan.
Father: There ain't no Karma train, boy.
Son: How else am I gettin' to California, Pa?
Father: You ain't.
Son: But I want to go surfin', and lookin' at
girls in hot pants and high heels!
Father: All them girls say the same thing, boy.
Son: What do they say?
Father: They say, "Yes I do. But not with you."
Mother: Well, I swan.
Understanding Beautiful Women
Jean Harlow would wear disguises to go out and pick up strange guys at night. Her men friends, who feared sure rejection, wouldn't approach her in normal everyday life. So, Harlow married creeps and one beat her enough to cause kidney damage. Jean continued to work in misery until she could no longer. Harlow's mother, a strict Christian Scientist, wouldn't let doctors treat Jean until it was too late to save her.
Remember that the next time you sidle up to a beautiful woman, and she tells you to get the hell away from her, the poor thing.
"Should I be running?"
"You're about to go flying!"
Boomer Top Ten The Hollies - The Air that I Wheeze
Vikki Carr - It Must be Phlegm
Donna Summer - I Feel Lump
Frank Ifield - I Remember Who
Johnny Horton - Withering Pines
Linda Ronstadt - Love is a Robe
Mickey & Sylvia - Love is Strained
Christina Aguilera - Our Day, We'll Gum
Glen Campbell - By the Time I Get to Finish
The Jaynetts- Sally Go Round the Donut Seat
"... so I said, "Fuhrers don't fart." and
she said, "Well, it must have been me.""
Aachoo! I sneezed a sneeze,
a sneeze I snoze,
and blew by tea ride up by doze.
It's a hunka hunka... marble
The 'Elvis sculpture is 2nd Century AD. The Roman Elvis is in fact a genuine marble acroterion - a kind of architectural ornament often found for decoration on the corners of a sarcophagus, a stone tomb or burial chamber.
Pop a what?A trail of popcorn on New Year's Day led Sacramento police to a man wanted on a warrant, authorities said.
"Hey, yo, baby-momma! I be here to pop a corn in yo' ass."
"It's not 'pop a corn' you nappy-headed fool. It's 'pop a cap.'"
"What? Sheeit. It look like most o' the popcorn done fell out anyway."
"Does this mean I'm safe?"
"Until I be stealing some caps, I s'pose so. Get de door, will ya?"
It's just Medicine
Virginia law also made it a crime for doctors to perform the prohibited procedure [partial birth abortion] by mistake. "Alright, Jennifer, push down. Push!"
"Arrrgggh. Ummph. Ooooo."
"Good, that's good. Keep pu.... I see the top of his head!"
"Unhhh. Huugggmmm.... woo woo woo..."
"Okay, Jennifer, I pulling him.... oh my god! I cut the baby into three pieces. How could that happen?"
"I gotta quit sharpening these forceps..."
Embrace Your Masculine Toxicity
Dont touch any women, leave lost kids alone.
Maleness is Mafia; youre Don Corleone.
But its mostly you older guys doomed, as a rule;
The snow-flaky beta males are neutered in school.
It's awful not getting the Prez's words filtered through a press corps of antagonistic attention whores. And before committing their old partisan perfidy, Trump tweets anew and the trolley trundles on. It must drive 'em crazier.
Wendell Weedy Meets a Missionary Wendell washed the scraggy remnants of his comb-over, contemplated if it would be more environmentally sustainable to simply rub a puree of bleached peanut husks into his bald dome and let the paste absorb his dandruff, when he heard the Tibetan mud-chime 'thunk,' heralding unexpected company at his front door.
"Well, this is unexpected," he said redundantly.
The mud-chime impatiently re-thunked.
"I'm coming, I'm coming," He grunted to stuff his alabaster, bony bare feet into a smelly pair of Birkenstock lace-ups, then swept the matches, bong, rolling papers, incense packs, roach clip, and plastic bag of coke-laced Fearless Fresno weed off the coffee table and into a worn hemp backpack he kept by the chia-Buddha..
Wendell squinted in the bright midday light as he swung the front door open. Before him stood two strangers dressed in short sleeve shirts, tie-less young men with earnest, slightly nervous expressions and toting Bibles.
"Are you mister Weedy?" asked one of the missionaries, each a dead ringer for the other.
"Yes. Who are you?"
"I'm Fred Shoeface and we're from the Mono-polytheistic Church of Three-Gods-in-One."
"Uh, okay," said a leery Wendell.
"And we'd like to talk to you about God."
"Why? What's he done now?"
"Uhm, nothing like that," stammered Fred, "Have you accepted Jesus into your life?"
"I gotta tell you, Fred, I'm not keen on taking dead strangers into my life," said Wendell as he began to take the initiative.
"Mister Weedy," lamented the other missionary, "Have you ever been to church?"
"Not if I could help it," said Wendell. "But I do go to Inidels-allowed-in-a-Mosque Day when it comes up. Anyone who is anti-Islam is a bigoted fascist.. Don't you agree?"
"Uhmmmm...." uhmmed Fred.
"Say," Wendell continued, "you're not one of those crazy haters who says Islamists cut off people's heads, run suicide bombers, or are out to kill us, are you?"
"No," said Fred. "I've never said that."
"When?" asked Wendell.
"When did you never say that?"
"I always never said that!" protested the now-defeated Fred.
"Good. Now get off my porch," said Wendell, closing the door and smiling to himself. Confront and push back. Alinsky had it right.
Alphonso's bull-repelling whistle proved to be as ineffective as his idea of getting front row seats was a bad one.
It occurs to me that nobody 'pumps' gas in the literal sense any more. The original metered gasoline dispensers had handles on them. The user worked the handle to literally pump gas up into a glass tube that was calibrated in gallons. The tube was then emptied into the vehicle.
Film footage of Edwardian London discovered
The film was shot in 1904 as a 'travelogue' for Australians curious about life in what was "one of the most exciting cities anywhere", according to Professor Ian Christie.
From the article...
The footage, shot of 35mm film, also shows subtle insights into life such as the way people walked, he added. Do we walk differently now? Where I can see people walking in the film, the guys do seem to have a heel-less gait that conjures up the walking style of Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin. Could it be that those comedic walks were not comedic at all, but the trailing end of a vanishing fashion?
Continuity Now, Binky was a problem chick
who hatched when the lice were low.
She flopped right out of the nest that night;
her mom ne'er saw her go.
So, Binky grew up all free of lice,
a shocking avian fate,
but got back in to the itch of things
with Chip, her lousy mate.
On rainy days when the flock hangs out
to sing of bug and tree,
Binky regales her chirpy pals
with tales they scarce believe.
"There's a way of life -- of lice bereft,"
she tells them, earnestly,
but those infested in the nest
think itching's meant to be.
And thus do most unlikely things
endure to grip the mind.
Our kids shall have our parasites
and theirs they'll have in kind.
"It's A Brand New Car!"
"This is the new Volkswagen, Fuhrer."
"Where is the steering wheel?"
"Mmmm, there seems to be a bug, Fuhrer."
"A Volkswagen bug? Heh heh. Ulric,
take this nitwit out and shoot him."
On Diddle-Gate Somewhere, upstream from culture but down- stream from sexuality, a dam has breached. But if there are no legal repercussions arising, and that looks to be mostly the case, then we only got the haha from the brouhaha.
When the good guys are gunless
"Hold it! Stop right there and drop your weapon!"
"And if I don't, what then, copper?"
"I'll slap you."
"By god, I believe you would!"
Beaver Bites Man To Death
There once was a man from Brest,
who stopped at a buddy's behest
to bother a beaver
with teeth like a cleaver;
the rodent performed its dammedest.
"I had no choice but to shoot him, judge, my wife was in danger."
"Mr Redd, our records show you aren't married."
"Never said I was."
"Are you Mr John Redd, of Hawaii?"
A reliable source tells me that in 2016, a trepanation was performed on Joe Scarborough, wherein they threw away the skull and kept the hole. I have hesitated bringing this up because the skull makes an excellent planter.
| Tweet Me, M'kay?
|TWEET ME: Sunday at Toronto's CN tower, you in green blouse, brown slacks. Me in crotchless spandex leotards. I'm here naked for you.
TWEET ME: I filmed your SUV sinking. You were screaming for help to get your seat belt off. Did I leave without my press pass?
TWEET ME: Foley Square Laundromat. I took your dryer load by mistake. Need the pumps that go with beige pantsuit.
|TWEET ME: Diana Lee from Shawboro. Loved you all my adult life. It's still only you. Now's our time at last. If a woman answers, hang up.
TWEET ME: Online at a gang bang in Peoria. I didn't know she was your sister. Please give me back my stuff.
TWEET ME: Tascosa Drive-In Theater. You were in the white Thunderbird. I was in the Nissan pickup. I WAS PUMPING UP A VOLLEY BALL
In related news, the Collegiate Forum For Naming Things, CFFNT, in light of the term Master being part of the master-slave duality, has rescinded the title Master's Degree.
In future, Master's Degree will be referred to as Bachelor Number Two.
No media agendas in the US, no sir.
Unlike in the United States, where the press is perceived as a watchdog, in Italy it is perceived as driven by political agendas.
So perceiveth the agenda-free New York Times.
Snow White Unchained
It's time to update a cultural classic to reflect a modern mind. Henceforth the 7 dwarves will be known as:
Don't Luddite Get You Down
We'll have our global warming,
it's gonna be the rage.
The benefits are forming
to stall the next ice age.
But, hark, what muffled grousing
the transom overflows,
as climate change arouses
funky festooned foes.
It's a cascade of excresence
to make mankind regress
to living like a peasant
while using less and less.
Crank up the moth-balled factories
and turn the A/C down.
Build nuclear reactors
to light your life and town.
Bart hits puberty
Bart: Dad, I need to borrow your shaver.
Homer: Oh, my boy's growing up! Wait a minute... I don't see any whiskers.
Bart: It's not whiskers. I've got...
Marge: Chest hair. You don't shave that, Bart.
Bart: [Groans] Nooo, ooooh, I've got...
Lisa: Bart's got pubes. Bart's got pubes!
Homer: Pubes? Is that like a water slide? Woo hoo!!
Bart: I wish I'd never been drawn.
At the Auction Auctioneer: Our first item is a pair of panties confiscated from a prostitute.
Quagmire: Fifty bucks.
Auctioneer: She has nine STDs.
Quagmire: Forty-five bucks.
Auctioneer: And when we caught her she wet herself.
Quagmire: Fifty bucks.
"US Muslims struggle with how they Well, bless their hearts. It would be helpful if we are to understand their angst, to personalize the issue or adjust the frame for a more familiar perspective.
should condemn extremism"
Americans struggle with how they should condemn incest. Well, I think I've learned a little something from this exercise, primarily that something inherently evil as beheading innocents, random mass murder, and the premeditated destruction of conquered civilizations, should qualify for condemnation with no moral struggling at all. And to the extent you find it difficult to condemn evil, then that is the extent to which you are complicit and indeed, a facilitator.
Americans in 1941 struggle with how they should condemn the attack on Pearl Harbor.
Americans struggle with how they should condemn slavery. Americans struggle with how they should condemn anti-Muslim genocide.
Is That a Dirty Word? "We learn a new word today, class. Feculence, giving us the adjective feculent. Can anyone use feculent in a sentence?"
"Go ahead, Tyrone."
"Desquilla, I don't care who the feculent my gun to, I want it back."
"Ms Foley, Ms Foley, Tyrone is talking dirty!"
"Very good, Desquilla. That's right. Feculent means dirty."
"No, no, he said...I...uh-ruh...what did you say, Tyrone?"
"I said you best be getting me my gun back, bitch!"
"Ms Foley, Ms Foley!!"
"I hate this job."
Going with the flow
"Little Tilly's a woman now!"
At the Fair
At this summer's fair,
I asked an attendant if,
being at the head of the line at last,
I might ride the next train
of his roller coaster.
Was I sure I wanted to? he asked,
as this ride was known for high
acceleration, breathtaking plunges,
and being impossible to control
Having survived lesser rides,
I assured him I was ready.
He shrugged and laughed
then told me
I had been for some time
in the last car of the already departed train.
It was beyond choosing.
The rest of his words were lost
in exhilaration as I was
ripped out into the starlight.
Crumbling Pompeii Archaeologists and art historians have long complained about the poor upkeep of Pompeii, dogged by lack of investment, mismanagement, litter and looting. Bogus tour guides, illegal parking attendants and stray dogs also plague visitors.
How to tell if your tour guide was bogus.
1. After explaining how Vesuvius rides on a plate, he sold you a six-place setting.
2. He charged extra to see The Forum, calling it The Fivem in devalued dollars.
3. Told you the fresco you heard about was a soft drink, sold you a six-pack.
4. Convinced you the Marina gate was named after Marina Sirtis, Deanna Troi of Star Trek. Sold you a bobble-head Captain Kirk.
5. Told you Via di Nola means Street of New Orleans, Louisiana. Sold you some ancient plastic beads from the Pompeiian Mardi Gras.
6. Told you the placard on that lavish villa, "Aulus Vettius Restitutus," meant "All tour guides get paid here."
Because Farkle Family
.... and the Postman keeps on ringing..
Hangin' with Zeb
Me and Zeb rode God's land
down canyon, mesa, brush,
to mend the lame with healing hand,
to sing of cowboy lust.
Now, one dark night Zeb couldn't see,
stepped off a railroad bridge
but grasped the edge and dangled free,
one tough son of a bitch.
Zeb hung there by his fingertips
'til dirt he saw at morning light
was but an inch below his feet,
which pissed him off so much he hung there the rest of the day, just out of spite.
Post office retreats on eliminating
Rolling, blowing, growing,
keep that junk mail flowing,
though it's landfill going, 'S alright!
Through all kinds of hazard,
sleet and snow and blizzard,
the man's a modern wizard,
you'll be getting junk six days a week!
Tweet Me, Too
|TWEET ME: I held the bus door open for you, got a "fuck you" look. Go up to Canal St, 2 blocks to Riverfront. Turn left to the river. Jump in.
TWEET ME: You were traveling on the down escalator at Macy's. I was throwing up. Great catch. The Cubs need you.
TWEET ME: You had me thrown off the Raleigh Amtrak for flashing you. Met your mom at hobo camp down the line. We're siblings.
TWEET ME: Saw you in the 10/17 The Voice audience. Ugliest woman I've ever seen. We may be related.
|TWEET ME: You wrote my name and number on Port Authority stall walls. You deserve a cut of the profits.
TWEET ME: 38th St subway platform, I flashed you. Will pay to get my cock ring back.
TWEET ME: Cowboys game in the stands, I intercepted your hot dog and instead passed down a joint. Let me help with your bail.
TWEET ME: I whistled at you from my cement truck, you birded me and fell over a fire hydrant. I found your dentures.
Obamacare 101Knock Knock
"Joe sent me."
"Are you a surgeon?"
"Yes, I do."
"I mean, do you do surgery?"
"Yes, I am."
"Do you get referrals from other doctors?"
"Terminal cases, and slow pay."
"Come on in."
"Get on my perch."
"Not without a cracker."
I'm not Buster Brown;
I don't live in a shoe.
But my old pet rooster,
Oh my, such ostracized, scorned, belittled people," Clifford thought, as the drizzling rains washed away his newly-"paved" driveway and rinsed the "paint" off the vinyl siding of his house. He finally turned and walked back inside his home, increasingly concerned that his young daughter had not yet returned from her "date."
Officers saidthey tried to conduct a field sobriety test, but Ingram was nearly too intoxicated to stand.
...and solar powered flashlights work splendidly in the sunshine.
"I'd like to rent a subdued black movie, please."
"How about Shaft?"
"Shaft is subdued?"
"Well, it has a second banana, you know, a sub-dude."
"I keel you."
On naming a frozen world 'Vulcan' Mercury isn't fluid;
Neptune's not so wet;
Uranus isn't brown enough;
You take what you can get.
---certainly not by Dorothy Parker
The Earth Drive-In
Here in our suburban Orion arm,
we watch star-draped archer Sagittarius,
his bow drawn, bolt aimed at the galactic heart.
He hasn't released since firing the arrow
that punched a black hole Downtown.
The back rows of the cosmic drive-in are rustic
but we get some hot smoochies
and a jones for the coming attractions.
Registered sex offender? "Get your hands off me! Help, help!"
"Shhhh. Cool it, baby. You're gonna like this."
"You're just a rapist! Help!"
"It's okay, baby. I'm registered with the state."
"I got papers."
Must-see TV in 2018
Don't miss the finale of Ethiopian Idol, as the last contestant standing, after months of brutal begging for food resulted in death by starvation of one candidate a week, receives a comb.
Muslim Ice Road Truckers
Mohammed finds that taking four prayer breaks a day is killing his load count.
Meanwhile fifty miles north in Tuktoyaktuk, Mohammad realizes that his load consists of two thousand gallons of used grease, primarily melted pig fat. In a fit of porcine repulsion, Mohammad leaves his rig in a huff, gets lost in a white out and freezes to death.
A hundred miles away, tensions mount among Hugh, Polar Bear, and Mohameht over whether Lisa should be required to wear a hijab under her burqa. Lisa resolves the dispute by shooting Mohameht and throwing his body down Atigun pass.
The Courting-by-Snail-Mail Blues I worry each let
from my love to your life,
Impatiently dreaming its flight;
but it's no delicious
tion! there's a soft leaden
tail on this kite
sibly waiting for forever someday
entangled in thickets of how,
I need you
I need you
I need you
I need you
- Our cooks went to Screw U.
- Do you want to fry with that?
- Try our Diet Dog. It's lite without possibility of a roll.
- Your hotdog is free if the cashier doesn't shank you.
- Please count your change carefully. We need time to molest your woman.
- Employees must wipe their shivs before returning to the service line.
- Don't like mustard? No problem.
- Don't like relish? No problem.
- Don't like serial rapists? We got a problem.
- Do not accept hot dogs from server's lap.
as free as hard work blows,
as food stamp Doritos,
as Section 8 condos,
born free to live L'artiste.
in underpass gray days,
with HIV gay ways,
off me and my paydays
Live free, for Ars gratis artis.
It's the climate, ducky.
People are being asked to look out for aeroplane trails, or contrails, which may be contributing to climate change and which can only be recorded by the human eye.
Researchers are also urging schoolchildren to blow bubbles to measure wind speed.---London Telegraph
"Well, I'm off, dear."
"Where to, love?"
"Doing some climate work."
"Blowing vapor trails and looking at bubbles."
"Smoking at the pub with a Guinness again, are we?"
"Oh, damn.. Got that backwards."
"Likely story. Where's your camera?"
"For recording the vapor trails."
"The Met says vapor trails can only be recorded by the human eye."
"Do you think I'm stupid?"
"No, love, just British."
Sanctuary Mulch Across the street at a house for sale,
they've sodded down new turf.
I wish my weeds could be scraped off
and topped with virgin stuff.
But I can't heed the easy deed
of Chem-lawn's siren call,
'cause but for weeds of evergreen,
I'd own no lawn at all.
The Posse In hot pursuit, bent low, we rode mounted,
broke cold mountain sunlight, brittle as glass.
Down wind-scraped desert, burst from
the foothills, 'neath anvil-head hailstorms
that strafed the stiff grass.
But rapier yucca leaves soon blocked the way,
and thorny black greasewood disrupted the chase.
Then fly-swarms and cacti unhinged the horses.
There'd be no rough justice, just us in disgrace.
Intellectual Poverty Raised income levels qualify
more and more as povertized--
We drop the expectations
for their public education
so they become less able
to keep food on the table--
Thereby their income stays, you see,
within the realm of poverty.
A few may still climb out, so then
the limits must be raised again
and schools told to ask less of them
who can't eat self-esteem.
Reach out and push someone away
As someone who was an early adopter but now has fallen off the techno-bus, I can only watch it trundle off into the distance, radical redos of significant improvements of paradigm-shifting upgrades trailing like so many cans strung rear bumper.
Being antisocial has finally paid off, saving me untold amounts of money by simply not caring to be in touch in the least.
A love letter to Obama Obama's my baby daddy;
I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down
and stick my legs in the air:
he admonisheth me to silence. Lo, the walls are thin.
He exploreth my hole:
he leadeth me down the path gardenwise.
Yo, though I walk through the valley
of East St Louis, I will fear no evil;
for thou hast assured me,
"What difference does it make?"
Thou preparest a window table
at Popeye's so mine enemies can envy me;
thou drapest my ears with free telephony.
My EBT card runneth over.
Surely Section 8 and welfare shall follow me
all the days of my life, and thou will drop by my condo until I am 30 and flat-chested.
Nixon, now and forever ....
More than 2,200 hours of tape recordings from the Nixon White House now are available Dig it. The heirs of Warren G Harding have managed to keep his personal papers unavailable.
"The Harding-Phillips love letters remain under an Ohio court protective order that expires in 2023, 100 years after Harding's death, after which the content of the letters may be published or reviewed."
Poor Nixon. He's online but Harding's not dead enough.
First snow What stuff is this? the pony called,
that whites me up to turn me bald,
that tickles, trickles down warm ears?
that rides the wind as cold as fear.
The fence that kept the wolves at bay
I'd faith leap o'er to get away
now binds me here in my alarm.
There's no cold comfort on this farm.
Wee Willie Winkie
Wee Willie Winkie
runs through our town,
up stairs and down stairs
in his night-gown,
tapping at the windows,
crying at the locks,
"Get the kiddies into bed;
it's nigh ten o'clock!"
Once he's feeling certain all the eyes are shut,
Wee Willie rushes home to his quonset hut.
Logging into porn sites, he whiles the night away,
eating Cheetos, whacking Willie 'til the break of day.
And now for the rest of the fable... There was an old woman who lived in a shoe
with so many children she didn't know what to do.
She gave them some broth without any bread,
then whipped them all soundly
and put them to bed.
The children who put up with such shoe-full abuse,
found Child Protection Services a sadist's excuse.
They formed a committee and upstairs they crept,
to her room, where they slit,
her throat while she slept.
Is It Just Me? As I was walkin' up the stairs,
I saw a man who wasn't there.
He wasn't there again today.
Oh, how I wish he'd go away.
But when I am reminded that
my home is but a ground floor flat,
then climbing stairs that don't exist
means face time with my therapist.
J&J v Waterman
Jack and Jill went up the hill
To fetch a pail of water.
Jack fell down and broke his crown
And Jill came tumbling after.
The owner of the well-topped hill,
sued by Jack's HMO,
was asked to tell why he chose to drill
so high, not down below.
The answer wasn't good enough.
The judge ruled drastically.
Now Jack and Jill own all his stuff
Mary, Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With silver bells, and cockle shells,
And pretty maids all in a row.
You see, the reason I'm contrary,
A narc's among my employees.
As soon as those damned maids are gone
We'll smoke some chronic weed.
Was That Wrong? Pease porridge hot, pease porridge cold,
pease porridge in the pot, nine days old.
Toss it in the microwave, ten minutes high,
listen for the pot to crack, smell the porridge fry.
Watch the oven's door blow out, oh the gooey foam.
Won't this be a fun surprise for mom
when she gets home?
Well, What Did You Expect?Hey diddle diddle,
the cat played the fiddle,
the cow jumped over the moon.
The little dog laughed to see such sport,
and the dish ran away with the spoon.
"You rub the wrong way!"
screamed the put-upon spoon,
as the chafing dish fled out the door.
The little dog laughed, crapped on the couch,
and piddled a pond on the floor.
The cat's music stopped on learning that cat gut
gives violin strings their punch.
And the cow came back from circling the moon
vacuum-dried, par-broiled, and lunch.
About that shining city on the hill...
The District of Columbia is a great metaphor.
Washington DC by day is what they promise.
Washington DC by night is what you'll get.
Pope Francis was pelted with a newspaper on Monday before celebrating Mass in Santiago del Chile while driving in his Papa Mobile. Reaction was swift and viral.
When the Iraqi reporter, al-Zaidi, threw shoes at Bush, what was the reaction?
The Lebanese television channel NTV offered a job to al-Zaidi. NTV said that if al-Zaidi accepted the job offer, that he would be paid from the moment the first shoe was thrown
On December 15, 2008, al-Zaidi was given a bravery award by Libyan charity group Wa Attassimou.
Al-Zaidi has also been offered a six-door Mercedes, had a song written about him, had his incident reconstructed in an Afghan comedy sketch, and been the hand of a mans 20-year-old daughter in marriage. The young woman Amal Saad Gumaa said she likes the idea of being attached to a man she finds so honorable.
The Turkish company believed to have made the shoes thrown at Bush, Ramazan Baydan, experienced a surge in sales. Orders for 300,000 pairs were received in one week. A Saudi businessman offered US$10 million to buy the shoes thrown by al-Zaidi.
A book was written on the event called The Last Salute to President Bush.
It is extremely similar to some early birds such as Archaeopteryx, said paleontologist Xing Xu of the Chinese Academy of Sciences, referring to the earliest known bird, which lived 150 million years ago. Its forelimbs were configured like wings. To be honest, I am not sure what function the feathers have, and I dont think that you can completely exclude the possibility that the feathers helped the animal to get in the air. --- New York Post
Please don't export your primitivism Under colonialism, advanced cultures export their governance to relatively primitive societies, gradually bringing them into the modern world. This was found to be exploitative and disrespecful of primitive values.
So we stopped, if not always voluntarily.
Primitive societies generally have proved unable on their own to produce modern culture without colonial masters, but feel they have a right to that culture. Their solution to the problem is to export the people to the governance, illegally if necessary, bringing primitivism's degradation to advanced societies.
It seems better for all concerned if the primitives stayed at home while upgrading to modernity under control of advanced culture. Call it neocolonialism.
Come to think of it, Bush's New Wilsonian dreams of exporting democracy at gunpoint were a step in that direction.
Something has to give. There isn't room in the northern hemisphere for everyone in the southern.
The McLaughlin Group Returns...
Trade California for Alberta? Not a bad idea. Alberta is so frigid in the winter, its replacing California would lower the average national temperature by enough to eliminate the effects of global warming in the US! Plus, Canada could use some warmer climes and it's not like socialist California would stick out.
I'd go even further. Break up Canada. The western provinces, BC, Alberta, Saskatchewan,and Manitoba would become states. Ontario would remain as the nation of Canada, while Quebec and the eastern provinces would become French Canada. Though without transfer payments from Ottawa, provinces like PEI, Nova Scotia, and Newfoundland, maybe even New Brunswick, would become economic basket cases that even the northeastern US states would take a pass on.
Culturally, neighboring US states and their Canadian counterparts have more in common with each other than their east-west orientated populations. Do it, already, eh?
Whenever I chat up Neanderthal chicks,
my Cro-Magnon gonads keep stalling.
It's not a bad lick how her brow is too thick,
but that New Jersey accent's appalling.
Luxury Travel Aboard the Karma Train
"And for your dancing pleasure,
The Doppler Brothers and Rose."
Trump has the retaliatory punch of Nixon,
the loquaciousness of Reagan,
the steel spine of Eisenhower,
and a practical vision never before seen in the White House.
Make Me Your Slav
Well, Ukraine girls really knock me out!
I dig their flat Slav cheeks.
And the Georgian chicks with the way they neck
keep their guys blue-balled for weeks.
I've been all 'round the CIS
but I never thought I'd find
a hot kulak with skin like chalk
blowing Ivan's Russian mind.
I wish they all could be Yugoslavic,
I'd give my yurt for some Upper Baltic,
thank God you're no Mongolian girl!
"I'm headin' out to Illinois, ma."
"Why you be doin' that, boy?"
"Well, ma, they's cuttin' off permanent welfare here like choppin' a rooster's head. I can only support us so much by food stamp resales, check forgery, drug dealin', benefit fraud, muggin', burglary, armed robbery, counterfeitin' and fencin' stolen merchandise."
"Well, I swan. What you gonna do, boy?"
"I don't know, ma. It's not like I have any skills."
"Well, I swan."
That old toxic masculinity
"What are you so aggravated about?"
"I spent over an hour putting on all of my make-up, coordinating my pants and blouse and doing my hair. And l had barely got out the front door when some strange guy harassed me!"
"Wow. What did he do?"
A Reminder To my black readers, this is a reminder that voting is acting white.
"Are you wearing a thong, madam?"
"A traditional one among my people, yes."
"What do you mean?"
"It's a hula hoop festooned with a hemp rope sling."
"What does 'festooned' mean?"
"I don't know."
Which War Wants Winning? By many measures, Afghanistan is falling apart. The Afghan opium crop has flourished in the past two years and now represents 93 percent of the worlds supply, with an estimated street value of $38 billion in 2006. That money helps bankroll an insurgency that is now operating virtually within sight of the capital, Kabul.
To satisfy Western demands that [the opium] supply chain is broken, Afghan farmers have had their entire crops destroyed. Other farmers who voluntarily gave up growing poppies on the promise of financial help to grow other crops say the help never materialised.
Reports have emerged of farmers made destitute by the Wests anti-poppy campaign, who have resorted to selling their children in order to stay financially afloat. The targeting of the poppy fields is widely believed to be a major factor in the popularity of the Taliban insurgency in the south and east.
British troops facing some of the most intense fighting are in Helmand, a major centre of poppy cultivation. [
] Western anti-narcotics agencies have rejected the suggestion of cultivating Afghan opium for medicinal use
Doctors propose using Afghan opium as NHS pain-killer
Evidently, the War on Drugs trumps the War on Terror as the fruits of the former undermine the prosecution of the latter, with the Afghan economy in the crossfire.
The Cell Tower BluesMobile phone masts linked to mysterious spikes in births
Well, I woke up this mornin',
rolled outta bed,
looked at mah honey,
she sat up and said,
"See out the window?
That steel-hard cell mast?
You give me summa dat,
or you've had your last."
I got the cell tower blues.
My woman thinks it's funny
to keep popping crotch fruit
like Energizer bunnies.
We got more kids than sense
and I'm sick to death of balling
but that damned cell phone tower
shows no signs of falling.
I got the cell tower blues,
and don't mind multiplying
but, lord, being fruitful
is getting stupefying.
Abortion for Dummies
So [disgruntled Hillary Clinton supporters] are taking their revenge on people without health care, women who need abortions, and others who they (if they supported Hillary) must think will be harmed by a Republican victory in the fall. --- Michael Kinsley, Time magazine. "And what seems to be the problem, Cynthia?"
"Don't call me Cynthia, Doctor. I don't call you Ramesh."
"Oh, please forgive. What brings you here today, Miss, uh..., Miss Pitcairn?"
"I need an abortion."
"Oh, my. Did your ObGyn say what the risk was?"
"ObGyn? I don't need no ObGyn. I need an abortion."
"Well, Miss Pitcairn, if there is no risk to your health, why don't you give birth and place for adoption?"
"What? Are you crazy? I could start swelling up at any time and Tyrone says he'll move out if I lose my shape."
"Are you worried you won't be able to afford your rent without Tyrone?"
"What? Rent? I live with my mother. Tyrone comes by for meals and booty."
"Is Tyrone the father?"
"What? How the hell should I know? Look, Doc, just do me an abortion."
"I don't do abortions, Miss Pitcairn."
"What? You're discriminating against me! Attica! Attica! Help! He touched me!!"
"I hate this job."
The War We Lost America changed right after the Civil War from saying "The United States are" to "The United States is." The nation's gone from compartmented dirigible to the One Big Gas Bag of blimpery, although it took a while. The shift from can-do to "where's mine?" has been lightning fast yet tectonic in nature.
It's been known for centuries that the downfall of democracy is accomplished when the electorate realizes it has the keys to the treasury, aka the other guy's pocketbook. What we've learned since is that the other guy's credit card gives us not only his money but that of his kids and grandchildren to spend right now.
It feels like we've lost a war and are occupied by a vengeful adversary bent on extracting reparations.
Aye, Poppy ¶And the Lord spake, saying, "Why punisheth thou my vegetation?"
¶And the people said, "Yea, Lord, some guy might get high."
¶And the Lord said, "Is it worth all the caterwauling? We're trying to sleep up here."
¶And the people were sore perplexed...the ones that weren't high, anyway.
Musing Miss Daisy "It's sort of like show and tell," Daisy said dreamily as the sagging shade rode the languorous, torpid breeze slowly back and forth across the dusty window sill.
"How's that?" drawled Leroy, as he feigned interest, although his dwindling attention was mostly spent on the physics of droplet condensation and the slow march of bulbous liquid down the cooled sides of his mint julep glass. Sadly, Leroy's intellectual budget allowed for almost nothing beyond cursory perception. Leroy was a mayfly only held atop the puddle by surface tension and light weight.
"Well," mused Daisy, pleased to have captured a slow- footed nuance and frog-marched it triumphantly home, "Clinton did a pretty job in front of the class with history and Obama has a hard time with geography, and Bush just murders English."
"But all these people have fancy college degrees, Daisy. How can that be?"
"I don't know, Leroy; it just passes me by. When we do get a smart one like, oh, I don't know, Herbert Hoover, he thinks he can save the world. Give me the dumb and the big-picture guy any day: Harding, Coolidge, and prosperity. It's amazing how sometimes nothing can be a real cool hand."
"Damn, Daisy. That's a great idea for a movie," Leroy allowed.
My Hundred-Year Memories
I have a fascination with the flapper's hot skidoo,
the Roaring Twenties captured; Rudy Vallee's talley-hoo.
Through used book stores in many states I've plowed the dusty tomes, snared two hundred plus old prints, lugged rare collections home.
But that was merely starting off: I devoured each one of them
and visualized the mise en scène of Babbitt's life back when.
Ah, Sinclair Lewis, he's the man who brought Main Street to life.
Elmer Gantry, Arrowsmith and Dodsworth --- sharp as knives.
Of course Fitzgerald's Gatsby after Bernice Bobs Her Hair,
was written purely fiction -- but felt like I was there.
Days of Dorothy Parker, Alqonquin's ditsy queen, Round Table regnant over literary scene.
Warren Harding's rise and tragic fall before the swamp of Tea Pot Dome and calumny engulfed his aides-de-camp.
I've read the history many times, was there if truth be told.
Those images are memories: I'm a virtual century old.
Man dies while raping elderly South Texas woman
"Ack! What are you doing?"
"Shut up, old lady."
"Ugh, ung, grunt."
"Unnng, ugh .... "
"Son of a bitch."
Tie a yellow iPad on the old oak tree
I'm coming home with my degree
and I've got to know if my old room's still free.
Living on my own was such a trip,
I got good at smoking dope and acting hip.
But there's no demand for graduates with black lesbo degrees,
so I'm thinking I can sponge off you in this economy.
Oh, tie a yellow iPad on the old oak tree
if I still get room and board rent-free.
Or forget about that and pass the hat to give me some money,
just tie a yellow iPad on the old oak tree.
Now the whole damned bus is quiet
and I can't believe I see ...
...you've sold the place, moved out of state,
the only word to me... an all-caps note,
"THAT'S ALL SHE WROTE," on the old oak tree.
What did you do in the ISIS war, daddy?
I was a suicide bomber, honey.
But youre still alive.
Its harder than it looks.
Buck UpPirates, hackers and suicide bombers,
you're not even safe at home.
They'll come down the intertubes --
snatch all your data, or blow up
your tour group in Rome.
What good is having a Defense Department
with wide open borders and sky?
If the suitcase nukes or swine flu don't getcha,
they'll serve up a new way to die.
So rattle your cage bars, trade 'safety' for freedom,
keep terror from clouding your day.
'Cause just like the cops, fedguv will tell you,
"When it comes down to seconds, we're minutes away!"
Are you in a gay hotel? How to tell if you are in a gay hotel.
1. The desk rings for the ball-boy, not the bell-boy.
2. When they ask if you have a reservation --- about bondage.
3. When something like this is on your room wall ---
Americans eat snow, claims North Korea propaganda video. He'll have a nice filet of crow
washed down with cocoa made from snow
sent here from North Korea.
The DPRK muffin bran
he tries digesting, but in vain
is lost to diarrhea.
You know, what with the F word,
the N word and the C word, were
well on our way to spelling France.
Star Trek creator Gene Roddenberry, in a Free Inquiry magazine interview: We must question the story logic of having an all-knowing, all-powerful God, who creates faulty humans, and then blames them for his own mistakes.
Comedian Bill Hicks: Im sorry if anyone here is Catholic. Im not sorry if you are offended, Im actually sorry. Just the fact that youre Catholic. Gotta be one of the most ludicrous fucking beliefs ever. Like these vampire priests sink their twin fangs of guilt and sin into you as a child and suck your joy of life out of you the rest of your fucking existence.
When I was a kid I used to pray every night for a new bicycle. Then I realized that the Lord doesnt work that way so I stole one and asked Him to forgive me. ~Emo Philips
The theory seems to be that as long as a man is a failure he is one of Gods children, but that as soon as he succeeds he is taken over by the Devil. ~H. L. Mencken
Ocean: A body of water occupying about two-thirds of a world
made for man ---who has no gills. ~Ambrose Bierce
To my hair-on-fire correspondents --
The point of our discussion, from my end of it and before I leave it, is that you are in no more danger at this moment than you have been the last eight years. The shocking thing is how safe you thought you were, not how unsafe you think you are now.
Gimme Dat Job "This interview is being recorded for quality control purposes. Is that acceptable to you, Mr Jackson?"
"Why, sure. But you can call me Tyrone."
"I'd rather not. What are your educational qualifiers for a position with the National Labor Relations Board, Mr Jackson?"
"I got myself a Bachelor of Arts degree from UNC-Chapel HIll in Afro-American Studies."
"Isn't that the program that didn't have classrooms, instructors, or exams?"
"How could you have learned anything?"
"Well, we hung out on the 'hood mostly, studying the brothers."
"Did you learn anything useful?"
"Oh, hell, yeah. Did you know the CIA introduced crack into the black community? Or that AIDS is just another way to keep the brother down?"
"I see. How do you figure any of this would prepare you for a position on the NLRB?"
"Well, ain't labor unions mostly about preserving jobs that don't exist, paying people to do nothin', and makin' sure no one knows anything different?"
"I think you're going to be happy here, Tyrone."
Chicago announces mass closing of elementary schools Wendell Weedy
Fort Enduring Courage Elementary School
Dear Parent(s) of a FECES child,
In view of mass closing of elementary schools for under-utilization, the administration will be handling FECES a little differently for a while. The cafeteria is merging with the theater to become the catheter and speech therapy will move into the library to become therapery.
During bad times the community turns to FECES, and vice versa. The third fiscal leg of FECES's stool is our Lindsay Lohan Brownies program. Although parental subscription to the LLB remains at virtually one hundred percent, program director Moondust Starchild is looking to add capacity for a friends and relatives expansion. Please remind any new members to keep the vacuum sealed brownie packs unopened until in the owner's home. Do not open the packs in the car, as the aroma of the snacks is pervasive and one never knows what will alert drug dogs.
FECES is a part of all of us, and the school staff plans to retain FECES as long as possible. Join us. It's your school and there's no such thing as getting into FECES too deeply.
The last acceptable white-face
I love symmetrical scandals. One side decries the other's zits while troweling Clearasil onto its own lumpy face. It illustrates how humans are not only related to apes, but fling poo with the best of them.
And the press ... how ennobling it is to see punditry manipulate facts on the ground to turn what should be a chance to stand on principle into some sort of mass sashay of denial and self delusion.
There's a kind of harsh There's a kind of harsh all over the world tonight,
all over the web you can read the rants of rudeness and scorn.
You know what I mean, just the two of us and nobody else logged in,
there's nobody else and I'm throttling you with emoticons.
So scroll down very carefully, closer now
and you will feel my garotte, in case you forgot.
The only thing that can be seen is when I unload right on your screen:
You're a derp, forever and ever.
There's a kind of harsh all over the world tonight,
all over the web, that's right, and it's better than porn.
"Trillion's the new billion." People don't stop to realize what a brogdingnagian number a trillion is.
It's one thousand millions. Yet we're tossing the figure around like New Year's revellers of 1929. It's unnerving.
"Trillion's the new thousand" says "buy gold."
Outrageous tragedies or tragic outrages?
So quickly the Las Vegas shooting has morphed from being an outrage to a tragedy. I think I'm beginning to see how this works. Whenever there is an identifiable, physical enemy alive, upon whom retribution could be enacted, then the precipitating event was an outrage. But if the perpetrator(s) are dead, beyond retribution, it must have been a tragedy.
Its not the nature of the precipitating event itself, but our ability to respond that characterizes the event, post facto. Or maybe its whether were able to counter-attack following an event before the anger wears off.
It took a week or two following 9/11 to switch from flying the American flag to hanging yellow ribbons. Outrage is good. By god, if I wasnt on the radio, Id go fight them myself! - Slapshot
Tragedy is not so good. Victimized people seldom weep their way to victory. But it does help suffocate the backlash.
Do we get chicken?
The Vatican office responsible for ignoring the Graven Images Commandment expressed outrage at an Obama-era US Department of State's "living art" representation of Leonardo da Vinci's The Last Supper, which featured Hillary Clinton and Leon Panetta but without that annoying Christ.
Things that can't go on forever, seem to anyway
They're rioting in Missouri. They're fasting at Yale.
The Hurricanes of Florida will end up in jail.
Academia is festering with unhappy souls.
The TAs hate the undergrads. The frats hate the proles.
LEOs hate Ferguson and Baltimore, too.
And I don't really give a damn if that triggers you.
And we know for certain that some lovely day someone will set the spark off and we'll have our say.
They're rioting in Missouri, soon Vanderbilt, too. The student debt they're racking up goes straight down the loo.
Pelosi Goes Popeing "Hey, lady, ssst! Hey, come over here."
"What? You talkin' tah me?"
"Hey, yeah. Look, I sella you some tickets, you get audience with da Pope."
"Don't you recognize me? I was the House Speaker!"
"Hey, yeah, listen, I'ma the spic inna my house, too. You wanna tickets or not?"
"I give 'em to you cheap. Say, whattsamattuh you face?"
"What do you mean?"
"Issa all, I dunno, stretched like-uh cheap skin job."
"You mean, like, I'm a Cylon?"
"You don't get Battlestar Galactica?"
"Hey, if it's inna da Vatican, I getta you in."
"I'll surrender my armies and hand up my sword
depending on how you will treat me, my lord."
The weary commander, resolve in his voice,
sized up his opponent then gave her a choice.
"Stand down your attackers, call off the strike,
and I'll mercifully leave your head on a pike."
"What would you do with my body below?"
the wide-eyed foreigner wanted to know.
"I'll tie your bare limbs one each to a steed,
then drive them to gallop away at high speed."
"And what would become of my thus quartered torso?"
"I'll paint each limb blue then bludgeon it more so."
"And will my piked head be looking toward home?"
the supplicant asked as the commander groaned.
"Listen, you jack-wad, you're going to be dead.
What does it matter which way goes your head?"
With that the commander unsheathed his sword,
whacked his opponent, cut off her gourd.
The lesson, my children, to take from this bit
is get what you can; don't sweat the small shit.
What was that all about?" --- Epitaph
The dry-boned wraith down Lethe's falls,
doth lurk, e'en now, to o'ertake all.
Waste each day, ye flakes of snow,
'til derelict ruins intone, "Let go."
Duller than Dirt?
Overheard on the web...
I'm just afraid [Republican national convention] "Ah, well then, that is because you
might be duller than dirt!
have not seen my fine dirt. It is anything but dull.
Come over here and let me show it to you."
"So, this is your dirt?"
"Yes. I call this lump 'Claude.'"
Tool Time Lizzie Borden, with an axe,
gave her father forty whacks.
Sister, seeing what was done,
pruned the limbs back, one by one.
Θ Θ Θ Dayton Police Department is lowering its testing standards for recruits. It's a move required by the U.S. Department of Justice after it says not enough African-Americans passed the exam.
We used to keep the Special Olympics separate from the Olympics. Somewhere there occurred a hostile takeover.
The Bishop Takes a Stand Bishop Paul Loverde of Arlington, Va., had this to say last week about his response if the abortion lobbys Freedom of Choice Act (FOCA) becomes law: I would say, Yeah, Im not going to close the hospital, youre going to arrest me, go right ahead. Youll have to drag me out, go right ahead. Im not closing this hospital, we will not perform abortions, and you can go take a flying leap.
What a man. What a mighty man. But wait... from the same article...
There are no Catholic hospitals currently open in Bishop Loverdes Arlington diocese... Sigh.
A Mars Rover's Lament
All day I faced the Martian waste without the taste of water; cool water
At JPL the jerks at work sip Evian: I die for water;
cool clear water.
The nights are cold and I've been told each star's
a pool of water; cool water.
But with the dawn I'll switch back on
and MastCamBate for water; cool water.
Load an infra-scan; exploration is the plan;
you're a robot not a man and the broken rocks can stand for water; cool clear water.
MRO, can't you see that big green tree
where water's runnin' free and it's waiting there for
Error. Stack overflow.
Existential Rhythms The question first occurred to me when I was maybe four,
playing toy Injuns on our Diné hogan floor.
"Momma, how did we get here? I don't understand."
She said to talk to Wolf-eye Joe, the village med'cine man.
But Wolf-eye's stories cannot be:
I laughed until I cried.
In later years I wandered off to Flagstaff on a whim,
and asked a pale-face friend named Bob what tales were told to him.
The white man's magic litany of woe and ancient grace
looked a lot like wishful thought, I told Bob to his face.
And he took up my search with me:
We laughed, we thought we'd die.
So Bob and I made steep ascent up yonder distant slope,
and happened by the real old guy who works the telescope.
He let us look eons away, to every time and whence.
"That's what you be," says he and we've been scared stiff ever since.
But there's no going back, you see:
We laughed until we pried.
Decadence on Parade Anyone familiar with the US Constitution is aware of the enumerated powers, Article I, Section 8, that limits the federal government to a list of powers, other powers falling to the states or to the people. In essence the enumeration was the tent pole that kept the canvas of federal authority from descending onto the people in the stands.
Arguably, the tent pole collapsed during the Civil War; the process of grinding liberty down had begun.
To illustrate the process, consider Prohibition. It took the 18th Amendment to make the sale of liquor illegal. Skip ahead to 1930 When Henry Anslinger was appointed to head the newly created Federal Bureau of Narcotics and for the next seven years built a set of drug prohibition policies, controlled by the executive branch. Without a lot of scientific evidence to bolster his effort, Anslinger led a heated media campaign against marijuana that adopted many of the maternalistic and moral strategies used by the temperance movement. So a draconian policy based on little scientific input was instituted without resorting to amending the Constitution.
It was now easier to bring the canvas tent onto the heads of the crowd.
Richard Nixon was driven from office for an offense that pales in comparison to the militarization of government agencies, the IRS, DOJ, et al, and their use against citizens.
To bandy about the facile notion that President Trump can be impeached for nothing (compare to his predecessor who got a Nobel prize for nothing) and we find ourselves drifting ever further from the nation handed down to us by Founders.
A legally elected president being threatened and condemned for doing what he was elected to do is hilarious and frightening at the same time. In a nation where a trillion is the new billion, and nothing is something, the future of democracy is a crap shoot.
"Geico was a cool gig until I ate the gekko. Like, who knew?, you know? Now, I have to register with the SPCA and can't live within a hundred yards of a terrarium. Say, are you here with anybody?"
Waiting for Sleep
The circus has folded
and the ringmaster waves
a lion's path of ringed fire.
Weary of solo encagement,
the hesitant beast falters; gathers;
then plunges unburned through the blaze.
The theater has closed
but sometimes (at night)
a swirling-gowned singer dissolves
in pearly arias to clouds of applause
from an enthralled audience,
The war is ended
but sometimes (at night)
aurora-draped skies descend
and officers trudge waning
armies to vanished battlefields.
Dear Mrs Drisophila,
We are sending your daughter, Cleonausea, home with a written warning. As per the dress code here at Fort Enduring Courage Elementary School, children are not allowed to wear their hair with bangs, due to the association of bang with guns. Please be advised that in order to avoid offending Muslim sensibilities, pig tails are also banned.
You are asked to come in to the school for a meeting with our Trauma Counselor to discuss ameliorating the damage wearing bangs may have done to Cleonausea. While you're here, you may notice that the American flag flown at FECES has been altered to enhance the values we try to instill in the children. The fifty stars have been replaced with one large smiley, and the red/white striping has been overprinted with the lyrics of "Baby Don't Hurt Me." We want you to be proud of what FECES is doing for our community.
Even a Single RaindropEven a single raindrop,
assembled on some parched mote,
Jazzing with orphaned electrons, shrugging a dewy coat,
buffeted barely coherent,
grasping molecular staves,
even a single rain dro
waves waves waves
A diplomat's dream
"Pack your bags, Sibley. I 'm sending you to North Korea. Dress warmly."
"Any other advice?"
"Yes, eat your shoes before entering the country. You might not get a second chance."
New York, New YorkNew York City police have begun handing out small cards telling people why they were stopped and searched on city streets.
"Why did you stop me, officer?"
"It's part of our positive reinforcement program."
"What do you mean?"
"I found you doing something good. You stopped when the 'don't walk' signal came on."
"So, what was frisking me all about, then?"
"Checking you for lumps. Cancer, you know."
"And these handcuffs?"
"It's just a precaution."
"So what's the positive reinforcement?"
"I'm positive I"ll have some reinforcement in a minute. Then we're going to kick your ass. This is New York, you know."
"It's a hell of a town."
"It sure is. Now get up against the car."
Waylon Jennings' Advice to GrandmaAn elderly Manhattan woman living on Social Security was slapped with a $100 ticket -- for throwing away a newspaper in a city trash can.
"Grandma don't toss your newspaper into that trashcan. the tourists will see ya and get the idea old women don't cherish their TImes.
"Garbage ain't easy to love as it leaks on the floor. But make like a pack rat, and horde that rank treasure galore: moldy damp coffee grounds, transcripts of speeches from Gore.
"And each day begins a new pile.
"So wear both your nose plugs and don't die too soon of the shame. Roaches will love it and some rats will call you by name.
"Grandma don't toss your newspaper into some dumpster. The precinct commander might file an attainder and keep the remainder for spite."
An all-Aryan boy
Gather, frauleins, and I'll tell you a story,
of how I became an all-Aryan boy.
Got me some Nazis, put 'em in tune,
sent 'em to Poland to make livin' room.
Got Ivan in on the gig ... Pierre folded ...
Britain didn't dig it at all. Groovy.
What idiot named them jet skis
instead of boater-cycles?
Oh, Lord, it's hard to be humble
Paul Moore: It must be nice to always believe you know better,
to always think you're the smartest person in the room.
Jane Craig: No. It's awful.
------------ Broadcast News
Progressives lack a Limbaugh-like voice. Those poor progressive babies. They have TV and the print media entanked for their vacuous, stammering "communicator" while taking money from the rest of us to fund NPR and CPB, virtual vassals of liberalism. Seemingly unable to flip from AM to FM radio, or even change the station to non-talk radio, they subsume their San Francisky selves to a quasi-North Korean state of forced listening, ears no doubt propped open in a Clockwork Orange fashion where listening becomes unavoidable, to mind-altering "words."
Now, I don't envy their having to listen to Michael Savage, who has for years been about two quarts low, but I don't see where it's had much effect on the voting habits of Pelosi's Pals of the Saddle. And Rush Limbaugh failed to keep two branches of federal govt from falling into the hands of the Kommie-krazies.
All this is normal. It is how words work. And the right-wing message machine has found a way to take advantage of it - activating, as it were, a conservative system of thought.
Note well the choice of "activating" instead of "creating." You activate something that is already in place, that has already been created. Even the cognitive professor from Berkley is forced to admit, and this man makes a living from "words," that many people are innately conservative without understanding the underpinnings of it. They don't naturally believe that someone else owns them or is entitled to fruits of their labor. It is only through the droning adulation of liberal media that the grossly under-qualified child of the Chicago machine came to rest on the laurels of this unfortunate nation.
When the French, for god's sake, can see the emperor is buck naked, and to see that without the benefit of talk radio, even the Birkenstocked bimbos of Berkeley must eventually succumb to what their own ears tell them. Blaming it on AM radio is looking like a cry for help.
Not Noir, Not Ever, Never!
A collaborative short story with Cathryn Crawford
Cathryn was grateful for the brief puff of coolness that carried the thin curtain straining against unforgiving curtain rods into the darkening parlor, watched as the tattered edges rose silently then fell back against the sill, waiting for a new breath of evening comfort to thicken the condensation on a half-empty mint julep glass. The Victrola labored with a soft grinding sound from hours and hours of use as Ruth Etting wafted from its varnished wooden sound horn.
"Button up your overcoat,
When the wind is free,
Take good care of yourself,
You belong to me."
As she sat in quiet contemplation of the heat that enveloped the entire room, nay, her entire world, she slowly ran her finger around in the dust of the never polished oak desk at which she sat. As she did, the music and the words that she wrote formed a simple sort of medley that ran rampant in her head. The musty smell of the aging parlor only added to the feeling of timelessness that was seeping into her bones.
Maybe she knew he was coming and had just forgotten, or maybe Cathryn wanted to punish Brent for some unintended slight, but even though she recognized the timidity of his light rap on her door, her hand dropped off the edge of the correspondence desk onto a crystal faceted knob drawer pull. The drawer gave no resistance and she pulled it out, her glance seeking out the 1911 model Colt pistol as her hand wrapped around the ivory grip in a practiced single motion.
"Brent? Is that you?" and she pulled back the hammer.
"Yes, it's me", said Brent, as he came into the room with the easy charm that she had once admired and now loathed. He walked to her and as she watched him the hand that lay on the desk clinched unknowingly, leaving skin-colored grooves in the once unmarred oak. After an interminable period of time, she forced herself to relax and the shaking in her hands stopped. She stood, the hand holding the gun tucked carefully behind her, and slowly turned to meet Brent.
"Cath, I...I've done something terrible," Brent managed to choke out between his now unruly lips. "My brother Lester has been gambling money from the bathtub gin business and now he owes his bookie fifty thousand dollars."
"What does that have to do with me, Brent?" But the slowly spreading ball of cold fury in the pit of her stomach was triggering adrenaline and a trembling trigger finger that portended something worse than rash. "I told him that I'd get him the money by selling you into white slavery. You'd do that for me, old gal, wouldn't you? Remember all the good times we had? Be a pal."
Cathryn could not believe the idiocy that poured from Brent. He was usually so suave, so charming, and now he was sputtering foolishness.
"Brent, you mindless fool," she growled. "I don't give a damn about your foolish brother. You know I've detested him since that night that he spilt that frothy drink down the back of my $6000 Valentino. Let him get himself out of his own mess." As she spoke the words through gritted teeth she tightened her grip on the gun, its pearly handle smooth in her grasp.
Sam Rico strained to hear more as he pressed the yielding tips of his stethoscope into his downy ears and positioned the metal disc onto the wall, tuning the faded wallpaper like a crystal radio set, pulling in the sound of the conversation in the next room.
"Listen, old sport," Brent's voice was getting louder as it dawned on him that Cathryn was mistaking him for Elvis Walloon, the slick sheik at the Kozy Kitty Klub who had dumped a drink down Cathryn's Valentino during the Charleston competition that ended tragically in Selma losing all her hair.
"You can help me out or go to...."
In a paroxysm of fury, Cathryn's hand jerked, sending the hammer home.
With a vicious report, the Colt fired a shot behind her, puncturing the thin wallboard and traveling most of the way through Sam's skull. Was this the end of the great Rico?
Cathryn stood with her finger still on the trigger of the gun. The smell of the gun blast filled the room as she realized what she had nearly done in her anger. Instead of the fear that should have filled her, however, she felt a crowning sense of triumph as she saw the shock on Brent's face.
"Did you think I wouldn't do it, Brent?" she hissed, as she turned to look behind her at the hole the small bullet had left in the wall.
"What if I had been pointing the other direction?"
At this, with a look of fear mixed with respect, Brent turned and hurried from the room. Cathryn turned and walked back to the desk, allowing her hand to drop to the receiver of the sleek black phone. She picked it up and dialed unhurriedly. When the voice on the other end finally came through, she quietly said, "Come get me."
What could go Wong?
Joel Brenner, the US governments top counter-intelligence official, warned: So many people are going to the Olympics and are going to get electronically undressed. "Step over here, round-eyes, I see you better. Hey, nice chipset."
"Gee, Miss Wong, I..."
"What this? Do you RAM, RAM, RAM? Or you just a ROM, ROM, ROM?"
"Well, actually, I..."
"Ah, so. That look like a real fire-wire. You give me nice gigabyte, right here."
"I, uh, oh geez."
Round-eyes! You go all GUI. No love you long time."
"You'd best router your motherboard out of here, boy."
"I am so gone."