THE INFORMATION #990 APRIL 27, 2018

THE INFORMATION #990
APRIL 27, 2018
Copyright 2018 FRANCIS DIMENNO

dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

What greater evil could you wish a miser than long life? –Publilius Syrus

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TWELVE: PART SEVEN: THE EASTERN GATE OF PARADISE

“Southerners and Swamp Yankees,” said Count Victor Justin to Cadger Tandy, “them’s two type of people it never yet paid to tangle with. Of course, you can swindle those savages just as easily as ev’ryone else–more so, in fact. But don’t set out to rob ’em, unless by stealth or trickery. The nutmeg peddlers up north are a hardy breed. Your Swamp Yankees in particular would rather have you kill ’em, than to have to unhand their oofish. I’ve heerd a story from Bill the Penman, a former cellie of mine, about a rich score. A miserly old Yankee who, rumor had it, had socked away a cool thousand, and who was ripe for the pluckin’. But someone gave Bill a bum steer. It was an old Yankee storekeeper out in Daisytown named Luther Gay. Bill was six foot two and must of weighed at least 200 pounds. And the bony little Yankee peddler, why, he mought of weighed all of 135. Those swamp Yankees are too damn ornery to waste money on food. They consider ice cream to be the poor man’s pheasant.

“Anyway, Bill the Penman came in, cool as chalk, and gave the old shopkeeper a line of blarney about how he was a poor stranded Englishman who was new in town and looking for honest work and the old boy just squinted at him real hard, with his black eyes glinting with ill-concealed malice. The storekeeper wore bib overalls and a filthy white shirt. He was a sallow, limber-gaited satan-worshipping wretch with a long and slender white beard, turned partially yaller, so that he looked exactly like an ole billy-goat. Bill figured the time for palaver was well past. He jumped over the counter and got Luther Gay by the throat, asking him where the money was. Bill spied the strongbox under the counter and then grabbed for it. Gay went and screeched his durn fool head off as Bill the Penman tried to wrest from his clutching forks the old man’s wonderful tin strongbox, which Bill imagined was brim-full of shekels and yaller boys. Luther Gay clutched at that cheese as though his life depended on it, and maybe it did. The robber coshed him not just once, but several times, and yelled for the ump-chay to shut his potato-trap and given the red rag a holiday. How Bill eventually got caught was, all that ruckus finally attracted the family dog, who was chained to a stake in the backyard. He somehow got loose, was attracted by all the screaming, came springing in through the rear door, made his way to the front and went for the back of the yekkman’s throat. Now, down in New York, Bill would have shot that storekeeper, and the dog too, just as quick as look at them, or, at the very least, he’d of shoved a shiv up through the little storekeeper’s yellow belly. But up north I suppose the yekkman thought he could get by with the strong arm and the club. Little did he reckon with the god-damned orneryness of those old parchment-faced Yankees. The dog mauled him pretty good, yet he might of gotten off scot-free all the same, except the neighbors came runnin’ over with shotguns. Bill got away, but pretty soon a posse was set up to hunt him down.

“Now, Bill the Penman was in an awful fix because his pantaloons were in tatters and the Yankee storekeeper’s neighbors were quite literally up in arms. He made it to the swamp where he found a crick and crossed it several times to throw the dogs off the scent. It was late spring, and still a mite cold that far north–the ground was still partially frozen, though the undergrowth was already pretty well overgrown. As he went slogging through that odiferous swamp near to the crick, about a dozen horrible brown leeches clamped onto his legs right smart. Then it started in to rain. A torrential deluge, just as the pale sun was beginning to set and the air beginning to turn chilly. When night fell, a baleful full moon shone through the clouds and mist. Bill the Penman was not a superstitious soul, he told me, but at that moment he swore that the face of the man in the moon was staring at him with a countenance most malevolent and smug, as if to say, ‘There’s no use for it, Old Bill–they’re surely going to catch you out this time, Old Son. You had a good string of successes, but here comes your Waterloo.’

“Ordinarily, Bill the Penman wasn’t as dumb as this gapeseed yarn would make him out to be. He came from a long line of rogues and swagmen, and, he assured me, he had gotten himself out of worse fixes than this one, often times with the simple gift of gab. But there was no escaping this predicament. Everyone for ten miles around had been roused and was on the lookout for a glim of the brigand who had coshed the storekeeper until his head and face were a bloody mess. No, Bill was no Savage, but it would of taken him considerable ingenuity to make his way south and escape the clutches of Johnny Law. Even at that, he almost done it. Found a Hobo jungle and told the boys there of his plight. They was Johnsons, and they gave him some duds and put a feed in him–but there was a rat who figured there might be a hefty reward, and he figured he would funk him. So he partnered up with Bill, saying they would make a great team, but the first chance he got–I think it was at White River Junction–he told the railroad bulls that he was traveling with a wanted badman, and they clubbed old Bill half to death before hauling him off to the hoosegow. I’m glad to report that the rat got clobbered as well, and was sent packing back to the jungle.

“Even then, Bill wasn’t out of tricks. Seems as though the town jail was in the basement of the police department, and warn’t any too secure, which is the way these small town jails usually are, because all they’re generally used for is to house Lushingtons who need a chance to sleep it off, and maybe the occasional wife-beater. Bill was able to hide a tenpenny nail in his cheek, and he used it to jimmy the antiquated lock, and next he squoze hisself through some kind of basement window hid behind the furnace. But the raggedy clothes that the hautboys had given him were even more raggedy now, and he was awful conspicuous, even in a place like White River Junction, which wasn’t exactly a Paris or a Rome of high fashion. Bill’s dilemma was how to hide himelf until nightfall. He hid under a gazebo near the town square until the town was fast asleep, then he stole him a hoss and started south, but it wasn’t long before the posse caught up with him, and they might of lynched him, too, if cooler heads hadn’t prevailed. It turned out that nobody really liked the Yankee shopkeeper, who was stingy with giving credit and dunned his creditiors unmercifully until they paid their accounts in full.

“Where they finally caught up with Bill was down in Dalton, Massachusetts. “If only I’d a made it to a big city, they never would of found me,” said Bill, and he’s probably correct. But the caught him near Washington Mountain, as part of a sweep of a hobo jungle, and they hauled poor Bill to the state penitentiary in Ossining, preparatory to trial. They warn’t taking no chances this time. After all, he had nearly killed old Luther Gay. The judge sentenced him to ten years making big ones out of little ones. He served eight, and cursed himself every day for ever having mucked about with Swamp Yankees in general, and Luther Gay in particular.

“And would you believe that Bill only got away with a two dollar bill? That was all the money the old miser had in the strongbox. He kept the rest of his ooftish hid somewhere in the house, nobody to this day knows where.

“To think that old Gay fought that hard for a lousy Jefferson–you can only imagine how much of a battlecock he would of been for the whole wad!”

1* SALUTATION
THE SALVATION ARMY
SHE TURNS TO FLOWERS

ALSO SEE:
THE THREE O’CLOCK
BAROQUE HOEDOWN

2*REFERENCE
THE FOUR MOST HOMOPHOBIC COMICS EVER CREATED
http://www.cracked.com/blog/the-4-most-homophobic-comics-ever-created/

3*HUMOR
WEIRD MINOR LEAGUE SPORTS NAMES
http://www.si.com/extra-mustard/2016/02/26/crazy-weird-minor-league-team-names

4*NOVELTY
THE GREAT SOCIETY COMIC BOOK
envisioningtheamericandream.com/2013/05/16/lbjs-comic-great-society/
willrabbe.com/microblog/2011/2/22/huh-lbj-the-great-society-comic-book.html

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
CANADA RUNNING OUT OF ASBESTOS
http://www.ctvnews.ca/canada-s-last-asbestos-mine-about-to-run-out-of-asbestos-1.674045

6* DAILY UTILITY
GARBAGE SOUP
http://www.businessinsider.com/what-makes-up-garbage-soup-2012-6

ALSO SEE:
HOBO TOMATO SOUP
http://www.instructables.com/id/Hobos-Tomato-Soup/

7*CARTOON
THE SAD SONG OF PERCY CROSBY
http://www.startribune.com/the-sad-song-of-skippy/228645671/

8*PRESCRIPTION
FAMOUS DOGS
http://www.lingerandlook.com/Names/DogInfo.php?venue_key=G&when_key=X&sort_key=name&name_opt=

9* RUMOR PATROL
THE SINISTER AND TRULY TERRIFYING ARISTOCRAT TOMATO

10* LAGNIAPPE
FRANK SINATRA
(THEME FROM) STINKFINGER

11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
THE DOUCHE CHILLS #11:STARBUCKS
Starbucks is a clean well-lighted crack house for people who still secretly wish they used illegal drugs.

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
FASHION
Maybe Fashion was invented so men wouldn’t have to marry women who dressed the same as their own mothers.

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THE INFORMATION #989 APRIL 20, 2018

THE INFORMATION #989
APRIL 20, 2018
Copyright 2018 FRANCIS DIMENNO

dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

I went to Boston fully expecting to be arrested – arrested by a polizia created by a government that my ancestors rebelled to establish. –Edna St. Vincent Millay

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TWELVE: PART SIX: THE EASTERN GATE OF PARADISE

“I’m telling you, Yob, they don’t pay me to lie,” said Count Victor Justin to Cadger Tandy, “so I’m a-gonna speak the truth. And the Devil take the hindmost. I’ve never seen so many disgruntled people in one locality as I found in Boston and its environs, and I never saw so many mean, sawney creatures in one place as in the much-vaunted Boston Subway system. The pickle-pussed old ladies and worn-down young men you see riding–eroding, say rather– on that newfangled contraption are like a scene out of a Bosch painting, or Dante’s famous Inferno. Someone ought to tell the good burghers of Beantown that there’s no tax on smiling down upon your brother every now and again. And that it won’t cost them even so much one red cent to at least pretend to be civil. I suppose that if some of those grizzled old Patricians were to let loose a stray grin their faces would crack. I mean, they probably haven’t cracked a smile since the Crimson boys won the Harvard-Yale game of 1875. Someone should also tell ‘em that they needn’t be all hell-bent for leather to be the first one to fly off the train, all the while knocking down mothers with suckin’ babes and gouty old men ass-over-teakettle in their great big hurry to get–somewhere? Who knows? Who knows if there’s anywheres in Boston that is even worth rushing off to visit? But from the way some of those Yellofs push and elbow, they’re fixin’ to get in the first licks of finding that pot o’ gold that’s hidin’ in plain sight on the Boston Common. Bad ‘cess to ’em.

“As bad as some of these Bostonians are, however, there’s a breed of men who are even worse. At least in the environs of Boston proper the biggest threat you’re likely to face is tripping over the cobblestones with a head full of hasheesh. But I’ll tell you something, Yob–you ain’t lived until you’ve tangled dicks with an authentic, old-time, sour-faced, hawk-nosed, rotten, vicious, spiteful, rickety, spavined, odiferous, cantankerous Swamp Yankee. You’re not likely to run into these creatures any too much. Oftentimes, you’re lucky to even encounter one at all. Because half the time they have to spend they’re drunk from hitting the cider jug and the other half of the time they’re probably off havin’ intimate relations with barnyard animals.

“To a man, these Swamp Yankees seem to hate everybody–Nigras, Injuns, Jews, The Chinee, Scotsmen, Irishmen, Dutchmen, Frenchies, Polacks, Dagoes, Spaniards, Portuguese–you name it. Because they till the rocky salty shore of New England and barely make enough off’n their toil to keep their daughters fed on johnny-cakes and stump-water, and because they’ve been told by the preacher-man that farmin’ is the highest and most patriotic occupation of ‘em all, they look down on everybody else. Even though they can barely read or write or cipher past eleven.To their eyes, the Portuguese fisherman in Provincetown or New Bedford is little better than an ape. The Irish barkeeper is a sinful heathen and a hellion. The Scottish banker is a money-grubbing highway robber. And on and on and on. These sour old men and their mean, fish-faced, cod-eyed, ratchet-jawed, chisel-tongued, shrewish, clamorous, contumelious, termagant wives have a way of making anybody who encounters them wish themselves just a tiny bit closer to death. One day we’ll elect a President from this lot, and the country will go plumb straight to hell.

“It wouldn’t be so bad, I suppose, if the savages had a little fellowship and common decency. But they care not one lick for the comfort of any man living. Should you become endlessly lost on a dark country road and find yourself in a downpour and forced to resort to the charity of the first shanty door that will open to you, you will step into the house and they will immediately shake you down for a sum of money–cash only, please–in exchange for merely coming in out’n the rain, must less staying the night. Y’see, to them you’re nothing more than a city dub, and if you’re in the North Country they’ll consider you a flatlander from away, and they will owe you no more consideration than they would give to a turd in a birdbath.

“When you walk into the house of a Swamp Yankee–should you ever have the misfortune to have dealings with one of them sharks–you will notice at once their overwhelming stench. Something like the smell of an hundred dead mice trapped in the wall boards. Personal hygiene is not the long suit of a Swamp Yankee. Quite frankly, Yob, they stink. They stink to high heaven. What’s more, they smell. They smell like a shit house door on a tuna boat. Their teeth are black as melted midnight. Their aroma is enough to scorch your mustache plumb off’n your face. I’d rather eat owl pellets then go near one of them Swamp Yankees.They are frugal to the point of insanity. If they have ever made the acquaintance of a bar of soap, and a pan of hot water, and a clean towel, I have yet to hear about it. They never paint their house or even their barn unless the Mail Pouch people come along and offer to do it. They are poor, and uneducated, and vulgar–and those are their good qualities! Their filthy hovels smell like groundhog shit; they sleep on poxy army blankets stolen from the Injuns; and they ain’t never got so much as two nickels to rub together , ‘ceptin’ at harvest time. They live poor. They live even worse than savages, if the truth be told: their lanky, rangy, rawboned sons fuck the daughters of the mill hands and then head for a cave in a mountain to avoid the awful prospect of holy macaroni, which would mean actually providin’ for the gal and her bairn. They have lousy teeth–usually it’s one yaller tooth dangling from the top of their scorbutic gums and a settin’ like a yaller lantern inside of their rotting skulls; and whenever there is a particularly awful murder committed they are suspects numbers one, two, and three. And–get this–they go to a carnival once a year around harvest time and lose all their money on a gaffed game, only to come back with a shotgun and a passel of neighbors and threaten to burn every carny on the lot, and the carny operator has to pay them off –because even the rum-dumb local constabulary know better than to get into a pissing match with that sorry-ass passel of owlhoots!

1* SALUTATION
THE HOLY MODAL ROUNDERS
EUPHORIA
Ma’s out there switchin’ in the Kitchen And Dad’s in the living room fussing and a-bitching And I’m out here kicking the gong for euphoria Euphoria When your mind starts wheeling and a-walking Your inside voices start squealing and a squawking Floating around on a belladonna cloud Singing euphoria Euphoria…

2*REFERENCE
NEW AGE BULLSHIT GENERATOR
We exist, we self-actualize, we are reborn.
Non-locality is a constant. By refining, we heal.

We must learn how to lead internal lives in the face of selfishness. Imagine a condensing of what could be. We must bless ourselves and heal others.

This path never ends. It is in evolving that we are guided. Gaia will remove the barriers to primordial health.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/pseudo-intellectual-profound-bullshit-study_us_5661acb4e4b079b2818e4020

sebpearce.com/bullshit/

3*HUMOR
THE LONELIEST BOXCUTTER
a book for children

The police have raided the gang headquarters!
They have taken all the big knives!
But what about…THE LONELIEST BOXCUTTER?
Is nobody afraid…of HIM?

ALSO SEE:
KNIFE VIOLENCE IN LONDON
http://www.nbcnews.com/news/world/knife-violence-hits-younger-teens-ever-london-n863941

4*NOVELTY
MICKEY ROONEY IN BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY’S
http://www.tcm.com/mediaroom/video/1198518/Breakfast-At-Tiffany-s-Movie-Clip-You-Like-Me-.html

ALSO SEE:
Raw termites make a tasty snack.
http://www.nbcnews.com/id/44991193/ns/travel-news/t/tasty-termites-delicious-dragonflies-other-edible-insects/
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-daily-meal/delicious-creepy-crawly-s_b_5466233.html

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
PEOPLE YOU SEE AT EVERY COLLEGE PARTY
http://www.buzzfeed.com/joannaborns/people-you-see-at-every-college-party?utm_term=.xePk7E0Br#.opa71B3de

6* DAILY UTILITY
FIND OUT WHAT FACEBOOK HAS ON YOU
http://www.nytimes.com/2018/04/11/technology/personaltech/i-downloaded-the-information-that-facebook-has-on-me-yikes.html

7*CARTOON
ROMAN GRAFFITI
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roman_graffiti

8*PRESCRIPTION
17 SILLY THINGS PEOPLE ASSUME ABOUT INDIA
http://www.storypick.com/17-silly-things-people-assume-india/

ALSO SEE:
This is a very good bibliography for those who wish to learn something about the topic of racism and migration.
depts.washington.edu/moving1/bibliography.shtml

SEE ALSO:
This book is another invaluable resource.
http://www.amazon.com/Sambo-Rise-Demise-American-Jester/dp/0195056582
depts.washington.edu/moving1/bibliography.shtml

9* RUMOR PATROL
PLANET X MAY KILL US ALL ON APRIL 23RD
sploid.gizmodo.com/fox-news-either-planet-x-will-kill-us-all-on-april-23r-1825197325

10* LAGNIAPPE
ROY HARPER
I HATE THE WHITE MAN

11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
THE DOUCHE CHILLS 11: TRUMP AND BUTTERY LEATHER PANTS
books.google.com/books?id=hpc4DwAAQBAJ&pg=PT188&lpg=PT188&dq=LEATHER+”BUTTERY+LEATHER+PANTS”+TRUMP&source=bl&ots=x8MDUANQtm&sig=gDLfk6RtFTeDfZon7L05aBLfMf4&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiAgfD1_7TaAhVPU98KHVrFC3IQ6AEIQzAJ#v=onepage&q=LEATHER%20″BUTTERY%20LEATHER%20PANTS”%20TRUMP&f=false

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
SWING TO THE RIGHT
This country is going so far to the right you won’t recognize it.–John Mitchell, 1972
books.google.com/books?id=fjtGRgKZLtkC&pg=PA321&lpg=PA321&dq=This+country+is+going+so+far+to+the+right+you+won%27t+recognize+it.&source=bl&ots=YuCCo1t45v&sig=XUZGqo1RZkLdJz4UKKxqmbxfPMQ&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiElv-B6bLaAhVMh-AKHXyYBf4Q6AEIWzAG#v=onepage&q=This%20country%20is%20going%20so%20far%20to%20the%20right%20you%20won’t%20recognize%20it.&f=false

THE INFORMATION #988 APRIL 13, 2018

THE INFORMATION #988
APRIL 13, 2018
Copyright 2018 FRANCIS DIMENNO
dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

I guess the lord must be in New York City.—Harry Nilsson

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TWELVE: PART FIVE: THE EASTERN GATE OF PARADISE

“I have never seen,” said Count Victor Justin to Cadget Tandy, “such puffed-up popinjays as those sallow men and dried-up women who inhabit Boston Town. Would that someone had told John Winthrop to migrate about sixty miles south, where it only snows about five months a year, instead of seven. I have never met an American in all my travels who has a good word to say about Boston. Quite the contrary! They consider it something of a faux pas to be born there–but forgivable, as ye know not what ye did. But to actually live in that subarctic purgatory over and above the three or four years it takes to procure a decent education from one of the diploma mills there–why, it’s a very serious blunder indeed. One might as well take up residence in KC, or Gary, or Duluth, or Indianapolis, or Scranton.Though I suppose the weather in Boston is slightly better than in Watertown New York, or Buffalo. And, I’ll admit, a Bostonian is ever so slightly more sophisticated than a Hoosier, or a Sucker.

But if you were to ask anybody who wasn’t a college boy what famous man ever came out of Boston, all you would get for your trouble is the name of a couple of Presidents and maybe a handful of army and navy officers. Because nobody outside of Boston cares about the place one whit. Nor should they. Their freakish dialect makes them sound, at best, like lickspittles to the British, and, at worst, like they have a poker shoved up their ass. Whereas the sound of the Southern dialect is soothing to the ear, the Boston accent is sharp and jarring, and not the sort of thing you’d want to use around a sick baby.

“Boston has fallen a far ways from its former pre-eminence as a safe harbor for American letters. I’d say that by about 1890 or thereabouts, there wasn’t much going on there to warrant any particularly strident praise on that score, with the possible exception of William James. But one Solon does not a Library of Alexandria make, Yob. Besides–what man of blood and feeling would presume to listen to those spavined, inbred, moth-pocketed Yankees with their eternal palaver about metaphysics and predestinarianism and antidisestablishmentarianism and the like? Sure, maybe them double-domes think in Latin and dream in Greek and fart in Hebrew, but what practical purpose does that serve in today’s go-gettem world of war and commerce? You might as well wear a sign on your back that says ‘Kick Me’.

“No, Yob–the best way to navigate your way through this reeking dungheap we call the world is protective coloration. Hide your feelings, no snappy palaver, keep mum, don’t let on how much you know, don’t say anything that baffles the everyday folk, and make friends in all the right places. As long as you’re known as a fun-loving go-getter who likes to hoist a few and ain’t afeered to wink at a pretty zook, then you will be welcome nearly everywhere you go, except maybe the sitting room of the fucking Harvard Club. How those Cantabridgians do put on airs! You would think they were in direct possession of the twelve keys to the kingdom, the way they carry on with their smug arrogance and their condescending sense of noblesse oblige–as if anybody would want favors from such an arid pack of overeducated poseurs and horsey arseholes! I could pick three lumberjacks out of the shape-up line of any skid row who would have more practical knowledge than the entire Harvard faculty–and you can throw in the faculty of Tufts, to boot! Most of these Professors don’t have the strength to knock a sick baby off’n the piss-pot, and if they ever came up with one idea that proved beneficial to the great mass of men, I have yet to hear about it.

“No–none of these learned professors have enough sense to pound sand in a rat-hole, and yet there they are, busying themselves with writing articles and papers and learned dissertations telling the rest of us how to live our lives. It’s enough to make a cat laugh! Why, if a man called my dog ‘Professor’ and the critter didn’t have the common decency to resent the insult to the death, I would drown the brute, indeed I would, and of a certainty. I can’t for the life of me puzzle out why the wealthy rich insist on spoiling their bairns by sending them to these academic holding pens. Maybe it’s simply for a time-out. I suppose it’s also so they can meet with like-minded nobs and snobs and make contacts that will serve them well when there’s another bank panic and Pappy’s on his uppers, and they might actually have to borrow money, or, even worse, work for a living–and what better fortune is there for such a soft-fingered fop than to have as friends the sons of men in high places? It’s always nice, when you come to the last ditch, to see a friendly face.

“I suppose that in a lot of ways, college is like the military for the sons of rich dullards. The old man might not have an ounce of class, but Sonny Boy can come home after four years of carousing and pretending to study acting as though he’s King Shit–and to the manor born. Which must be both infuriating and heartening. Daddy’s Paw might have been a hod-carrier, but at least Sonny Boy will make something of himself–even if it’s only as a shyster lawyer or a quack Doctor. Unless, of course, he picks up the clap, and the habit of overindulging in spirituous liquors. Then it’s Katy Bar the Door! But at least the kiddo gets to meet a better quality of zook, and doesn’t go off and marry the first showgirl as gives him a tumble.

“I’m guessing the biggest reason Mr. Moneybags sends the spoiled scion away is so he don’t knock up the Nigra Maid or get in dutch with the local bookies over gambling debts or doesn’t take out Papa’s favorite Hoss and get him so lathered up that’s he’s good for nothing forever after. The reason they send their bairns to school is that they don ‘t want them around the house, disgracin’ the family name. Children, after all, are just like human beings, only more so. A teenage boy is just like an idiot cousin–you can’t disown him, but you can’t really befriend him, either. The average la-ad of sixteen is ra-ather like a large, disobedient dog, who just happens to look like you. Shelling out five or ten grand to send the pup away is actually something of a shrewd investment. As for me–I had to learn how to drink to excess without puking all over a barmaid on my own dime.”

1* SALUTATION
FRED NEIL
THAT’S THE BAG I’M IN

FOOLS ARE A LONG TIME COMIN’

CYNICRUSTPETEFREDJOHN

2*REFERENCE
MAY 1972: A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A SEVENTEEN-YEAR-OLD

FALL 1969: A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A 15-YEAR-OLD

SUMMER 1964: A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A NINE-YEAR-OLD

3*HUMOR
WILLY MURPHY
COMIC STRIPS

4*NOVELTY
LET’S EXPLORE YOUR MIND
http://allthingsger.blogspot.com/2014/08/i-see-i-see-what-you-doxsee.html

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
CHICKEN MEAL DEAL GETS KILLER TO ADMIT HIS GUILT

6* DAILY UTILITY
TONNATO SAUCE
2 oil-packed anchovy fillets
1 6.7-ounce jar oil-packed tuna, drained
½ cup mayonnaise
3 tablespoons fresh lime juice
1 tablespoon drained capers
¼ cup plus 2 tablespoons olive oil
Kosher salt
http://www.bonappetit.com/story/tonnato-sauce-recipe

TUNA SAUCE
100g of tuna tinned in olive oil, drained
60g of capers, drained
4 anchovy fillets
4 eggs, hard boiled
1 lemon, juice only
black pepper, to taste
150ml of extra virgin olive oil
To garnish
capers, drained

ALSO SEE:
TUNA AND CAPER SAUCE
2 6-ounce cans solid-pack tuna in olive oil
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
2 to 4 garlic cloves, minced
1 cup red or yellow minced onion
4 anchovy fillets, optional
1/2 cup drained capers
Fine sea salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
1/3 cup minced parsley.

7*CARTOON
GEORGE WASHINGTON: RULES OF CIVILITY & DECENT BEHAVIOR
https://img.purch.com/h/1400/aHR0cDovL3d3dy5uZXdzYXJhbWEuY29tL2ltYWdlcy9pLzAwMC8yMTkvOTUyL29yaWdpbmFsL0FjdGlvbl9QcmVzaWRlbnRzXzAxLmpwZz8xNTE3OTMyMzEz

8*PRESCRIPTION
MAPS: BAPTISTS, GUNS, AND SLAVES
https://qph.fs.quoracdn.net/main-qimg-360780ea128635f96c3039873edaf820

ALSO SEE:
The historic correlation between gun rights and slave patrols.
http://www.thedailybeast.com/the-us-right-to-own-guns-came-with-the-right-to-own-slaves

http://www.truth-out.org/news/item/43260-united-states-policing-and-gun-rights-began-with-slave-patrol

The second amendment is (also) a race thing. “Owning guns” is a racist code for “shooting black people”.

You start out in 1954 by saying, “Nigger, nigger, nigger.” By 1968 you can’t say “nigger” — that hurts you. Backfires. So you say stuff like forced busing, states’ rights and all that stuff. You’re getting so abstract now [that] you’re talking about cutting taxes, and all these things you’re talking about are totally economic things and a byproduct of them is [that] blacks get hurt worse than whites. And subconsciously maybe that is part of it. I’m not saying that. But I’m saying that if it is getting that abstract, and that coded, that we are doing away with the racial problem one way or the other. You follow me — because obviously sitting around saying, “We want to cut this,” is much more abstract than even the busing thing, and a hell of a lot more abstract than “Nigger, nigger.” –Lee Atwater

More about racial coding here:
rationalwiki.org/wiki/Southern_strategy

9* RUMOR PATROL
LIST OF ETHNIC SLURS BY NATIONALITY
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_ethnic_slurs_by_ethnicity#Irish

10* LAGNIAPPE
JESUS CHRIST SUPERSTAR
COULD WE START AGAIN PLEASE

11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
THE DOUCHE CHILLS 10: ROSEANNE
Five minutes of watching the second episode of Roseanne has convinced me of one thing: Roseanne’s new show is the usual dire formulaic tripe, only with added Donald Trump.

What an evil cackling witch she is.

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
Stopping By the Woods on a Snowy Evening: A Modern Translation

Whose shack is this? Don’t give a damn.
I’m in an awful fucking jam;
They’ll never know that I stopped here
To drink a six of bottled beer.

My Chevy is a piece of junk;
Its motor’s all clogged up with gunk.
I’m stuck among these filthy shanties,
Bestrewn with porn and ladies’ panties.

I give my horn a little beep,
For as you sow so shall you reap;
For people say that I’m a fake,
And something of a fucking flake.

And I don’t want the cops to barge
In and nail me on another bogus charge,
And I will sit and have another drink,
And I will sit and have another drink.

THE INFORMATION #987 APRIL 6, 2018

THE INFORMATION #987
APRIL 6, 2018
Copyright 2018 FRANCIS DIMENNO
dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

I guess God made Boston on a wet Sunday. –Raymond Chandler

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TWELVE: PART FOUR: THE EASTERN GATE OF PARADISE

“I suppose I mentioned”, said Count Justin Victor to Cadger Tandy, “that my third-grade teacher and arch-nemesis Miss Petunia was a Bostonian by birth. By birth, I am firmly convinced, for nobody in their right mind would move to that frozen subarctic lumber village with delusions of grandeur. No sane white man, I am convinced, would ever move to Boston unless they positively had to. In spite of the fact that Boston is supposedly some sort of shining city on a hill that everybody in the world is supposed to look up to. Haw! I don’t even know where to begin with such a canard! The only thing those filthy popinjays and their grimy little burg are good for is as an object lesson for people who actually love life and choose to live in a city as doesn’t contain an overweening majority of mummified professors, bean-eaters, and old farts.

“Boston is famous for being the town where the righteous and the self-righteous can get together to pat themselves on the back and congratulate themselves. Oh, how they make a show of loving mankind in the abstract, and despising all individuals who are infra dig. Because, Yob, after all is said and done, nobody can cut you dead quite like a proper Boston fop.

“Why, I recall one occasion during which I was dining on Beacon Street with the quality. After the dinner, which was meager at best, the younger fellers in the party convened to the parlor, where I engaged in one of the most tedious and patience-taxing conversations I have ever had to endure. Insteada chatting up manly topics like hosses and politics, the talk instead turned to ‘The Immortal Milton,’ and at one point I was asked if I was, perchawnce—that kills me, ‘perchawnce’– familiar with his supreme masterpiece. I knew enough to say that I had, in fact, read Paradise Lost. You know what Mister Samuel Johnson said about that book, don’t you Yob? No? He said, quote, ‘No man ever wished it longer.’ Wished I had said the same thing then. In any event, one of the skeptical double-domes in the party asked me if I happened to know ‘what verse form Paradise Lost was written in’. Well, Sir, I am proud to say that I up and said, ‘Why, the immortal Miltonic line, of course!’ And then I quoted the only line I could remember: ‘Satan; so call him now, his former name is heard no more in heaven.’ And that was the end of that.

“It is remarkably easy to subdue these sham intellectuals. Just do what B’rer Fox did with the Tar Baby. Speaking of Satan, you are aware that the north shore of Boston was the home of the Witch Trials, don’t you? That’s just like a Bostonian–to hiss like a broken radiator whenever something new and unexpected comes his way. Your Bostonian will always look for witches and heretics to burn. Well—nowadays they don’t burn ‘em. They just ignore them. Or ban ‘em.

“I’ll tell you something right here and now, Yob–nothing more great and unique will ever came out of Boston. Providence, yes; Albany, maybe. But Boston is a rocky soil, and truly novel and innovative ideas fail to thrive in that precarious frozen ocean depot. Sure, there’s lots of scholars with their endless books and citations and scholarly apparatuses, but there is no sense whatsoever that anything new and novel will ever find a foothold there. The place is still overrun with the spirit of the dour Puritans. All they care about are their stupid fucking town meetings where nothing ever gets done, and their endlessly corrupt legislative bodies, ditto.

“Yob, those Salem Witch trials were far from a shameful one-time scandal or a sinful anomaly–they were standard operating procedure when it comes to understanding the psyche of the true Boston man. They have their asinine Algonquian club they can retire to, where they can while away a merry murky afternoon in a gin-soaked stupor sitting in plush chairs and slandering their betters. They have their Boston City Club, where they can pretend to be concerned about the civic concerns of a great city, while at the same time squeezing their department store employees for every last iota of work while paying them a miserable pittance as compensation. And they have the Somerset Club–the exact same thing, but on a higher level, where the city’s Old Money can scheme about how to exclude the nouveau-riche merchants from any position of social importance. I admire how those nobs work their magic! It’s just one slanging match after another. The proper Boston man would, I think, rather die the death of a thousand cuts than admit that he ain’t in good with all the high-quality big-wigs of the town–or at least, that he maintains some sort of nodding acquaintance with ’em.

“I’ll tell you something else, too, Ettil Yob–ain’t nobody can drink like a Boston Man. I think it’s because the blue bloods are in competition with the Irish, and they want to hold up their end of the Dipsomaniac sweepstakes. They have yet to acknowledge that the Shamrock boys are their equal, let alone their superior, in anything. Of course, the stuffed-shirts all cheat. They drink the finest spirits, while the Irish layabouts guzzle poteen and other vile abominations. That’s the only true culture you’ll find in Boston these days, by the by–the culture of the man who is half seas over.

“The perpetually drunken French Canadians are like radiators, you see–they drink and drink and drink and all they do is cast off more and more of a glow, until they’re utterly stupefied. As we all know, when the dagos drink too much vino, they become precipitate and murderous, and out come the long knives, the pig-stickers and the stilettos. Much the same goes for the Irish, although they tend to resort first to extravagant gestures and argumentation, and only then employ fisticuffs to settle a dispute. Not like the Germans. They’ll just snap. One moment as mum as a clam; the next moment, out with the blunderbuss. Your average Dutchman is a pretty stolid gent, but if you rile him up, he’ll swear a blue streak, and in the most perfect English. The British, of course, are all stiff upper lip, but when they get to boozin’ it up, they become more and more bleary-eyed, and it’s at that point they begin to slop over. That’s why we had to have a Virginian be the first President—to set a certain tone–say what you will about George Washington and his tight-ass demeanor, one thing’s for sure–he never slopped over, no matter how much bumbo he managed to imbibe while he was off swilling the planters.

“Reminds me of an odd New England character named Seneca Sprague. he used to stand in Scollay Square and proclaim that ‘George Washington was the second messiah’. Hardly a controversial viewpoint back in 1880.

“Although I’m sure now that the drunks and loochers who might witness such a spectacle today would be convinced that if Jesus Christ ever did come back, he would, of course, be–a Bostonian.

“And I’m sure of one thing–they would crucify him all over again. Right there on the goddamn Boston Common!”

1* SALUTATION
GREEN ON RED
GRAVITY TALKS

ALSO SEE:
GREEN ON RED
NO FREE LUNCH

GREEN ON RED
NO FREE LUNCH EP

2*REFERENCE
A Dictionary of Similes (1916)
By Frank J. Wilstach
Wilstach spent over 20 years tracing more than 16,000 similies to about 2,000 sources and categorizing them under some 3,000 subjects.
http://www.bartleby.com/161/

3*HUMOR
TEEN VOGUE
http://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2016/12/teen-vogue-politics/510374/

It has recently occurred to me that protest marches are sports rallies for left-wingers.

And that a protest march is a sporting event in which every participant is a winner.

Frankly, I’m outraged that such a thing as “Teen Vogue” exists.

But it’s interesting.

How nice that they’re spreading a thin patina of progressive politics over the very same pro-consumerist agenda in which they peddle stupefying palliatives which will ultimately destroy this planet! Bravo!

After all, teens are people too.

They sure are.

They just haven’t ripened yet.

But once they do, they’re ready to be plucked.

In the next issue:
THE LEAST GAS-GUZZLING HIGH-END SPORTS CARS
DEDICATED FOLLOWERS OF FASCISM–AND FASHIONS!
DOES TRUMP CAUSE ACNE?

4*NOVELTY
MATTEL TOMMY BURST TV COMMERCIAL

ALSO SEE:
JOHNNY SEVEN O.M.A. COMMERCIAL

SEE ALSO:
GUNS, SWEET GUNS!

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
JOHANN HARI
EVERYTHING YOU KNOW ABOUT ADDICTION IS WRONG
http://www.ted.com/talks/johann_hari_everything_you_think_you_know_about_addiction_is_wrong

6* DAILY UTILITY
SOVIETS FUNDED PUNK MOVEMENT
worldnewsdailyreport.com/sex-pistols-were-financed-by-ussr-to-destabilize-western-world-admits-ex-kgb-agent/

7*CARTOON
COMIC BOOK SOUND EFFECTS
http://www.comicbookfx.com/result.php?tagexact=1&tags=machine%20gun

8*PRESCRIPTION
CUTTING NOT CONFINED TO TEENS
http://www.history.com/news/cutting-was-the-brutal-victorian-version-of-throwing-shade

ALSO SEE:
ADVERTISEMENTS FOR VICTORIAN HEALTH REMEDIES
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2198086/Victorian-adverts-health-remedies-laden-cocaine-morphine-alcohol.html

9* RUMOR PATROL
BILLY’S DAD IS A FUDGEPACKER

ALSO SEE:
THE TROUBLE WITH WOMEN

10* LAGNIAPPE
THE VELVET UNDERGROUND
SISTER RAY
LIVE IN SAN FRANCISCO 1969

11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
THE DOUCHE CHILLS 10: SEAN PENN’S NOVEL
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/sean-penn-bob-honey-who-just-do-stuff-review_us_5ab9a1bee4b008c9e5fa89a2

ALSO SEE:
http://www.foxnews.com/entertainment/2018/03/27/sean-penn-admits-hes-on-ambien-smokes-on-air-in-bizarre-colbert-interview.html

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/sean-penn-cigarettes-stephen-colbert_us_5aba02f6e4b0decad04d8f86

*11A BOOKS READ AND REVIEWED
THE AMERICAN WAY. RIDLEY ET AL. ***1/2
AND THEN YOU’RE DEAD. CASSIDY & DOHERTY. ****
BAD SEEDS IN THE BIG APPLE. DOWNEY. ***
BATGIRL & THE BIRDS OF PREY 2. SOURCE CODE. ***1/2
THE BATTLE OF BLOOD & INK. AXELROD. ***
THE BEATLES STORY. ALLAN & RANSON. ****
THE BOOK OF GRICKLE. ANNABLE. ****1/2
BRAZEN. BAGIEU. ****1/2
CAPTAIN ATOM: ARMAGEDDON. ***
CHOCOLATE CHEEKS. WEISSMAN. ***
THE COLOR OF A GREAT CITY. DREISER. ****
THE COMEDY QUOTE DICTIONARY. SMITH. ***1/2
CONAN OMNIBUS 1. BUSIEK. ****
CONAN OMNIBUS 2. BUSIEK ET AL. ****
CROSSING THE EMPTY QUARTER. SWAIN. ****
DAPPER COPS & PEDAL-COPTERS. MALKI. ***
DC UNIVERSE ONLINE LEGENDS 3. ***
THE DEATH OF EXPERTISE. NICHOLS. ****
DESTINED FOR WAR. ALLISON. ****
DR. HORRIBLE & OTHER HORIBLE STORIES. ***1/2
A DRUNKEN DREAM & OTHER STORIES. HAGIO. ****1/2
THE FINDER LIBRARY 1 & 2. MCNEIL. ****
FIRE & FURY. WOLFF. ***1/2
THE GOOD RAT. BRESLIN. ***1/2
GRANDVILLE. TALBOT. ****
GRANDVILLE MON AMOUR. TALBOT. ****
THE GREAT OUTDOOR FIGHT. ONSTAD. ****
GREGORY & THE GARGOYLES. BOOK 2. ***
GRIFTER/MIDNIGHTER. ***
THE IMPOSTER’S DAUGHTER. SANDELL. ****
ISLE OF 100,000 GRAVES. JASON & VEHLMANN. ****
KILLINGS. TRILLIN. ****1/2
LITTLE LULU 1. STANLEY. ****
LOBO 1. ***1/2
THE MIGHTY THOR 4. THE WAR THOR. AARON. ***1/2
MOON GIRL & DEVIL DINOSAUR 4. GIRL-MOON. ***
NIGHTWING 4. BLOCKBUSTER. ***1/2
NOD AWAY. COTTER. ****
OPERATION S.I.N.: AGENT CARTER. ***
PLAYING WITH FIRE. O’DONNELL. ***1/2
POKING A DEAD FROG. SACKS. ****1/2
SATARISTAS! PROVENZA & DION. ****1/2
THE SECRET LOVES OF GEEKS. **
THE SENSES. FARINELLA. ****
SLEEPAWAY SCHOOL. SPRINGER. ****
SLEEPER. ALL FALSE MOVES. BRUBAKER. ****
SLEEPER. A CROOKED LINE. BRUBAKER. ****
SLEEPER. THE LONG WAY HOME. BRUBAKER. ****
SUPER-CRUNCHERS. AYRES. ***1/2
SUPERSIZED. SPURLOCK & BARLOW. ****
TAMMY PIERCE IS UNLOVABLE. WATSON. ****
THE TRIAL OF HENRY KISSINGER. HITCHENS. ***1/2
TROUBLEMAKER 1. EVANOVICH & JONES. **
THE TRUE DEATH OF BILLY THE KID. GEARY. ****
WILDSTORM: ARMAGEDDON. **1/2
WILDSTORM: REVELATIONS. ***
WOLVERINE VS. HULK. ***1/2

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
JOE ROGAN
HOW THE MOB SCAMMED THE LOTTERY

ALSO SEE:
ORIGINS OF CUBAN CRIME IN NYC
https://youtu.be/sJM0zgOJ-jI

MODERN WISDOM NUMBER 234 APRIL 2018

MODERN WISDOM: AMERICA’S ONLY HUMOR MAGAZINE
NUMBER 234
APRIL 2018

Copyright 2018 Francis DiMenno
dimenno@gmail.com
http://www.dimenno.wordpress.com

1. NOIR MISFORTUNE COOKIES
SECOND SERIES
351. Work at the Bureau of Alcohol. Tobacco & Firearms–you are a certified expert.
352. You might as well make the morgue your permanent forwarding address.
353. Swindler, you have passed some bad checks to some bad Russians.
354. Those Sicilians you insulted are quite fluent in English.
355. Your lottery winnings will all go to your loan shark.
356. You wanted to be a big shot. Instead, you are a big shit.
357. You will mistake your new cellmate’s lust for kindness.
358. Your fidgety sniffling makes the narks suspicious.
359. Junk sick under hot lights: They got you where they want you.
360. Everybody knows you’re a mad dog who belongs in the death house.
361. That pissed-on shit-blotter? The whole bar knows it was you.
362. It sucks to be you. Soon you will be completely sucked in.
363. You lost your job, wife, house, & car & your dog bit a lawyer.
364. You will be gravely injured while fighting over a discarded cigar butt.
365. You have been exposed to a hidden radioactive device and will never have children.
366. Every clown you see is laughing–at you.
367. Lonely one, your only role models were the Three Stooges.
368. Mobsters shun you–they know you as ‘The Joy Killer’.
369. Overnight your wife went from seductive sex kitten to sad cat lady.
370. You will try to save face. They will blow your head off.
371. Your wife will return from her trip a broken blossom.
372. Vietnam broke your spirit & you were never even there.
373. In a brave new world you are Yesterday’s Man.
374. You’ve had too many good times. Now the heartache begins.
375. Run all you want, craven one. They will inevitably find you.
376. You have tamed the big cats but will die from a dog bite.
377. You will pay twenty dollars for one gram of talcum powder.
378. There is no cure for your disease–terminal stupidity.
379. You will sell your birthright for a can of Hormel Beef Chili.
380. You will be forced to kiss the stumps of your amputee cellmate.
381. Your workplace is like one big family–the Manson Family.
382. “Previous experience: Doping Race Horses” does not look good on a resume.
383. Fixer, there is one thing you can’t fix: Your mother’s broken heart.
384. Fatty, your beer-and-meth slimming regimen is medically unsound.
385. Prankster, one day you will give a loaded cigar to the Boss of Bosses.
386. You will inadvertently insult the national flag of fierce Columbia.
387. Manic one, your caffeinated antics give coffee a bad name.
388. You will pass from dream to dream, and each will be a nightmare.
389. Every little breeze seems to whisper ‘Louise’–and it will never stop.
390. The court testimony of a gray parrot will send you to death row.
391. Sleep? Sleep will never come until you confess, guilty one.
392. No belief in a higher power will save you, inebriated one.
393. A man who cries while making love will never be a boss pimp.
394. You have wasted your whole life selling broken toys to sick monkeys.
395. Get along, little dogie–you know that death will be your new home.
396. Every time it rains while the sun shines a policeman is fucking your wife.
397. If you had half a mind to you would have half a mind.
398. Your wife loves clowns–maybe just a little bit too much.
399. Deceitful pawnbrokers will buy your swag for pennies on the dollar.
400. She treated you like a dog. Because you are a dog. Woof woof.

2. SARACEN WRAP VS. THE ALIENS: A TRANSCRIPT
[First Urgent Announcer voice over:] The Saturnians are coming!

The Saturnians are coming!!

The Saturnians are HERE!!

[Picture of what looks to be a melted plastic army soldier.]

And they are wreaking havoc on this planet!

[Photograph: A stock picture of Hiroshima.]

Do you doubt…their POWER?

[Close up of picture of Hiroshima.]

All this destruction was caused by ONE Saturnian!

[Close up of melted plastic army soldier.]

Think…of what a million could do!

[Kaleidoscope view of four melted plastic army soldiers.]

And…they are on their way!

[Enormous picture of Saturn.]

Scientists are working day and night!

[Stock footage of white-coated scientists in a lab.]

But the Saturnians have no weaknesses! Or so we thought!

But our brilliant scientists [Close-up of white-coated scientists] after long nights of feverish research [close-up of microscope] have discovered the one thing that can stop the Saturnians!

[Picture of melted army soldier toppling over.]

That miracle of modern technology!

[Picture of a box of Saracen Wrap™.]

Saracen Wrap™!

Cheap imitations fail to do the job!

[Pictures of boxes labeled ‘Brand X’, ‘Brand Y’, and ‘Brand Z’.]

With Saracen Wrap™!—ask for it by name!—even a boy of fourteen can take down an armed and deadly Saturnian soldier!

[ A greenish glow forms around the box of Saracen Wrap™.]

So you must buy TEN boxes! Today! For we must ensure that every man, woman and child in the land has ready access to life-saving Saracen Wrap™!

[Querulous Elderly Woman:] ”But what will we do with all the leftover Saracen Wrap™ once we’ve defeated the Saturnians?”

[Announcer:] Never fear, Granny! Saracen Wrap™ is both eco-friendly—AND non-biodegradable! In fact, it is virtually indestructible! It will last on your shelf and retain its usefulness for twenty years or more! Plus, it has 1,001 uses around the home. [Sotto voce:] Due to unprecedented demand, scientists in our hygienic laboratories have been turning out Saracen Wrap™ night and day!

[Picture of steel mill with black smoke pouring out of multiple smokestacks.]

And yet, because the makers of Saracen Wrap™ are conscious of the great benefit their product provides for the preservation, not only of leftovers, but for mankind itself, it’s being made available FOR THE SAME LOW PRICE AS BEFORE! But hurry—grocers, druggists, and street peddlars may raise their prices AT ANY TIME!!!

[Second Urgent Announcer voice over] NEWS FLASH! SINCE the advent of the evil Saturnians, sales of Saracen Wrap™ have skyrocketed! The company stock has risen an unprecedented five-thousand per cent!

[Stock footage of an old-fashioned stock market ticker spilling ticker tape in an endless spool onto the floor of a brokerage.]

Wall Street is experiencing a panic like no other in its history!

[Stock footage of businessmen in suits leaping from the ledges of tall buildings.]

[Teletype noise.]

[First urgent Announcer Voice:] NEWS FLASH! Here’s how to stop a marauding Saturnian—straight from the mouth of our latest little boy hero, young Billy Wilson, age 12!

Billy Wilson [a freckle-faced red-haired lad wearing a baseball cap, and a baseball mitt on his right hand, who speaks in a piping treble voice]: Hi, my name is Billy Wilson and I am twelve years old. I don’t pay much attention in science class–I’d rather be playing baseball, I guess. [He scuffs his feet and looks at the ground. then looks up.] But when that bad Saturnian landed in our back yard–well, I’m just a kid, but I knew just what to do, from watching the announcements on the TV. “Mammy!” I said. “There’s a Saturnian in our back yard! I need a roll of Saracen Wrap™!”

Billy’s Mom [Mrs. Wilson is a plump, matronly lady in her early 40s who is wearing a flowered cress and a white feeling apron. He light brown hair is pulled back in a bun. She is holding a steaming apple pie]: At first I thought Billy was just fooling around. You know these youngsters, and their wild imaginations! Besides, once it cooled, I needed mySaracen Wrap™ to put up this apple pie. Did you know that Saracen Wrap™ has 1,001 uses around the house? Anyway, young Billy was so insistent that I let him have his way, and I gave him the Saracen Wrap™ so he could play at whatever childish game he had in mind. And oh me oh my–am I ever glad I did! My husband Mr. Wilson–Jim–he wasn’t home from work yet–he’s the foreman of a factory–so Billy–he’s the man of the house when Jim’s away–why, he took that whole roll of Saracen Wrap™ and wound it around the face of the Saturnian, and the awful thing just choked to death. Just turned coal-black and curdled up, like.

Jim Wilson [A prosperous-looking man of about 50 with black hair which is gray around the temples, and a preoccupied and serious air. He wears a blue suit; espensive, highly polished brown wing-tip shoes, a navy blue Fedora hat, a starched white shirt, and a navy-blue necktie}: Well, I guess I don’t say it often enough, but–why, I’m just as proud of that youngster of mine as I can be! I’ve always drummed it into his head that it was his duty to protect his mother and his baby sister–and I guess the lesson took! At the factory, I’m the foreman–worked my way up from the factory floor to get to where I am today–and I don’t know much about physics or astronomy or any of those new-fangled theories that the double-domes are always peddling–but one thing I DO know about is mechanical engineering, from when I slogged through four tormented years in the stinking mud of the Solomons during my hitch in the United States Navy. God Bless General MacArthur! And I’ll tell you my theory about what happened. See, that Saracen Wrap™ forms a vacuum-tight seal that keeps food fresh, and also seals off the breathing apparatus of your average Saturnian, and it’s a seal so strong that it can’t be broken by conventional means. Now, the Saturnians can breathe our air. That’s what makes them so dangerous. But if there is too little moisture, then they just dry right up. They just shrivel, y’know? Like cracklin’s in a cast-iron skillet. Like a dead housefly on a sunny windowsill. Like pouring salt on a snail. Like a leaf in the breath of an oven. Like belated daisies, before a north wind. . Like a Normandy pippin. Like a rose without light. Like a plucked flower ready to be flung on some rotting heap of rubbish. Ya get the picture? Billy knew, from watching the programs on the television box, that this is exactly what would happen. Now, I’ll admit, Billy’s a bit big for his age. But I never saw a twelve-year-old with greater courage–taking on a Saturnian like that. Well, Sir–I’m just as pleased as punch about my Billy—and the Missus, too! Why, if it weren’t for her, we wouldn’t of had plenty of Saracen Wrap™ to hand, just when we needed it the most!

Billy’s Mom: Oh Honey, you’re just saying that. [They kiss. Billy beams.]

[Teletype noise.]

[Second Urgent Announcer Voice]: NEWS FLASH! Saracen Wrap™ is now being shipped in unprecedented amounts to our brave allies in Europe and England! [Stock footage of cargo ships steaming across the Atlantic.] Saracen Wrap™ is being shipped as well to faraway Australia, and to Canada, our friendly neighbor to the north! [Stock footage of truck convoys speeding along a highway.] Our peace-loving marines have reluctantly been sent to lands where cheap imitations of Saracen Wrap™ have been allowed to flourish. [Picture of a world map, highlighting in red Mexico, South America, Russia, the Middle East, and Asia.]

[Music up.]

We fondly hope that once cheap imitations of Saracen Wrap™ have been eradicated from the face of the earth, the world can live—AS ONE!

[Music up, and crescendo.]

[Black Screen.]

[Third Urgent Announcer voice over]: This message has been brought to you by the makers of Saracen Wrap™ . Try our latest scientific product—Post-Atomic Toasties! They crackle in your bowl—they crackle in your tummy—they crackle when you and the family sit down in front of the Geiger Counter! In every box—a free Ring of Saturn!

3. HORROR MOVIES FOR DOGS
Lightning Never Bites Twice In the Same Place
The Thing in the Garbage Disposal
The Day the Treats Stood Still.
The Man With the Rolled-Up Newspaper
Attack of the Six-foot Pom
Thunder and Lightning
I Am A Fugitive from a Municipal Dog Pound
Old Yeller Returns
Dawg Day Afternoon
The Dogs Must Be Crazy
Heel!
The Vacuum Cleaner Monster. –rms
The Invasion Of The Tennis Ball Snatchers –mr. shh
Final Defecation –mr. shh
The Lords Of Peopletown –mr. shh
Training Day –mr. shh
Night of the Living Vet –in the woods
The Blair Bitch Project –in the woods
The Ringworm –in the woods
The Last Car Ride –inthewoods
Big Trouble in Little China –inthewoods
“N” is for Neuter –rick o’shea
Kennel of 1000 Corpses –rick o’shea
I Piss On Your Hydrant –rick o’shea
The Bitches of Eastwick –wtfjones
The Howling –wtfjones
The Boneyard –wtfjones
Rin Tin Tinman –wtfjones
Damian: The Owner –wtfjones
The Hump Leg of Notre Dame –wtfjones
The Beast Beneath the Stairs –wtfjones
I know What Skunk You Killed Last Summer –wtfjones
The Big Sleep –woodymg
Kennel Coffin –danpm
Dude Where’s My Balls? –danpm
I Pull On Your Tail –danpm
Paws –danpm
Chuck Wagon’s Revenge –danpm
The Postman always Kicks Twice –jujuagogo
The Last Vet on the Left –jujuagogo
People Cemetary –jujuagogo

4. SUPER HELL STATION FRIDAY NIGHT LINEUP

7:00. ANDY OF MAYBERRY: THE TWILIGHT ZONE. [Comedy-Sci/fi.] Otis the Drunk is the last man on earth; Andy goes back in time to assassinate Abe Lincoln; Goover holds the power of life and death.

7:30. THE LEGEND OF STABBITY MCSTAB STAB STAB. [Western.] Pilot episode. In all the old West there was only one lonesome cowpoke who never carried a shootin’ iron. Instead, he carried about fifty knives that he had hidden in his saddlebags and secreted about his person. And he stabbed everybody. He was a legend. They called him: The Legend of Stabbity McStab Stab Stab. He was the stabbiest of them all!

8:00. THE FLINTSTONES MEET THE BEVERLY HILLBILLIES. [Comedy. Special.]
Fred and Jethro compete in a rib-eating contest; Ellie Mae takes Dino for a walk; Jed makes Betty Rubble squeal like a pig.

9:00. FUTURE DOUCHEBAG. [Sci/fi-Comedy.] Pilot episode. He travels in time…from the far future to the distant past—our present day. Not to try to change history—but to sneer at our savagery. He’s…Future Douchebag!

10:00. LITTLE HO ON THE PRAIRIE. [Drama.] Pilot episode. Times was tough on the old frontier. Strong men ate thistles for breakfast, and for lunch—they bled. Whores was givin’ out free blow jobs just to have a hot lunch. But there was one Whore that outshone them all—The Little Ho on the Prairie!

5. TIME FLIES WHEN YOU’RE IN A COMA: THE WISDOM OF THE METAL GODS
By Mike Daly. Photography by Mark Weiss
(Paper; Plume Books; 2008.)
Review by Francis DiMenno

Books of quotations are an especial favorite of mine. Like Marlene Dietrich, “I love quotations because it is a joy to find thoughts one might have, beautifully expressed with much authority by someone recognized wiser than oneself.”

Following the excellent opening essay by Mike Daly (have not all of us, as Americans, had a very similar Arena Rock experience?), we are struck as by a thunderbolt by the very first gem, by none other than Ozzy Osbourne:

“I got news for you. I spoke to God this morning and he don’t like you.”

You really have to look all the way back to, like, John Calvin and his doctines of predestination and election for a more telling explication of theology, fate, and poetic justice. (Though it’s not so far removed from the Hee Haw sketch in which four hillbillies moan, in unison, “If it weren’t for bad luck I’d have no luck at all”. And also compare Warrant’s “Why did God make you so famous when he only spit on me?”)

On the surface, some of these quotes are exactly the sort of lunkheadedness you might expect from Metal Gods.

But dig deeper, friend, and you will find unexpected depths in the cawn bosom of these pellucid pools.

Wrap your mind around this one, by Accept:

“You shouldn’t kill your brother except if he doesn’t know what’s right.”

I could literally spend weeks trawling through Mark Booth’s The Secret History of the World, Nicholas Hagger’s The Secret History of the West and Manly Hall’s The Secret Teachings of All Ages, and still not come up with a better encapsulation of The Higher Law.

Because this is not the stuff they teach you in any school.

Compare this to Iron Maiden’s somewhat less eloquent variation:

“If you kill me it’s self-defense, if I kill you then I call it vengeance.”

At first, I thought that the hitherto little-exploited rhyme of “self-defense” with “vengeance” was perhaps the most startling feature of what merely appeared to be a rather banal expose of solipsistic hypocrisy. I mean, I saw the same kind of thing in Mad Magazine circa 1965: ” When we use them we call them ‘intelligence agents’. When they use them, we holler that they’re sending ‘spies’.”

But then I thought about it.

Is this sentence intended to describe a sequence of events?

If so, then it’s simply brilliant!

Simply change it from the subjunctive to the present tense and it becomes, “You kill me in self defense so I kill you in revenge.”

And then it becomes a hall of homicidal mirrors that makes Hamlet look puny!

Some of these quotes, I’m sorry to say, show an anti-social side to this usually thoughtful and introspective genre that I, as a respectable adult and all-around bon vivant (and certainly no prude) am, nevertheless, duty-bound to deplore. Such as Van Halen’s incendiary,

“Why behave in public if you’re livin’ on a playground?”

Irresponsible credos such as these are precisely the sort of thing that compelled Frank Sinatra to snipe that “”Rock ‘n’ roll smells phony and false. It is sung, played, and written by cretinous goons and by means of its almost imbecilic reiteration, and sly, lewd, in plain fact dirty lyrics…it manages to be the martial music of every sideburned deliquent on the face of the earth.”

Of course, Frank knew an awful lot about cretinous goons, since in his sunset years he seldom travelled anywhere without a few bodyguards who fit that description, but…let’s not go there.

Some of these metal koans would make splendid first lines to prizewinning genre novels.

Slaughter has provided the would-be writer of Westerns with a fine opening passage:

“Ya gotta learn a lesson especially from a man who got a Smith and Wesson.”

Duly noted!

And the scribe who’s hell-bent on writing a hard-boiled crime novel could greatly benefit from Ratt’s eloquent cri de coeur:

“I’m headed for lobotomy, and I’m beggin’ them for more.”

Note the sophisticated shift from the subjunctive (I AM headED), in the main clause, to the present tense (I AM beggIN’), in the dependent.

They simply do not teach this technique in creative writing classes (okay, maybe they do), but the best sentence is one which exploits the possibilities of a combination of tenses.

Which Ratt does beautifully (see also: Nuyts, Jan: “Subjectivity as an evidential dimension in epistemic modal expressions,” Journal of Pragmatics Volume 33, Issue 3, March 2001, Pages 383-400)!

From a philosophic standpoint some of this book is, admittedly, rather rough sledding, but occasionally there is something that just so simple, and beautiful, and true, that it just about breaks your heart. For example, Electric Angels’ uncharacteristically existential complaint:

“Some of my friends are dead, some have just stopped living.”

I’m sure that on January 4, 1960, Camus was working on a novel that opened with exactly those words just before he was killed instantly when the sports car in which he was riding hit a tree.

Which reminds me: Where’s my favorite quote? Namely, the following lyrics to Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “That Smell,” an epic poem in and of itself (and based on a true story–which makes it EVEN BETTER!):

“Whiskey bottles, brand new cars, oak tree you’re in my way.”

That, perhaps, is being saved for the prequel, dealing with the 1970s.

In sum, this is not, all appearances to the contrary, a mere novelty book, half funny pictures and half quotations.

In fact, one can greatly benefit from the timeless wisdom contained in this slender compendium.

A famous politician has gone on the record as saying, “It is a good thing for an uneducated man to read books of quotations”

So I’m sure Winston Churchill himself would find this slight tome quite edifying.

Of course, he died on 24 January 1965, so maybe not.

6. TELEPHONE CONVERSATION OVERHEARD IN DIZZY’S LOUNGE

‘Your Daddy’?

Who’s ‘Your Daddy’?

Say what?

He’s with thuh government?

Maybe back when time was, Chief, but not now.

Jesus J. Crew Christ; if so, then why then is he still snorting around in a thrift-store Mr. London-brand raincoat from back in the days of Vietnam covered in his own snot ‘n’ vomit, ‘n’ living out of a fleabag piss-reeking bedsitter in a cold-water flat ‘n’ chuggin’ down rancid throat-lancing wine with fellow no-hopers with the liver disease and a hobo’s Jake Leg, ‘n’ always steering shy of harness bulls, rookie fuzz, ‘n’ even astigmatic security guards with one foot in the fucking grave?!

Yeah? Well listen–if he’s Mr. High Muckety-Muck, then why does he always has a bile smell when he laugh?

He is got to be a delusional screwball.

Thinks he’s King Kong but he’s just Joe Shit the Ragman.

Dass rite! A picayune, soi-disant ward heeler with a crypto-heterosexual yen for small time politics and a deep and abiding love for the silhouette of Tricky Dick Nixon’s blubbery proboscis.

OH YEAH? Well, you tell your fat ‘Daddy’ from me personal that in my day I’ve Kung Fooed far bigger loads than HIM!

[Slams down phone.]

7. THEODORE DREISER AND ARCHIE COMICS
Insofar as Dreiser’s monumental tome “An American Tragedy” has percolated down into our current everyday conciousness, it has done so in the form of the eternal triangle so repititiously portrayed in Archie Comics.

Think about it: Isn’t Archie simply tragic Clyde Griffiths, attracted to pore simple farm gal Roberta Alden but secretly hankerin’ after the high-society hijinxs of sex kitten Sondra Finchley?

But these days, more than ever, I worry even more about poor, poor Archie.

Observe:

Is this not truly the sort of shit-eating grin you see in cowed primates?

Look closely at Archie’s face.

Looks more like the sort of sheepish expression one might expect to see from Big Moose.

As a past master of Archieology, I couldn’t help but notice.

Anyway, I say poor Archie, because either way he turns, he’s screwed.

Either he marries brood sow Betty who porks up to 200 avoirdupois the second after the vows are exchanged and he gets shackled in a dead-end job with a beggar’s dozen of screaming snot-nosed brats to support, or:

He marries the marginally less attractive dark lady Veronica, and, if she doesn’t divorce his ass toot sweet he can look forward only to eventually living as a lapdog to a scornful withered aristo-crone who looks down upon every activity he enjoys with the imperious hauteur of one who is to the Lodge manor born.

What he really ought to do is murder Big Moose and run off with Midge.

8. MOVIE REVIEWER CODE: WHAT THEY SAY AND WHAT IT REALLY MEANS

“Wickedly funny” = Stupid.

“A non-stop, action-packed thrill ride” = Infantile.

“Fun for the whole family” = Insipid.

“A new American classic” = Sentimental horseshit.

“A roller-coaster ride” = No real plot, but plenty of gratuitous violence.

“___: The Sequel” = Same old shit in a different wrapper.

“A stylish, provocative thriller” = Harbors illusions of larger significance.

“Heartwarming” = Insufferably sententious and sentimental.

“Will put a smile on your face” = Utter lugubrious pap.

“Inspirational” = Moronic.

“Intriguing” = Baffling.

“Rollicking fun” = Really dumb.

“Significant” = Boring.

“A worthy successor to…” = No original ideas here.

“From the Producers of…” = We couldn’t get the same star or the same director from our first fluke hit to return.

“Tells about a forgotten aspect of history” = This sucks, but it would be injudicious not to praise it.

“Magic” = Improbable farrago of fantasy elements.

“The best family comedy of the year” = The only family comedy released this year with decent production values.

“Fun!” = It is so stupid that you will want to tear your hair out.

“High octane fun” = Idiotic hijinx amid senseless simulated slaughter.

“Non-stop action” = The Star’s tits are bigger than those of the female lead’s.

“X AND Y ARE PERFECT TOGETHER!” = The star looks like he would rather kiss, rather than snack on, the face of the female lead.

9. MOUSE-DUCK TICKET SWEEPS 40 STATES
(AP–Disneyland)

After triumphing as the result of an amazingly well-organized write-in campaign, President-elect Mouse announced today that he was “ready from day one.” He then tittered, and added, “By shucks.”

His ordinarily irascible running mate, Senator Duck, said nothing, but stood by and visibly seethed.

Later, highly-placed advisors explained that Senator Duck was convinced that he was the stronger candidate, but that Mouse’s charisma had swayed the fickle public to place him at the top of the ticket. (Duck, famously gaffe-prone, was not available for comment.)

The losers in the race, Senator Hook and Governor Tinkerbelle, declined comment, other than to say that they would “stand by the results” because “the people had spoken”.

All four candidates are currently resting from their strenuous labors on Donkey Island.

10.INTERNET TOUGH GUYS SPEAK OUT ON POLITICS

Like the pirates and robber barons of old, we collect gold. Society’s puny laws don’t pertain to the likes of us.For verily, shall a King be ruled by the ant heap? Republicans are all right, except for their silly talk about God. If they mean it, they’re fools. If they don’t, they’re hypocrites. In fact, anybody who fails to acknowledge that all men are ruled by naked self-interest are either fools or hypocrites.

LISTEN this IS the troof:
SINNER YOU BETTER GET READY LORD YOU BETTER GET READY HALLELUJAH SINNER YOU BETTER GET READY TIME IS COMING WHEN THE SINNER MUST DIE TIME IS COMING WHEN THE SINNER MUST DIE!!!

What are my credentials you ask? Well, I am a free, white, Zog-hating survivalist. I was briefly imprisoned in Russia and bears on my back a large, beautiful tattoo of the rear view of “the Boofer lady”–a long-haired naked woman, a snake entrined around her long legs, standing on a rock and hailing a sailing ship backed by a sunrise. OR IS IT A SETTING SUN? THAT is the paradox.

you think your scared now! if you think your scared know wait to the idiots that vote obama in start the chaos that their gonna create.

Guess we Zogged when we should have zagged.

it’s OK to burn THE FLAG–if it’s made of hemp.

We Will Barry You.

Jay Leno is an ugly, corrupt troll with a fat, melty face.

DEMS ARE SMARRRT AND REPS R STOOPIT

Well at least Obama he ain’t a Maoist.

hOO KONTYROLS TH GASSES KONTROLS TH MASSES

Scoundrelism is the last refuge of a “patriot”.

THIS FUNHOUSE MIRROR WE CALL OUR POLITICS HAS GOT TO BE SHATTERED INTO A MILLION LITTLE PIECES BY THE PEOPLE WHO KNOW WHAT’S BEST OR ELSE–CHAOS.

what position do I imagine former Massachusetts Gov. William Weld holding in an Obama/Biden cabinet? Torturing ducks.

OBAMA SAYS TAKE ELECTION DAY OFF???HAW HAW HAW! MOST OF HIS SUPPORTERS ARE COOKS AND DISHWASHERS ANYWAY–WHO’S GONNA MISS THEM?? ?

Why doesn’t Obama have his shoes re-souled?

GET TO KNOW THE BIG O

kommunis nothin wee need a strongg man in the wite house and know i don’t mean a freek in cirkus tites

Obama longs to preside over a paranoid Maoist totalitarian state, replete with bureaucracy and polymorphous perversity.
It says so on http://www.ihatezog, so it must be so.

[Note: Only one of these is real. Can you guess which one?]
Answer: #6

11.THE CULTURE OF MODERNITY

For those of us who wish to comprehend the “culture” of modernity, we need to be aware that its roots go all the way back to the 1830s. However, serious critical studies of one aspect of societal norms, the influence of mass media, didn’t begin in ernest until about the 1930s and 1940s.

In his 1947 monograph “Love and Death: A Study in Censorship”, Gershon Legman had a great deal to say about the nexus of sex and violence in the comic books and other media in the 1940s. As did Marshall McLuhan, in The Mechanical Bride: Folklore of Industrial Man (1951). Concerns echoed right down to today in Durham’s “The Lolita Effect” (2008).

To briefly, and very simplistically sum up their arguments, these two commentators (and others) drew from some of the theories of the 1930s Frankfurt School. Legmnan and McLuhan both speculated that the machine rhythms of an industrial society and its byproducts, including mass production and commodification, were responsible for producing a race of human beings whose responses were less “natural” and more like the machinery that surrounded them.

See:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frankfurt_School

I suspect that those of us who feel tied to time periods that we did not live through, in every generation, are looking for some mythic arcadia that existed sometime before we were born. Certain people also tend to select some historic catastrophe and say “Things were never the same after”…such and such happened–The Kennedy assassination, the King Assassination, the murder of John Lennon, 9/11…. They also seem also to be prone to this habit of imagining some lost arcadia.

The best explanation I’ve heard of the “generation gap”?

“Men resemble their times more than they do their fathers.”–Marc Bloch

How did we get to this point? Why did we get to this point?

I don’t know. Nobody does. But…

“It seems almost as if an early warning system is embedded in the passage of time itself, or in what Carl Jung called the Collective Unconscious. And that system would seem to be sending a stream of warning signals, enciphered as synchronicities.”–Peter Levenda

See:
http://www.sinisterforces.info/forum/viewtopic.php?t=5

Can we ever go back to Arcadia? To an era when vulgarity was kept under wraps?

I’d say no, you can’t go back. As for keeping vulgarity under wraps, that generally does not work, because when you repress the “forbidden” in one area, it tends to pop up in another. Even the supposedly staid and proper Victorians had a lot of hidden sexual kinks and hangups. Furthermore, social trends seem to operate like the rhythms of the human heart. Dystolic and systolic. The younger generation seeks to reveal what the older generation seeks to keep hidden. The young call the old “corrupt and soulless hypocrites”, and the old call the young “ignorant and infantile exhibitionists”.

The larger questions herein raised tend to be the ones also focused upon by the Annales school, with their emphasis upon “total history”.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Annales_School

THE INFORMATION #986 MARCH 30, 2018

THE INFORMATION #986
MARCH 30, 2018
Copyright 2018 FRANCIS DIMENNO

dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

Black-birds fatten best in hard weather; why not I in these dog-days?–Webster

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TWELVE: PART THREE: THE EASTERN GATE OF PARADISE

“Is that there story you told,” said Cadger Tandy to Count Victor Justin, “the one about Willy and his Paw, and the newspaper–is that a story about somebody famous?”

Count Victor Justin’s partially toothless mouth opened wide in an enormous horse-laugh. “Gaw haw haw! Do ye really think that eventually the old man was going to see the error of his ways and put young Willy in charge of a great metropolitan newspaper? Do you really think him such a damn fool? No, Ettil Yob,” he said with an expression halfway between a smile and a leer, “the sad truth is often far more prosaic than the fantastic fairy tales ye read about in storybooks. The father knew full well that, as a practical matter, a drunk is a drunk is a drunk. Once a drunk, always a drunk, even if he never takes another drop. A Yellof can remain as sober as–well, not a Judge; all the judges I ever knew or stood before liked a drink or two or even three or more and were notorious lushes–and nearly all the prosecutors and defense attorneys too, as I recall–lawyering pays quite well, if you got the right connections, but it’s not a job most white men would choose if they had any other alternative–though I suppose it’s a lot better than going door to door selling fraudulent burial insurance to querulous bohunks—though it damn well amounts to purt near the same thing–judges and lawyers are dipsomaniacs, nearly all of ’em, and if they ain’t drunks, they’re fools, which also pretty much amounts to the same thing. Nae, Yob, even if the la-ad were for ten years as dry as an Arizona Desert of a Mormon Convention in Salt Lake City, you would never know but that the very next day his better half might not burn the toast or run off with the iceman, or he might stump his toe or break his leg, or there might be some other crisis in his life, big or small–for any excuse will serve a drunk. And then he’ll fall off the wagon in the most spectacular way imaginable and go off on a hellacious bat which will see him making up for all that lost time when he was craving strong drink, and couldn’t have it, and he’ll tumble from being on the tippy-top to being right back in the gutter again—rock-bottom, the abyss, the nether regions–and there to stay, and the next stop the sanitarium, the flophouse, or, more likely, the morgue.

“No, Yob, Daddy doesn’t always kill the fatted calf and call the family ’round. The story of the prodigal son doesn’t usually pan out the way we’ve always been told it does. And even if it does, in every story ever told, someone has to be the victim. In every story ever told, the innocent must suffer. In the case of the prodigal son, good old Jesus there didn’t spare much of a tear for that fatted calf, now, did he? And I’ll tell you right now that no farm boy ever done neither.

“Children get used to cruelty pretty quick, if they know what’s good for ’em. They are downright eager to larn nature’s crowning lesson–that the ones as is on top can do pretty much anything they damn well please to the ones as are on the bottom–and who can stop ’em? Do you think a hungry bear has qualms about stealing honey? About eating a Boy Scout? Do you think that Mr. Bruin suffers an agony of indecision about whether or not to swat whole scads of stupid gasping trout from a torrential stream-bed and onto the near shore? Never in life, Yob. Only in pretty stories. Airy-fairy little fantasy tales.

“Stories, you see, are like hot gossip–they are morality tales. Warnings, if you will. Convenient little fables that are supposed to tell you what happens if you do such and such, and how so and so will react, and what thing or the other will happen if you do or don’t. But a lot of these stories don’t have to do with the real gen. Tell me–how many Danish princes do you know who try to kill their Uncles for poisoning their paws and marryin’ up with their Mammies? Precisely none, is my uneducated guess.

“Let me put you wise to something, Yob–stories is nothin’. Gossip–why, that’s another matter. Gossip spreads like wildfire. Why? Because gossip is warnings you can use. Maybe what actually happened gets distorted and exaggerated, but where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Dogs pissing on fire hydrants? Cats mewing? Birds screaming out warnings to their flock? That there is a form of gossip too. And the moral of all gossip is this: nature is cruel.

“And most of all, people are cruel. They are cruel to animals, they are cruel to their families, cruel to their friends–and they’re especially cruel to their natural enemies–and why shouldn’t they be? They might kill and eat a pig for food; they might smack their son to teach him not to touch a hot stove; they might pat their bosom chum on the back just a trifle too hard. They might even go so far as to break the leg of their worst enemy, or even maim him–but they’ll stop short of actually killin’ him, if only for fear of the consequences–that their kinfolk might avenge them, or the law might get involved. Oh, make no mistake–the mob is cruel. If you do anything–anything at all that makes you stand out in any way–they’ll either put you on a pedestal or, more likely, crush you. And sometimes the one and then the other. How many times have you seen a bad man who rules the roost–until another bad man takes him down and leaves him in the mud? Where are all the fine words of praise for bad man number one? Where are all his former friends who vowed to stay–to stand behind him through the thick and the thin? Why, they’ve all turned Judas–all of ’em. Loyalty in the mass of men is as scarce as hen’s teeth. And Sonny, let me put you wise to something else–hen’s ain’t got no teeth. Man is wolf to man, and that’s all there is to it.

“The double-domes wring their delicate little hands and call it ‘Man’s inhumanity to man’ or some such. Well, ask yourself this–if they’re so concerned about it, why don’t they put a stop to it? There’s two reasons why: First and foremost, they ain’t got the power. And they never will. Because they’re nervous Nellies. They think too much. Persuasion alone is not enough. Brute force is what’s wanted. And they ain’t got it. Take it from me–you can’t persuade an unthinking brute of anything that ain’t obviously in his own best interest. So–what if you’re the power behind the throne, and the King is a tyrant? Teaching him to pretend to be kind to children and the elderly and infirm is just about as far as you can curb him–by showing him by example—-winning for him the world’s regard. But you got to always make sure the King is kept in a good mood. And a good mood doesn’t happen to last for long. And then you’ll have a front row seat for all the suffering, all the endless, endless suffering that powerful men inflict upon the weak. You might think that, in a better world, there might be payment for the perpetrators of this suffering–payment in blood. But would it be a better world? Or merely a slightly kinder world which is full of the same arbitrary cruelty, only applied in a somewhat different way?

“No–unfortunately, or not, the truly enlightened people will never make much headway against the brutes and savages. All they can do, in the end run, is to sit in their studies and dens and libraries and scribble reams of foolscap with essays damning inhumanity–essays that nobody outside their own charmed circle will ever read, much less act upon.

“You said,” said Cadger Tandy, “there was a second reason why they don’t put a stop to all the suffering.”

“Oh Yaas,” said Count Victor Justin. “Secretly or not, they revel in it.” He snorted. “They are men much like any other. And…it’s in their character.”

1* SALUTATION
GREEN ON RED
GRAVITY TALKS

ALSO SEE:
NO FREE LUNCH

SEE ALSO:
NO FREE LUNCH EP

2*REFERENCE
DID ELVIS SWEAR?
EIN – A fan asks if Elvis ever used curse words as she didn’t think it was in his nature? What about stories of Elvis temper?

LG – I’ve heard this before, and these stories stem from sources that have blown this subject out of proportion. Did Elvis curse? Yes at times – who doesn’t? Did he lose his temper? Yes, but not that often.

EIN – Larry we have never talked before about Elvis and these strange stories of his alleged racism. What do you think about these accusations that occurred throughout Elvis’ career?
LG – Elvis a racist? that’s absurd! No Way! Elvis was universal in his outlook; he accepted and respected all races, creeds and religions. Elvis was very evolved that way. He was the first to acknowledge that his music was rooted in the black race. Of course back in the day, everyone including Elvis used the word Negro.

I remember once that he told me, ‘”Negroes have more soul in one finger than most whites have in their whole body.”

http://www.elvisinfonet.com/interview_larry_geller2007.html

3*HUMOR
TRUE ROMANCE
ORIGIN OF SICILIANS

4*NOVELTY
THE HOUTA-HOUTA & THE COOCHIE-COOCHIE
esnpc.blogspot.com/2016/07/the-kouta-kouta-and-coochie-coochie.html

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
THE REVOLT OF THE MASSES
QUOTES
“Mere boys that float on the waves.”
http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/3065822-la-rebeli-n-de-las-masas

6* DAILY UTILITY
EXPLOSIONS
http://www.discovery.com/tv-shows/mythbusters/myth-results/explosions/

7*CARTOON
WORST CARTOONS THAT EVER AIRED
geeks.media/worst-cartoons-that-ever-aired

8*PRESCRIPTION
NOTORIOUS NIGERIAN MESSAGE BOARD
nairaland.com

Abi na if he drop am na same thing so make he kuku smoke am finish
http://www.nairaland.com/4401013/man-high-weed-caught-smoking

9* RUMOR PATROL
LYNDON JOHNSON’S SHOCKING SECRET!
http://www.ep.tc/realist/74/index.html
http://www.ep.tc/realist/74/18.html

10* LAGNIAPPE
Rolling Stone’s 500 Worst Reviews of All Time (work in progress)
rateyourmusic.com/list/schmidtt/rolling_stones_500_worst_reviews_of_all_time__work_in_progress_/

ALSO SEE:
The Worst Reviewed Albums of Modern Times
http://www.theguardian.com/music/musicblog/2008/may/23/theworstreviewedalbumsofr

11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
THE DOUCHE CHILLS 9: TRUMP
Anatomy of a mass delusion:

1) He’ll never win the Republican nomination.
2) He’ll never win the Election.
3) He’ll never make it through his first year.

4) The Democrats will sweep the mid-terms and impeach him.
5) He’ll never be re-elected.

CAVEAT:

I suspect that the Democrats will make significant gains after the mid-terms.

I actually do think he will not be re-elected. He may even decide not to run.

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE

PREJUDICE, BIGOTRY & RACISM

Once can conceivably be prejudiced without being a racist, but a bigot and a racist are pretty much the exact same thing. In popular usage.

However:
prejudice: preconceived opinion that is not based on reason or actual experience.
bigot: intolerance toward those who hold different opinions from oneself.
racist: a person who shows or feels discrimination or prejudice against people of other races, or who believes that a particular race is superior to another.

q: If you kill all the racists, does that make you a bigot?

N.B. Der Antisemitismus ist der Sozialismus der dummen Kerle.
Translation: “Antisemitism is the Socialism of fools.”
A common saying of German social democrats, commonly attributed to August Bebel, who attributed it to Ferdinand Kronawetter. See Der Antisemitismus (1894) by Hermann Bahr, p. 21

The German literally translates as “Antisemitism is the Socialism of stupid churls.”

BTW: 100 years ago, ethnic and even racist humor were acceptable, but blasphemy and open displays of sexuality were taboo.

What’s it going to be in another 100 years? Is racism even going to be an issue in 2118?

THE INFORMATION #985 MARCH 23, 2018

THE INFORMATION #985
MARCH 23, 2018
Copyright 2018 FRANCIS DIMENNO
dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

All roads out of hell lead home.– Shannon L. Alder

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TWELVE: PART TWO: THE EASTERN GATE OF PARADISE

“Oh!” said Count Justin Victor to Cadger Tandy. ” Did I mention about how Miss Petunia was herself from Boston? No? More on that later.

“Anyway, Yob, I grew to detest the crowlike cawing of the evil fat midget woman Miss Petunia who I was unfortunate enough to have as a teacher. I’ve seen her eat. She devoured the food like an anxious hog who ate without so much as stopping to take a breath. It would take a pry-bar to separate her from her vittles, and even then you would be in actual fear for your life. Sporting men would give betting odds of 20 to 1 that it couldn’t be done. How did she meet her end? I imagine it was at some Church supper and some yob tried to steal a morsel off her plate and she crammed so much food in her maw that she choked, and she died with a scratch biscuit hanging out of her mouth–looked like a dirigible docking at a giant tower of dough.

“When you’re an Ettil Yob, you think at first that you are helpless in the toils of the looming monsters who call themselves adults and run your life. But that’s just what they want you to think–for the rest of your life, if they can get away with it. Whenever you ask them why such and such a thing needs to be done, they think you’re acting above your station and running wild and putting on airs, and that you have delusions of independence. Usually they resort to saying, in effect, it’s because I’m the adult and you are the child and because I say so, which isn’t really a very logical reason, when you come right down to it, since Ettil Yobs know a great many more things than Mater and Pater give ’em credit for.

“Anyway, you mustn’t repeat any of this stuff about Miss Petunia in public, as most spongiform fatties have got tender feelings which are easily bruised. What was truly amusing was how the ridiculous fat girl–bless her heart–tried so hard to act like an adult but was every bit as spiteful as a five-year-old child.

“Which reminds me of a charming story. A great newspaper magnate grew up in impoverished conditions and decided that when he had a lad of his own he would afford him every advantage. Well, predictably enough, he did have a son, Willy Jr., whose mother died in childbirth, and the Yob had th’ best of everything. Private tutors, nannies, nursemaids–he wasn’t even weaned until his was nearly four, and that’s because Nursey had been off eatin’ wild onions.

“Needless to say, he growed up just plain spiled rotten. Was kicked out of every elite academy, from Stropmuth Manor on up. School lore has it he threw another classmate out a second-storey window. The way other people tell it, he had a nutty fit because someone sat on and kilt his pet turtle. But the real reason was that he cheated on his Latin test. Everybody there had to take Latin, and he hardly even got past ‘Brittania est insula’. They caught him in the outhouse with a textbook.

“How he managed to get into Ivy College I dinna ken. But he did. Probably on account of Poppa Bigbucks. Well, like most wild youngsters, he went crazy for zooks, and gamblin’ on nap, and reeb and bacca. He was a wastrel who barely managed to graduate, and that only by the skin of his teeth.

“Poppa called in a favor and tried to get Sonny Boy a job with his college roommate’s brokerage firm. But Willy Junior managed to fuck it up by simply not giving a good God damn what his boss told him to do, and sloping off at any and all opportunites. This was not calculated to make him popular with the other clerks, and they snitched him out in snide to the old man, and pronto.

“Poppa was at his wit’s end. He tried everything. Cutting Willy Junior’s allowance. Having him committed to a sanitarium. Even giving him a job on his very own newspaper. But young Willy was incorrigible. Very soon the old man cut him off. Sent him packing, right out onto the street without one red cent. Cut him completely out of his will. The youngster mooched off his college pals for a spell, but they all got wind of what had happened and soon he was regarded among the smart set as completely infra gig, and nobody would help him or even give him so much as the time of day.

“Well, young Willy sunk lower and lower. At first he got a job as a clerk at some out-of-the-way counting house, but years of dissipation has left him shaky and unable to stand the gaff, and then he successively washed out of low-paying jobs as bookstore clerk, pot-walloper, and, finally subway track-walker, which was dangerous work amid all the noise and soot. A kindhearted boss, seeing as he was utterly unfitted for the job and bound to get hurt, and knowing something of his background, fired him–more as an act of charity than anything else–and sent him to the Salvation Army Mission.

“I suppose that for once a charasmatic preacher was able to reach a lost soul. It turned out Willy had a fine tenor voice. Soon, he was leading the choir in the Mission. His benefactor, the Preacher-man, got him a job as a piano teacher, but, as that didn’t pay much, he got him a position at his old man’s newspaper, as a typesetter.

“After about a year, the Preacher Man scrooched up to William Senior and asked him how he would feel at the prospect of seein’ his lost son again. Well, Sir, the old man ups and says, I have no son, and the Preacherman says, well, what if’n I told you he has been gainfully employed for over a year? Interesting, says the old man, if true. But I don’t believe it. Whare? Well, Sir, right here at your own paper, says the Preacher-Man. As a typesetter. The old man flushed and grew excited. He said Show me! Where? So he goes down to the press room and sees his son. With a tear in his eye he calls for his son. His son stops work and says “Papa!” The old man wipes a tear away and says “Hello, Willy. Get back to work now. It ain’t your lunchtime.”

“This is a true story! Now tell me, Yob–was that not that a wondrous tale?”

1* SALUTATION
CHRIS BELL
I AM THE COSMOS

2*REFERENCE
THE PROVIDENCE COLLEGE MASCOT
​​“Your mom is the Providence mascot.”
https://deadspin.com/look-into-the-face-of-march-madnesss-cruelest-mascot-1823690107
https://nypost.com/2018/03/13/the-story-behind-providence-colleges-terrifying-mascot/

He’s actually a pretty good basketball player in his own right.

Though I dunno. This is pretty terrifying too, if the truth be known.
https://media.gettyimages.com/photos/general-view-of-the-dalmatian-which-is-the-newest-member-of-the-picture-id902535522?k=6&m=902535522&s=612×612&w=0&h=pm4uBQAPcUWuYdYY5wcCsQ2UMnL0WHZhMrzJKQqn__A=

3*HUMOR
GUM VIOLENCE

4*NOVELTY
THE WORLD’S GREATEST SINNER
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_World%27s_Greatest_Sinner
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0056703/mediaviewer/rm2955094528

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
JANE WALKER
https://www.johnniewalker.com/en-us/
Hey–I’d Dewer.

6* DAILY UTILITY
DISEASE X
http://www.mirror.co.uk/news/world-news/scientists-warn-mysterious-deadly-new-12160964

ALSO SEE:
VIRUS X
https://babblingsaboutdccomics2.wordpress.com/2015/03/30/action-362-the-head-of-hate-and-supergirl-on-trial-in-the-future/
https://babblingsaboutdccomics2.wordpress.com/2015/03/30/action-363-virus-x/
https://babblingsaboutdccomics2.wordpress.com/2015/03/30/action-364-no-cure-for-superman/
https://babblingsaboutdccomics2.wordpress.com/2015/03/30/action-365-along-the-flight-to-cremation/
https://babblingsaboutdccomics2.wordpress.com/2015/03/30/action-366-superman-substitutes-and-supergirl-meets-alpha-and-beta/

SEE ALSO:
12 MONKEYS TRAILER

7*CARTOON
JAY LYNCH RIP
http://www.thethirdcity.org/blog/sights-and-sounds/sights-and-sounds/jim-siergey-mr-lynch/

8*PRESCRIPTION
SEX KITTENS GO TO COLLEGE (TRAILER)

9* RUMOR PATROL
MAIN CAUSES OF JOB DISSATISFACTION

10* LAGNIAPPE
THREE DOG NIGHT
LIAR

11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
THE DOUCHE CHILLS 8: COSBY DECLARES THAT HE IS GOD
An unintentionally risible speech given before the NAACP by Bill Cosby in 2004, during which, referring to poor people, Bill Cosby proclaims: “God [aka Bill Cosby] is tired of you.” (The idea of rapey Bill giving out advice on proper parenting is funny indeed.)
Ladies and gentlemen, I really have to ask you to seriously consider what you’ve heard, and now this is the end of the evening so to speak. I heard a prize fight manager say to his fellow who was losing badly, “David, listen to me. It’s not what’s he’s doing to you. It’s what you’re not doing. (laughter).

Ladies and gentlemen, these people set, they opened the doors, they gave us the right, and today, ladies and gentlemen, in our cities and public schools we have fifty percent drop out. In our own neighborhood, we have men in prison. No longer is a person embarrassed because they’re pregnant without a husband. (clapping) No longer is a boy considered an embarrassment if he tries to run away from being the father of the unmarried child (clapping)

Ladies and gentlemen, the lower economic and lower middle economic people are holding their end in this deal. In the neighborhood that most of us grew up in, parenting is not going on. (clapping) In the old days, you couldn’t hooky school because every drawn shade was an eye (laughing). And before your mother got off the bus and to the house, she knew exactly where you had gone, who had gone into the house, and where you got on whatever you had one and where you got it from. Parents don’t know that today.

I’m talking about these people who cry when their son is standing there in an orange suit. Where were you when he was two? (clapping) Where were you when he was twelve? (clapping) Where were you when he was eighteen, and how come you don’t know he had a pistol? (clapping) And where is his father, and why don’t you know where he is? And why doesn’t the father show up to talk to this boy?

The church is only open on Sunday. And you can’t keep asking Jesus to ask doing things for you (clapping). You can’t keep asking that God will find a way. God is tired of you (clapping and laughing). God was there when they won all those cases. 50 in a row. That’s where God was because these people were doing something. And God said, “I’m going to find a way.” I wasn’t there when God said it… I’m making this up (laughter). But it sounds like what God would do (laughter).

SEE: https://www.rci.rutgers.edu/~schochet/101/Cosby_Speech.htm

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
SCIENTIFIC AMERICAN: WHY ARE WHITE MEN STOCKPILING GUNS?
blogs.scientificamerican.com/observations/why-are-white-men-stockpiling-guns/

Did you hear about the article in SUPERSTITIOUS CAVEMAN?

WHY DO CRO-MAGNONS ACCUMULATE ROCKS?

Research suggests it’s largely because they’re anxious about their ability to protect their young and their mates, insecure about their place in the Savannah, and beset by fears of fire and Neanderthals.

Clan-leader Trog rallies the tribe with claims that “the NAACM is over-run with sorcerers and Shaman agitators.”