THE INFORMATION #934 MARCH 31, 2017

THE INFORMATION #934
MARCH 31, 2017
Copyright 2017 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com

Heaven goes by favor. If it went by merit, you would stay out and your dog would go in.–Mark Twain

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER ELEVEN: PART SEVENTEEN: DAYS OF WRATH
When Cadger Tandy next met up with Count Victor Justin, it was at Holly Park, in early spring. The orange sun squatted like an old gold coin on the cold horizon. Squirrels as black as soot were scampering high in the bare and overarching branches of blighted trees. The Count seemed somewhat the worse for strong drink, and his usually meticulous clothing was somewhat mussed, as though he had narrowly escaped a barroom brawl (as indeed he had).
 
“Mr. G. God Almighty must be laffin’ his little ass off, Yob, to see his Jewish Messiah being worshiped–by folks as hates th’ Jews,” said Count Justin Victor–seemingly apropos of nothing. Except that the Count seemed curiously disinclined to let the thread of the previous conversation devolve further into mere carny anecdotes, which he considered unworthy of a man of his demonstrated intellect. 
 
“In fact, there’s a lot of things about this stupid old world that most likely set Big G. to chuckling to Hisself. I’m betting that jolly old Jehovah laughed like hell during the siege of Jerusalem. “Come on out,’ says what’s his name, the one after Vespasian–shit, I always forget his name–Titus! ‘Come on out, says old Tight-ass, and we’ll spare your life.’ ‘Nothing doing,” says the Jews. And so he starves them out. And even after that, old Tight-ass, he says, ‘Now don’t you go burning down their temple.’ But some Roman soldier gets to playing with matches and 6,000 Jews burn up in the twinkling of an all-seeing eye. Now, what kind of God would countenance those kinds of doings? I’ll tell you, Yob–a God who likes to laugh at the queerest things. 
 
“Not to be sacrilegious or like that. Lordie knows I set a bad enough example as it is to a green sprout such as yourself. You still be saving that money I’ve been handing to ye? Good-o. Where are you hiding it, Yob? Not under your mattress or anywhere like that, I hope. No? Good. Bravo. Bravissimo. Burying it somewhere out-of-doors is best. No, I don’t want to know where you’ve squirreled it away. If I want to borrow me some, I’ll ask you straight out. ‘There is honor among thieves.’ But don’t you believe that lie. Never take the word of a thief. ‘Nor thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor extortioners, shall inherit the kingdom of God.’ Haw! That’s because they’re all having one hell of a swell time right here and now–in the kingdom o’man!
 
“Like I told you before–trust no one. Given the right circumstances, even your ane Mammy might sell you out and cut you dead–in the shadow of the Gallis Pole. It sounds pitiless, and hard, but always remember this, Yob–chances are that if it sounds hard, why, then, it’s God’s own truth. So don’t let ’em kid you, kid. Don’t let ’em kid yuh.
 
“Now, you would think that an all-knowing God would protect the most humble of his critters, but all ye have to do is look out in the street and see that life is hell for horses, and pushcart merchants, and icemen. And coal-wagon drivers and streetcar conductors and virtually any drudge who earns his bread through the sweat of his brow.  Why do some men get to laze the afternoons away while others are under the lash? Maybe it’s due to the fact that God isn’t good, but merely great. Maybe God throws trouble our way so we’ll have something to pray to him about. Or maybe God simply has a peculiar notion of what’s funny. You do know that in the Amazon, babies are routinely eaten by soldier ants. Stripped clean to the bone in forty seconds. And what can you do about it? You can’t shoot an ant. They don’t give a shit. They’ll swarm all over you and eat the wooden stock of your gun even as you’re shootin’ at them. Did you know that in Saudi Arabia they still buy and sell slaves? That in deepest darkest Africa there’s all sorts of awful worms that it would make you sick just to hear about? And if you visit the Ganges River, you’re sure to come home with cholera. Life is cheap in the Orient, they say, but it ain’t worth a damn in Russia, neither. It’s the law of the knout in that rotten icebox, where Cossacks will rape your daughter and laugh in your beardless face. Nor are you safe at home in Serbia nor Bosnia nor Herzegovina. To say nothing of Montenegro, Macedonia, and Albania. Or any other of them bohunk countries. What does it say about Europe when a man would rather eat out of garbage cans here–than try to raise a family over there? 
 
“As a matter of fact, though, we Americans needn’t be so smug. There’s probably places in old Mexico where you can buy a baby girl for the price of a bottle of Mescal. And Eskimos are well-known for their habit of shipping old granpaw out on an ice floe when he starts to become forgetful and has lost all his teeth. And down south they got hookworm and pellagra and all sorts of other delightful diseases–not to mention lynching bees. Meanwhile, up north–well, our own good old Captain John Smith said it best: He who does not work shall not eat. 
 
“All this makes me think that man had something to do with the creation of God. How could it be otherwise? A God as arbitrary and cruel as any savage? No–wait–nowadays even a savage doesn’t go around bashing out the brains out of pore innocent babies. Unless provoked. And people always say “This was God’s will, and while we don’t always understand why God does what God does, we must accept God’s will, or else he may smite us.” Haw! He sounds like a real bully-boy to me! 
 
“Me, I think the answer is relatively simple. God is playing the long con. He’s conditioning us to put up with awful stuff so as to make us stronger and more fit to face the challenges of this brave new world. Sorta like the strongman Sandow, only with machinery and dynamite instead of dumbbells and medicine balls. 
 
“I’m telling you, Yob, that kingdom of God must be one hell of a place. What with all the dead cats and dead dogs mewing and barking up a storm, and all the dead horses leaving enormous turds on the streets that are paved with gold, and all the dead babies a goo-goo-ing and shitting every which where, not to mention all the martyrs having a good old time with some wine that Jesus made out of a barrel of rainwater, and all the cripples throwing away their crutches and trusses. And all the dead virgins indulging in orgies. I’m telling you, heaven must be a place of wickedness. I’m betting that hell is a bit less rowdy. Austere, even. From what I know of the Devil, I’m betting he’s a conservative. A real stuffed shirt. Doesn’t believe in fun. Doesn’t know what fun is. Then again, most men don’t–when they get to be a certain age. The Devil is an old man, and he runs his plantation like an Oriental despot. That much is certain. 
 
“Whereas heaven? Heaven is most likely run…by anarchists. Celestial nihilists–with a real crazy sense of humor.”
 
1*SALUTATION
THE OUTLETS
CAN’T CHEAT THE REAPER
2*REFERENCE
GREAT BARRIER REEF R.I.P.
3*HUMOR
JIM BACKUS
THE DIRTY OLD MAN
4*NOVELTY
SEARCH WIKILEAKS
 
5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
6* DAILY UTILITY
10* LAGNIAPPE
HOLY MODAL ROUNDERS
HAPPY SCRAPPLE DADDY POLKA
11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
ACTION ITEMS ON YOUR RADICAL PROFESSOR’S LIBERAL AGENDA by MARIKA SEIGEL
https://www.mcsweeneys.net/articles/action-items-on-your-radical-professors-liberal-agenda
CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
927. MARVIN JELLO; THE COMIC STRIP IN WHICH HE DEBUTS AND DIES
928. Don’t Plant Those “Bee-Friendly” Wildflowers Cheerios Is Giving Away

THE INFORMATION #933 MARCH 24, 2017

THE INFORMATION #933
MARCH 24, 2017
Copyright 2017 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
 

I love the name of honor, more than I fear death. –Julius Caesar

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER ELEVEN: PART SIXTEEN: DAYS OF WRATH
Young Cadger Tandy, a relative innocent at the age of 14,  saw that Count Victor Justin was in (what passed for him as) a jovial mood, and so made bold to ask of him a question which had been plaguing him since the two of them first met.
 
“‘Count,’ what’s your real name?”
 
The Count gave him a long blistering look and then countered with, “What’s your real name, Yob.”
 
“Don’t rightfully know. Jack, I guess. But everybody’s called me ‘Cadger’ ever since I can remember.”
 
“Well, the same goes for me. Everyone’s either been calling me ‘Count’–or ‘No-Count,’–ever since I started into being with it and for it. Mooch around with hoboes long enough and they’ll always hang some kind of monicker on you. Most of them are kind of lazy, you know, or else they wouldn’t of become hoboes in the first place. Nature’s natural-born anarchists are what they really are, as they are dedicated, first and foremost, to the great ‘I,’ and they therefore choose the life of a traveling bummer because they can’t stand to be penned up and forced to live in any other way. Y’see? And men like this, they don’t want their real names to be spoken out loud, ever, or even known. Chances are, they are on the run from a wife and kiddies, or, even more likely, from John Law, and are wanted for innumerable depredations. Y’see, ‘Jack,’ knowing a Yellof’s real name gives you some sort of unearthly hold over the Yob. I’m not prone to believing in most superstitions, but I do believe that knowing a person’s actual name is a key to owning his soul. Why, look at Rumblestiltskin if you need an example. 
 
“Y’see, once you have his true name, you have the individual’s essential nature. Once you have his true name, you can dig deep into the person’s skull and get him or her to divulge all sorts of personal information. Things that they done that they never told nobody about before–not even their sainted white-haired Mammies. My cellmate in prison, for instance–Bob ‘Snorky’ Papke. He wanted to impress me with all his bad deeds, assuming that on that basis he’d win my respect. So he confessed to blowing sky high a ‘soulful’ circus clown in Cincinnati. It goes almost without saying that he attempted to exonerate himself. He was not the kind of guy who went around killing clowns for fun. At least, not most of the time. ‘It was either him or me,’ he said. 
 
“Y’see, my cellmate ‘Snorky’ was traveling with the Circus when he saw this Yellof who billed himself as Bumbo the Wonderful Clown get into a big argument with the Calabrian Strong Boy, who started yelling insults at him from across the lot, which Bumbo answered back in a harsh, braying voice. 
 
“Weakling!” says the strong boy.
 
“Jolthead!” says the clown.
 
And back and forth like that.
 
“Scavenger!” says the strong boy.
 
“Whoremonger!” says the clown.
 
“Sachelmouth!”
 
“Bullethead!”
 
“Vagabond!”
 
“Jailbird!”
 
“Ragpicker!”
 
“Mountebank!”
 
“Simp!”
 
“Invert!”
 
“And then the strong boy stroked his mustaches and purred that the clown was a ‘Finnochio.’
 
“At which point, Bumbo then offered to fight the strong boy, who only laughed. He started slapping at the strong boy’s face, and the strong boy only laughed some more. But then he picked up a big wooden piledriver and took a swing at the strong boy’s noggin, and in the process nearly took off his head, and the next thing you know, the Strong Boy is got him in a chicken wing and Bumbo is lost the fight. The strong boy was a chucklehead–a good natured sort of sap, and little more than a big kid himself. But that Bumbo was a mean one. An innocent-looking whiteface Joey, all sweetness and light on the outside, and especially when he was performing in the circus ring to amuse the kiddies, but a man with a truly evil temper whenever he wasn’t in the limelight. When he was backstage, whenever he spoke, all he would do is grumble and curse, and you would swear his breath was made of acid and that where he spat the grass didn’t grow. He had a midget butler–a Negro who he used to lash with a horsewhip whenever the shrimper didn’t move fast enough to suit him. And he had a cigar-smoking turtle–the only cigar-smoking turtle in the world, and the only critter in the world he ever loved–and he ended up EATING him. Like I said–he was a mean, mean man.  
 
“Bumbo sat and stewed for a few weeks after the strong boy had bested him. Eventually, he left the Circus and got a job with a carny, but later on he came back to the lot on a moonless night after everyone was asleep, and bushwhacked the Calabrian Strong Boy with an iron crowbar, and stove his head in. He killed the Strong Boy, dragged his body to a deserted part of the lot–and then he took a butcher’s knife from the cook shack and stripped him right down to the bone, like a barracuda. And he fed the meat to the big cats. How’s that for twisted, eh?”
 
“Now, somehow, my cellmate saw most of what transpired, and the Clown caught him peeping and knew who he was, and so his life wasn’t worth a plugged nickel until he dispatched the clown. The way he went about was actually quite straightforward. He went to the carny one night and dropped a stick of lit dynamite under the clown’s trailer. It blew both the clown and the trailer to kingdom come. The police was called in and asked him why he done it. He played dumb, and said he only did it to get back at the Clown for playing a practical joke on him, and he didn’t mean to kill poor old Bumbo. Surprisingly enough, the police bought it, or pretended to, and Bob Papke went down the river for five years on a charge of involuntary manslaughter–instead of pulling twenty-to-life for cold-blooded murder. Which it actually was. Though a good shyster with all the facts probably could of argued self-defense. But Bob Papke was a person of no special accomplishments, who had no connections–in fact, if he wasn’t a Carny, he probably would have been a bum, and probably is now, if he ever made it out of stir withouten being carried out–in a pine box.  
 
“Bob Papke told me all about the murder right off the bat, but what he didn’t tell me about, until much later, is that he was a Jewish anarchist, and a morphodite, and that him and the Clown were getting drunk and tickling each other’s fancy, so to speak. I suppose you’re old enough to know the barefaced truth about men who like to–err, who like to–umm, who have a hankering for men instead of women. Lots of tough guys go in for that. You see, Bumbo the Wonderful Clown had probably been having an affair with the Calabrian Strong Boy, but the Clown broke it off for some reason, maybe because the Strong Boy had trouble getting it up, but, anyway, the Strong Boy was plenty steamed. This is just a supposition on my part. You never really know with those Calabrians. They’re just a half step up the ladder from a Sicilian–who in turn is a mongrel barely a half step up from a Greek or a Turk, or even an ape. But don’t quote me.”
 
1*SALUTATION
3*HUMOR
WORST ROCK STARS EVER
Jobriath’s album: “like a statue of a retard carved out of white gold.”
 
SEE ALSO:
THE SEVEN MOST IMPOSSIBLE ROCK STARS TO DEAL WITH
 
TWENTY OF THE MOST DRUGGED-OUT ROCK STARS
4*NOVELTY

The Pope once called for all cats to be killed.
esoterx.com/2014/02/20/nine-lives-are-not-enough-inquisitions-cat-massacres-and-the-black-death/

8*PRESCRIPTION
WINTER DE-ICER

You can make your own de-icer fluid at home by mixing three parts vinegar to one part water in a spray bottle. Another option is to mix a bottle of rubbing alcohol with three drops of dish soap in your spray bottle.
http://www.yourmechanic.com/article/how-to-get-ice-off-your-windshield-by-jason-unrau

 9*RUMOR PATROL
DR. WERTHAM ON WONDER WOMAN

“The Lesbian counterpart of Batman may be found in the stories of Wonder Woman…,” [Wertham] observed. “The homosexual connotation of the Wonder Woman type of story is psychologically unmistakable. The Psychiatric Quarterly deplored in an editorial the ‘appearance of an eminent child therapist as the implied endorser of a series . . . which portrays extremely sadistic hatred of all males in a framework which is plainly Lesbian’.”
arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2010/08/papers-of-the-dr-evil-of-comics-now-open/

10* LAGNIAPPE
FLOWERS
AFTER DARK

“He fumbled through my bra strap/While I prayed for whispered nothings/He was working on his technique/While I tried to be a vamp//He tried to be a playboy/And I tried to be a playgirl/But he couldn’t stay hard, no/Couldn’t stay hard no … SO … PUT … ABBA … ON … INSTEAD!!!”

https://youtu.be/xhVbmcOM8Sw

11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA

BEST AND WORST TIPPERS (ACCORDING TO QUORA)

The best tippers:
Single parents
Drug dealers
Drunk people of any nationality
Police officers
Military personnel
Paramedics / fire fighters
 
The worst tippers:
Blacks

Asians (both far east and southeast, although Indians have gotten the worst reputation)
Christian church goers
Women in a group
Teenagers
Jews
Europeans

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.

925. SENATOR RALPH SHORTEY (R-OK)

“The only way I can lose this election is if I’m caught in bed with either a dead girl or a live boy”.–Edwin Edwards

THE INFORMATION #932 MARCH 17, 2017

THE INFORMATION #932
MARCH 17, 2017
Copyright 2017 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
 

Klieg, Klieg, Klieg-Du bist a Nar. You are smart, smart. smart – but you are not so smart! – a Yiddish saying

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER ELEVEN: PART FIFTEEN: DAYS OF WRATH
“It recently occurs to me Yob,” said Count Victor Justin to Cadger Tandy, “that I haven’t visited the Seven Stars Saloon in quite a spell.”
 
It was about 11pm, and the two of them were walking around the unlit cobblestoned streets of Blowtown, illuminated solely by a pale three-quarter moon and innumerable stars concealed by clouds. In spite of the dim lateness of the hour, the Count feared no robbers; he carried with him not only a gun, but also a stout walking stick with a razor strategically embedded in the tip.
 
“So tell me–how are the Loochers there still getting along? Is Coughy McFatterson still spreading his cold germs? Is Tipsy Smith still watering the drinks and mopping the glasses with a filthy rag?”
 
Cadger Tandy informed him that Tipsy Smith no longer bothered washing the beer mugs, so that each had a rime of dried beer froth along the lip.
 
“Haw haw haw! Is that so? How about Adam O’Day–is he still cutting his shines and capers, with his corny jokes and childish pranks? Is Mayor Lobhar still slumming there, in search of rough trade?”
 
Cadger Tandy answered in the affirmative on both counts. 
 
“And how about old Musky Dan? Is he still making new friends? Cursing the Nigras and the Hunkies and the Polacks and the Spanish Wops and the Eye-talian Wops? And especially the Chosen People? I swan, that man sees Jews Jews Jews everywhere. Typical superstitious Irishman, him. Always ranting on about how Christ Himself was no Jew; rather, he was one-hundred and five per cent a ‘Hwite Man,’ and if he didn’t speak perfect English, he surely could of.
 
“It always tickles me pink to hear him ranting about loving Christ and hating the Jews all at the same time–just think of it–a Jewish God whose worshippers persecute the Jews and screw them in the ground every chance they get. The irony is delicious. If you’ll pardon the expression.
 
“Of course, there’s always the infinitesimal possibility that Musky Dan is right–maybe Jews are everywhere. I don’t really care one way or another. I’ve been injured by many a Jew, sure; but I’ve also been injured by many a gentile. 
 
“Jews–everywhere? I rather doubt it. That’s the kind of fevered talk you hear from people who also see anarchists under every bed; and who are convinced that McKinley was laid on his bier as a result of some vast mysterious conspiracy; and that the San Francisco earthquake was actually engineered by the Army and the Navy to drive up the price of real estate. 
 
“Nay–if’n  the Jews were really so powerful as he and others like him like to say, wouldn’t they band together to forbid such talk? As it happens, Jews the world over are constantly being physically attacked, so I don’t ken how they’re supposed to be so powerful. If they were, in fact, the sneaking heathen devils and Christ Killers they’ve been portrayed as, then why don’t they go to Russia and free their oppressed brethren from the lash and the knout? Or why don’t they go to France and do something about the Frenchies as gave pore old Dreyfuss such a hard time? Or why don’t they go to Ireland and–well, do SOMETHING? 
 
“Of course, old Musky Dan would say that the Jews have brought it on themselves–pretending to be a religion, when actually, all they are is a tribe. He claims that even if you baptize a Jew, he remains a Jew. Why? Because he’s a Jew by race and not by religion or temperament.  According to Musky Dan, the Jew could be from one of the finest old families who came here generations ago–and he would still be nothing more than a Jew. 
 
“Me, I don’t care about such distinctions. It’s all the same old poppycock. A Jew can be swindled just as easily as a Gentile, and that’s all I’m concerned with. Of course, when you try pointing out to old Musky Dan that there are a lot of Jewish philanthropists, then he’ll grunt that all of them are little better than robbers, and that they regard such so-called public generosity as merely a cost of doing business, and that they give out pennies so they can steal thousands of dollars more, with their shoddy merchandise and sharp business practices, and hoarding lint. You try telling them that there are plenty of gentiles who engage in the same shenanigans, and he’ll say that they’re merely doing it in order to be competitive with the thieving Jews. Every argument he manages to muster always circles back to the perfidy of the Jews as being the reason behind everything that’s wrong in the world. Who writes the cheap pulp novels that encourage youngsters to become stagecoach robbers? The Jews in the newspaper publishing industry. Who writes the pornographic literature that encourages young men to adopt a life of dissipation and lechery? The Jews in the book publishing industry. Who prescribes the infernal pain-killers, cough mixtures, women’s friends, and consumption cures that get their hapless victims hopelessly hooked on the dope? The Jewish doctor, pharmacist, grocer, etc. And who defends the most desperate criminals whose minds have been scrambled by all the suspect literature and opium eating? The Jewish lawyer, of course.
 
“Now, Musky Dan is a liberal, in that he will go so far as to admit that the Jew is a human being. But he’s a dyed in the wool curmudgeon in that he is unwilling to concede that they are no different from anybody else. He says that he can smell one a mile away. I do rather doubt Musky Dan can smell much of anything, actually, with that busted up honker of his, all spidered up with gin blossoms. But that is neither here nor there. ‘Any excuse will serve a tyrant.’  Anyway, you try to convince Musky Dan that Jews is mostly is no better and no worse than anybody else, and he’ll practically roar his answer: ‘That’s what the swine would like us to think–the better to swindle us all! And kill our babies while we sleep, if we ain’t circumspect!’
 
“And when I try telling him that hating Jews is the last resort of a fool, he accuses me of engaging in sophistry! He says that the Jews have engaged for centuries in murder, usury and fraud, and that someday they’re all going to get what’s coming to them. Well, you can’t reason with that kind of logic. It’s one reason I don’t go there much anymore. I suspect that it’s the Gib Yellof who’s been spreading such slanders, probably in league with certain members of the yellow press. There are some fools who will believe anything they read in the newspaper, and there are some foolish scribblers as will repeat in print any wretched lie that springs into their head.” 
 
“I suppose, however, that  there would be one great advantage to getting rid of all the Jews.”
 
He looked at Cadger Tandy to gauge his reaction. There was none. The fourteen year old boy was as sedate as an old brown owl.
 
“One great advantage of getting rid of them–there’d be more loot for you and for me!”
 
And Count Victor Lustig laughed a good hearty laugh, which eventually died down into a slightly guilty chuckle.
 
This was new. Cadger Tandy had seldom ever seen the old man even so much as crack a smile.
 
1*SALUTATION
THE FEELIES
 
THE GOOD EARTH
2*REFERENCE
3*HUMOR
MY KINFOLK
Source document for the powerful hillbilly meme.
4*NOVELTY
NAKED CAME THE STRANGER
7*CARTOON

TEN GREATEST ALL-NUDE FIGHT SCENES IN COMICS

“All-nude fight scenes” in comics is kinda redundant. All superheroes are actually nude. Insofar as the art is art at all, it is the art of anatomy in a graphic format. Endless redundant fight scenes are a hallmark of soup-a-Nero comics to this very day–and it’s all about the fascination that pre-adolescents have with the nude or semi-nude body–hence, the popularity of wrestling, boxing, et al.
8*PRESCRIPTION
 
9*RUMOR PATROL
A BESTIARY OF STALINS
10* LAGNIAPPE
11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA

MEDICARE
Medicare was flawed from the outset. In 1965, when passing the legislation, the Congress could have regulated health care costs as well. They chose not to. And health care costs have increased exponentially ever since.

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
922. I WAS A TANTRIC SEX SLAVE!

923. THE MADNESS OF ADAM ANT
 
924. HATE FACE 
The face of a Devil
The Soul of an Angel
He rescued millions,
Yet none could bear
His revolting visage
Some say he died in battle
Others say it was his broken heart
That killed him!

THE INFORMATION #931 MARCH 10, 2017

THE INFORMATION #931
MARCH 10, 2017
Copyright 2017 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
 

We are all born ignorant, but one must work hard to remain stupid. –Benjamin Franklin

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER ELEVEN: PART FOURTEEN: DAYS OF WRATH
 
“If, as they say, life is mostly hard work, Yob, then I suppose that I haven’t really lived.” 
 
Count Victor Justin was in an unusually expansive mood; his eyes were shining, quite possibly from insufflation of “asthma powders,” and he walked with a steady but ever so slightly weaving gait, which indicated that he’d had a few of what he called his “baby brews” before commencing his peripatetic and pedantic perambulations with the young Cadger Tandy.
 
“What was it that Lincoln said? ‘My father taught me how to work, but he never taught me to love it.’ Yea bo, I think thass ’bout right. Do ye ken the saying? ‘Hard work never killed anybody?’ Yass, walll,” he said in a crafty croaking voice. He stopped dead still in the middle of the sidewalk, and, after a strategic pause, resumed. “I beg to differ. The man who told that despicable lie was probably some grouchy cigarface fatty who in his free time frolicked in Newport or Saratoga Springs over the broken bodies of his bohunk varlets. The very thought of such miserable sententious cant being promulgated far and wide as the honest truth to corrupt the sensibilities of small boys and sucking babes is enough to make a little dog laugh. Why, it’s almost enough to make a fully grown man long to batten down the hatches and hoist the Jolly Roger.” 
 
Count Victor Justin smirked, then frowned, and suddenly he didn’t look quite so drunk anymore.  “You know, Greenie, some people become killers because they just can’t get along with society. I have always believed that individuals such as that are not bad. Rather, they are sick. They don’t need to be put in a prison. They belong in a mental hospital, though who knows what new horrors would await them there. I guess that there was once a time, among the Eskimos, when they would just maroon all the murderers on a frozen desolate island and let them fend for themselves. I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t quite a peaceful society. The toil of the run of the mill keeps most men from committing crimes and murdering people and going stark staring bonkers. Hard work means you’re too damn tired to make noise. No anarchist has a mortgage. Peter the Painted probably lived in a filthy alley or some other vile rookery. Small wonder the government urges you to buy your own house. Home ownership is the surest path to becoming a respectable Yob, because having to pay a mortgage takes a lot out of you, and, besides, the damn house won’t fix itself, now, will it? There’s always something that needs looking after, even if you live there all by yourself. A cracked basement window. A tree on the property falling down. The panes in the window sashes coming loose. Or how about clinging vines growing up the side of the house and loosening the gutters? Or snow and rain leaking through the roof? Or squirrels getting up into the attic? Or enormous raccoons munching on your garbage? Or the neighbors complaining because you don’t shovel your walk ner cut your grass ner rake your leaves? 
 
“No–it’s apartment life for me. Of course, if you have to share a tenement bathroom, that right there is a big strike agin it. But even if you have your own damn water closet, there’s still the banging of the pipes in the winter as the steam struggles to get through ’em. There’s the noisy neighbors. You can tip-toe around in your rooms, and still the neighbor downstairs will complain that you’re keeping them awake. And meanwhile, the upstairs tenant stomps around like Jumbo the Elephant, and what can you do, other than shoot the jinky wretch? Plus, there’s the noise of filthy brats playing stickball in the street and no doubt screaming their fool heads off as they get run over by trolley cars. There’s the gossipy women who offer up yards of talk, but who don’t have even a thread of sense in their heads. They will discuss your doings all day long with no better idea of who you really are than a butterfly has of how to operate a steam press. You have to be friendly to these Zooks, or they’ll cut you up behind your back. Only you can’t get too familiar with them either, or their husbands will come after you. Better to simply be pleasant to the neighbors but to keep yourself to yourself–and if you want hot water, be sure to bribe the janitor with a box of good cigars every Christmastime. 
 
“No, no, you just can’t win. Unless it’s one of them exclusive apartment buildings with an elevator and a winking doorman catering to an altogether better class of people. But for what you have to pay to live in such a place, you might as well take up residence in a second-rate hotel.
 
“Better still than any flophouse or dosshouse or boarding house or house of ill repute is hotel life. Just so long as you contrive to bribe the bellboys and grease the manager’s palm every now and again, you can do as you please, come in at all hours of the day or night, bring women up to your room if that’s your inclination, and the Hotel Dick will never say a mumblin’ word. Besides, there’s nothing you can do in a hotel that they haven’t seen there a hundred times before. 
 
“You may hate the slow pace of the working life. You may resent having to live in a noisy tenement room with lousy lighting. You may hate having to put on a front in order to even stay in your place in this world, let alone advance. But listen, little Master–your fine scruples will butter no parsnips, as my old colored Mammy used to say.
 
“Maybe if you’re lucky you might stumble into the type of job where you don’t have to work very strenuously. Some good brainless white collar occupation, like mail clerk, or customs official, where mostly you sit around all day and pass the time in gossiping with your officemates. That would be quite a trick, just so long as you don’t act like a sorehead. Just so long as you’re smart enough to act dumb enough to curry favor with your boss and get ahead. And pony up two bucks to buy flowers whenever somebody has a funeral.
 
“You might even get a job with the government. Only trouble being, when the election rolls around and they turn the old rascals out, you may be among that number. I’ve seen it happen more than once. And, unless you’ve made some connections during your years of service, ordinary businesses don’t want to hire you. You have the stink of a government sinecure about you. Best that you can hope for is a job as a streetcar conductor. Or selling bedroom slippers in a trig department store.
 
“You certainly don’t want to work out-of-doors. You’ll roast in the blistering heat come summer, and freeze in the icy cold when winter rolls around. Your fellow wage-slaves will most likely be drunks who will resent you if you don’t do as they do and squander your weekly pay packet on strong drink. And God forbid you should injure yourself on the job. They’ll let you go with a handshake and a fifty dollar bill–if you’re lucky–and it’s very likely you’ll be reduced to a life of abject beggary. And then you’ll go crazy, and start muttering to yourself, and will want to kill all the men you meet with a gun, and stab all the women who spurn you with a knife. And then it’s off to the loony bin for you, where you are likely to encounter conditions like you wouldn’t believe. And also run into Yellofs who you would never in your worst nightmares want to meet. And you’ll suffer a fate–like so many others before you–that’s worse than death. And all because you were careless and stupid in planning your life, and your choice of occupation–or lack thereof.
 
“As for me, I’m not actually a confidence man. No matter what the police might have me down in their books as being. No, I’m more like a manipulator. I see my opportunities and I take ’em, as the famous politician once said.
 
“Why not get wise to yourself, and go on the grift? I ask you–what are the alternatives to a life of indolence and ease? Rather than building an empire of laziness, you’ll instead be squandering half your life in doing work that you hate. But if you do choose the easy path, just remember one thing, Yob: The more you have to struggle for power, the less powerful you are. To be a true grifter, you first have got to sucker yourself that you’re a powerful person before you can sucker anybody else into believing that you are. That’s the be-all and end-all of the matter. ‘The question is whether you can make words mean so many different things.’ No. ‘The question is, which is to be master—that’s all.'”
 
1*SALUTATION
THE CHAMBERS BROTHERS
TIME HAS COME TODAY
2*REFERENCE
PUTTING TIME IN PERSPECTIVE

waitbutwhy.com/2013/08/putting-time-in-perspective.html

 
ALSO SEE:
FUTURE TIMELINE
3*HUMOR
COLONEL SANDERS SPEAKS OUT

I take out a Filet O’Fish and flop it on the desk next to the Egg Mc, the Kremes, the Big Breakfast, the Big Mac, and the shake.

“Now when it comes to fish,” says the Colonel, “I’m kindly Jewish.

“I’m afraid I’ll get a codfish, and codfish has worms in it. They’re scavengers, y’know. They eat the seal dung off the bottom.”

He poked at the Filet O’Fish with his gold spoon. “Now I like sole, fried or broiled. I like catfish—they’re mild, but they’re good. And I love oysters, if they’re good oysters. But now su-ward fish. I’ve seen worms in a su-ward fish as big as that ink pen you’re holdin’ there.”

 
SEE ALSO:
TACO BELL SAYS MCDONALDS IS A TOTALITARIAN GOVERNMENT
4*NOVELTY
CELEBRITY CLOSE-UPS
5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

10 Super-Smooth Yacht Rock Tracks
www.nme.com/blogs/nme-blogs/10-super-smooth-yacht-rock-tracks-30054

 
ALSO SEE:
MUSIC APPRECIATION AND SOCIAL CLASS
7*CARTOON

SUPERMAN EATS LIKE A PIG. HIS NAME SHOULD REALLY BE “SUPPERMAN”
Q: Do you have to eat? If not, do you like to eat? Is there anything in the morning that you generally like? Do you drink coffee? Do you eat generally more or less than human beings?

A: Again, please don’t hate me. But one of the perks of being Superman is that I can almost literally eat anything and suffer no ill health effects. My body’s pretty efficient about converting any organic matter into energy. But my tastes are actually pretty simple. My favorite breakfast consists of 18 farm fresh eggs, sunny side up, fried in butter, a half gallon of orange juice, whole wheat bread still warm from the oven, and six or seven grapefruit, which I peel and eat like oranges. Caffeine has no effect on me, but I do like the smell of coffee and will drink an urn or two, if it’s hot enough.

Q: Do you try to eat healthy, or given your natural advantages, do you let yourself pig-out once in a while?

A: I am able to eat a really embarrassingly huge number of ice cream sandwiches.
www.bonappetit.com/columns/my-morning-routine/article/supermans-morning-routine

9*RUMOR PATROL

The 25 Best Soups, In Order
www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/01/01/best-soup_n_4524440.html

 
SEE ALSO:
SOMALI SOURDOUGH PANCAKES
 
SEE ALSO:
“As a European this is how I imagine Americans have breakfast”
imgur.com/gallery/iRSmRCg
ALSO SEE:

FOOD FAQS

www.foodtimeline.org/foodfaq7.html#mealtimes

10* LAGNIAPPE
LOU REED
FAMILIES
 
ALSO SEE:

I TOO MUST WRITE SONGS ABOUT TRANSVESTITES AND HEROIN LIKE LOU REED 

11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
PITCHFORK’S SUNDAY REVIEWS OF CLASSIC ALBUMS
 
*11A BOOKS READ AND REVIEWED
 
ANATOMY OF A SONG. MYERS. ***1/2
ANYTHING GOES. MOORE. ***1/2
AVENGERS: STANDOFF. ***1/2
BLACK SUMMER. ELLIS. ****
BLACK WIDOW 1. SHIELD’S MOST WANTED. WAID & SAMNEE. ***1/2
CHILLING ADVENTURES OF SABRINA 1. THE CRUCIBLE. ***1/2
COMPLICATED GAME. PARTRIDGE & BERNHARDT. ****
COUCH TAG. REKLAW. ****
CRECY. ELLIS. ****
DAREDEVIL BACK IN BLACK 2. SUPERSONIC. ***1/2
DC COMICS BOMBSHELLS 2. ALLIES. **1/2
DICTIONARY OF MODERN PROVERBS. DOYLE, ETAL. ****
THE DILLINGER DAYS. TOLAND. ****
THE GODFATHER COMPANION. BISKIND. ***1/2
HARLEY QUINN: NIGHT & DAY. ***
HARLEY QUINN GREATEST HITS. ***1/2
HARLEY QUINN: VENGEANCE UNLIMITED. ***1/2
HARLEY QUINN 5. THE JOKER’S LAST LAUGH. ***1/2
KILL OR BE KILLED. BRUBAKER. ****
KITARO. KITARO MEETS NURARIHON. MIZUKI. ***1/2
LAID BARE. GILMORE. ***1/2
LIVING HISTORY. GARLAND. *****
LOS TEJANOS & LOST CAUSE. JACKSON. ****1/2
MANDRAKE THE MAGICIAN 1. FALK. ***1/2
MOB LAWYER. RAGANO & RAAB. ***1/2
THE ONE HUNDRED NIGHTS OF HERO. GREENBERG. ****
ONE PUNCH MAN 1-10. ONE. ***1/2
OUR LADY OF BIRTH CONTROL. JONES. ****
THE OTHER SIDE OF HISTORY. GARLAND. *****
PAPER GIRLS 2. VAUGHN. ***
PARACUELLOS. GIMENEZ. *****
THE READER’S BOOK OF DAYS. NISSLEY. ****
ROBIN SON OF BATMAN. 1. YEAR OF BLOOD. ***
SANDMAN MYSTERY THEATRE. BOOK TWO. ***1/2
SOVIET DAUGHTER. ALEKSEYEVA. ****
SP4RX. MCDONALD. ****
SUPERGIRL 1. DAVID & FRANK. **1/2
SUPERGOD. ELLIS. ****
TURNCOAT. O’SULLIVAN & KLAUS.
WONDER WOMAN 1. RUCKA. ***1/2
WRETCHED WRITING. PETRAS & PETRAS. ***1/2
 

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
917. Conservatives tend to reason with their lizard brains.

www.alternet.org/news-amp-politics/how-conservative-brains-are-wired-differently-and-what-means-our-politics

 
918. THE DISFIGURED: THE BIRTH OF DADA
 
919. Winnie the shit.
The 10 greatest controversies of Winston Churchill’s career
www.bbc.com/news/magazine-29701767

 
920. CONTRA MOONLIGHT

www.pluggedin.com/movie-reviews/moonlight/

 
921. FIRE AND ICE: THE SEQUEL
Some say the world will end in fire.
Some say in ice.
I think that’s pretty fucking nice.
So this is my riposte
To Mr. Frost.

 

MODERN WISDOM ​​NUMBER 221 MARCH 2017

MODERN WISDOM: AMERICA’S ONLY HUMOR MAGAZINE

NUMBER 221
MARCH 2017
Copyright 2017 Francis DiMenno
dimenno@gmail.com
http://www.dimenno.wordpress.com
 
1. 

BAD IDEAS FOR TELEVISION SHOWS


THE MIGHTY THORAZINE
MEASURE MY TURTLE HEAD
THE NEW ADVENTURES OF IMPORTANT WHITE MAN
LET’S TORCH A HOBO
OLD MAN CAN’T
THE GRANDIOSE POORMOUTH SHOW
CHIMP-BAITING WITH WOLVES
THE LEGEND OF STABBITY MCSTAB
PROJECT MALLRAT

SLEEPY-EYED JOHN!

THE SQUATTY POTTY HOUR
THE FAT OLD WHITE COP AND THE SKINNY YOUNG BLACK COP
BRO AND MO
WORLD’S MOST INHUMANE RECIPES
PIMP MY GRANDMOTHER
HOBO CHANG BA
FELCH!
THE GARBAGE PEOPLE
COPS: CLICK IT OR TICKET
CATHARSIS THE CAT AND HERMENEUTICS THE MOUSE
THE AGONY OF THE FEET
LINCOLN’S DICK
Blowfly Buffet
The Brainless Bunch
Punching For Yen
Hippiehead and Snacky
Christmas Every Day
That’s What I’m Talking About
The Philosophy of Seth McFarlane
Stalin’s Funniest Home Videos
Law and Order: SUV
Crumbs From the Midget’s High Chair
Shithouse Mouse
Eat The Wife
Chowhounds On Parade
My Old Man’s A Fatso!
Only God Loves Ugly Babies
Mommy Drinks Because You Cry
The Importance of Concrete Statistics
Liposuction Junction
Cease to Exist!
Knights in Satan’s Service
The Wonder Years, Starring The Manson Family
Cooking with Black Pepper Cowboy Bone
Drop a Load and You’ll Be Sitting On Top of the World

 
2.

HITCHING A RIDE

You don’t see many hitchhikers these days.

There was one old Italian guy who would bum a ride from me at the Stop
and Shop. Haven’t seen him lately.

What with our enhanced security environment, I think the golden era
of hitch-hiking is probably as dead as vaudeville, or hoppin’ freights
by riding the rods.

I pretty much stopped hitchhiking in the late 80s.

I noticed that even in the early 80s, it had lost some of its charm.

The 70s were a much better time to hitch-hike. Especially if you had long hair.

On many interstates it has probably always been illegal. I’ve gotten
kicked off the New York thruways in White Plains and Buffalo. Never
even tried the Jersey Turnpike. Never had any problems in Virginia,
Pennsylvania, or Massachusetts. In fact, in the Summer of ’78, in
Cambridge MA, I would often stand at the 1-90 onramp on Monday morning
around 9am and be able to get to NYC by 5pm.

Truck drivers were usually cool.

But, sometimes, ole Benny was at the wheel….

My most bizarre hitchhiking experience?

In the Summer of 1983 I was hitching from Erie PA to Cambridge

MA and got picked up in State Line PA by a mother and her small baby, whom she had me hold.


The baby thought I was its mom and kept trying to suck on my nipple.

 
3.

SPY MOVIES

We often find on re-examining works cherished by us in our more
innocent days that we are responding, not only to the inferiority of
the work, but our scorn at our own innocence.

That’s why it’s a balancing act to objectively assess such things.

In our scorn for our own past sentimental attachments, we must not go too far the other way and fail to continue to see the good aspects of what attracted us in the first place.

That said, most of the spy movies and television programming we loved as kids were rubbish. Absolute rubbish. And propagandistic rubbish at that. As such, they are perhaps no better or no worse than other such rubbish. Maybe a slight cut above most rubbish in terms of how effectively it’s pulled off–for instance, the most successful spy films, such as the James Bond series. Those movies are like a machine for belief; an ideologues delight; a cold warrior’s wet dream. Not surprising, since the author of the books was involved himself in British intelligence….


4.

POLICEMEN AND WEAPONS

Cops (usually) don’t actually LIKE to shoot people.

But they know full well that after shooting a felon, they do not
always automatically drop. It can take woofed-up crims a good TWO FULL MINUTES to fall.

And the acceptable perimeter for a man waving a knife is a full 21
feet. Because a guy with a knife can be on you in seconds, even after he’s been shot.

I’m not saying that those who decry police brutality may not sometimes have a point.

But combat shootin’ is different than plinkin’ cans down at the ol’
firin’ range.

And if they policemen sometimes seem to over-react, maybe it’s because they don’t want their fellow cops to get killed.

 

 

5.

THE TRAGIC MAGIC OF DISNEY

Too much of Disney animation is facile crap.

Anything made before Three Caballeros and after the Little Mermaid
gets a pass. But between WWII and ca. 1989, Disney was coasting,
animation-wise.

That the Disney empire is the nexus of evil seems so obvious to
me and many others that you don’t have to be the equivalent of a
33-degree Mason to have sussed that out.

Consider:

1) Their distortion of every myth that has ever dared us to be great.
(Their version of Tom Sawyer billed him as “The Original Bad Boy”.)

2) The pathetic fallacy runs rife through their every depiction of the
natural world.

3)And, finally, their rumored intelligence connections. See the following
rant:

….the entire Illuminati threw their weight behind promoting Walt
Disney. Ronald Reagan and Walt Disney were good friends and both cut
from the same die in many ways. Both men were high ranking
Freemasons…both were paid FBI informants, and both were involved
heavily in the abuse of mind-controlled slaves….
Reagan served as the emcee for the opening day of Disneyland on July
17, 1990. He returned with Illuminati TV host Art Linkletter for the
35th anniversary.

http://www.thewatcherfiles.com/bloodlines/disney.htm

[Note: there is a whole substrate of conspiracy literature
in which women claim to have been the mind-controlled
slaves of the likes of Bob Hope, Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Junior,
and “Boxcar Willie–pedophile.” See “Uncle Ronnie’s Sex Slaves”
by Robert Sterling in  Apocalypse Culture II, ed. Adam Parfrey.]

 
6. 

GOLDMAN ON LENNON


Yeah, he makes all sorts of unfounded allegations.

That Lennon went to Thailand, and maybe it was as a “sex tourist”.
That Lennon killed Stu Sutcliffe with kicks to the head.
That Yoko ratted out Paul for the pot that the Japanese customs boys found.

Goldman pretty much hated rock and roll.

That’s why it’s kind of important to read him.

I just read a glowing biography of Clinton and his first term in
office by a fellow named Nigel Hamilton. It’s the usual fare–the
school of historical writing ala “on the one hand…on the other
hand”. This style is judicious from the point of view of a historian,
but a lot gets lost. For instance, Hamilton doesn’t even mention that
Nader was running in 1996.

In contrast to such a tip-toe approach to contemporary history we have
people like Goldman, a dude who was so angry that he died in the
mid-Atlantic of an apoplectic fit when they refused to upgrade him to
first class.

In a world where everything is oh-so-lukewarm, certain troublemakers
like to scald their readers. The refreshing thing about
anti-hagiographers like Albert Goldman is that they aren’t afraid to
dish out their witches’ brew boiling hot.
http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=940DEED8153AF932A0575BC0A96E948260

 

7.

 THE BLACK PANTHER COLORING BOOK, BROUGHT TO YOU BY COINTELPRO
Regarding Hoover, it is possible that no better proof of Lord Acton’s
maxim regarding absolute power exists–at least, in our polity.

That said, the man still commanded intense loyalty among his
subordinates (and still commands it among many who are still living).

There is a vast sub-literature of Hoover demonography; my favorite is
perhaps James Ellroy’s THE COLD SIX THOUSAND, his fictionalized
account of the aftermath of the Kennedy assassination, in which Hoover
plays a pivotal role.

Hoover had a bee in his bonnet about uppity blacks of any stripe. He
was slow to address the Klan-he only did so, I seem to recall, on the
insistence of the A.G., RFK; at all other times he was very quick to
jump with both feet first on Black Nationalist of any kind. Was he
serving the ends of the Zeitgeist? Indubitably.

I don’t want to get into a big philosophic debate about the rightness
or wrongness of government infiltration of radical groups. And
armchair generalship and 20/20 hindsight are vices familiar to
historian wannabes.

However: in re: the present consensus among those who have written
knowledgeably about Hoover and about the civil rights era (Curt Gentry
and Taylor Branch are two names that spring immediately to mind)?

It seems to pretty clearly favor the following judgments:

Hoover did not necessarily overestimate the threat of the Black Panthers.

He did shamelessly persecute MLK.

The FBI may have had a hand in the death of Malcolm X.

Hoover did overestimate the threat of the CCCP-USA.

Hoover underestimated the influence of the Mob. (And that’s a whole
‘nother kettle of fish….)

Hoover underestimated the threat of the Klan, and similar white
nationalist groups such as the White Citizen’s Council (aka ‘The
Suburban Klan’).

[Please note I do not endorse the unsavory agenda of the people
posting the information below.]

 

http://www.whatreallyhappened.com/RANCHO/POLITICS/COINTELPRO/coloring.html

8. 

TOXIC PEOPLE

When you run into toxic people, ignoring them will only make them push you further to see just how far they can go. Better to say to them, right out front, “I hear you talking, but it’s not like you’re talking to me. It’s like you’re talking to yourself. When you decide that you actually want to talk to me, then by all means let me know. I’m more than happy to listen to what you have to say to me.”

9.

CONTRA TELEVISION


Keeping my television in the closet of my spare room and never taking it out
except in the event of some dire emergency (which has yet to happen) means
I can save $100 a month because I don’t need to pay for bundled cable from
Verizon, plus I never have the urge to eat at McDonald’s, Dunkin Donuts, or any of the other money traps that can chip away a
t my
discretionary income. I probably save close to $2,000 a year by not watching
the thing.


Plus, I have hours and hours of precious free time each and every day to
do the things that truly interest me.
 

Just sayin’.
P.S. I know–that’s Communism.


10. READERS CONTRIBUTE THEIR BAD IDEAS FOR TV SHOWS


60 minarets
Full Spouse
Poem Improvement
VH1’s I Love 5 Seconds Ago
Obama’s Family
Fantasy Gazebo
Love Tug
Flowing Manes
Who Wants To Marry Some Fat Piece Of Shit?
Mops
America’s Most Wan Ted
What’s Been Happening Lately?
Win Ben Stein’s Mummy
This Week In Advertising
Dancing With The (remaining) Cars–omelette

Are You Stronger Than a Rapist?-iwillstealyoursoul

M*O*S*H
The Cockney Geico Lizard Show
Mad About Jews
Gay Watch
Beverly, MA 01915
Nanny 4-2-0
Disparate Housewives
Fantasy Archepelago
CSI Methuen
SpongeBob No-Pants
Shrubs
My So-Called Lice
Freaks and Greeks
Don’t Taze Me, Bro!–Soup

America’s Most Infirm Invalids
Who Wants to be a Civil Servant?
Everybody Hates AIDS
Will and Grace and Geraldo
The Fat Slob and Hot, Bitchy Wife Sitcom
That Late 90s/Early 2000s Show
Baby’s First Time
Bonkers for Yonkers
Novac and Ashcroft At the Movies
The Counting Pennies Show
Elizabeth Berkley Reads the Classics
My Grandma is Better at Smoking Than Yours
The Shane McGowan Morning Show
Inside Gingivitis
America’s Funniest Home Invasions
Hawaii 5-0: Denver
Around the World in 80 Gays
Pee: The Series
Here’s Bloomberg!
Have You Seen My Car Keys?
Return of Old Man Can’t–elk

Found
Traitors
The Bionic Tranny
Dancing with the Former Child Stars
America’s MOST Fartest Model
Crabs of Love
The Banal Life
Hillary
Fast & The Furious: The Series
The Sarah Connor Colonoscopies
Battlestar Metallica–the antichris

Name That Stool
The Mission Hillbillies.
Gag Me and Mace Me
Crappy Days
Pimp My Outhouse
B.J. the Bear–Imidaho

oprah on ice
rowan & martin’s fist-in
green chancres
gomer’s piles
felching w/the stars
mannix depressive
magnum P.U.
bottom chef
balls to the waltons
don kirchner’s rock collection
american midol
maim that tune
golden shower girls
mary tyler morbid
partridge family feud
the facts of lice
t.w.a.t.
petticoat junkies
hogan knows lassie
the maude squad
sodomy street
larry the unstable guy
being bobby brown on $40 a day
ninny 911
make room for gerbils
flip this pancake
pimp my desperate housewife
win ben stein’s monkey
bowling for crumbs
mayberry DOA
i’ve got a secretion–coughlin

From Hitler’s View
Jimmy the Bitchin’ Koala
Birds ‘n’ Worms
Ditch-diggers
Lets SIT!
Track That Package (With FedEx)
Lavatory
Competitive Carpet Installing
Watch it Rot
Bastard Town
Morning commute–Dr. Moose

sex and the mountains–cant go wrong with tha shocker

Titicut Follies: The Series
Fugly Betty
Info 411
America’s Got Gunt
Min Headroom–hook operator

MY TWO MOMS AND THE SPERM DONOR
WIN THIS DUCK
BIN LADEN’S ISLAND
PAULY SHORE AND THE WEASEL JUG BAND XMAS SPECIAL
WHEEL OF OPRAH–Thunder Horse

SQUID OR NO SQUID
GEORGE TAKAI
TWO STEPS BEYOND
FULL BLOWN MAIDS
SCRAM OR STAY
POOKY PARS JOOKY OH MY
FRIENDS AND ENEMAS
MIAMI OY MY FEET ARE KILLING ME
YO,CAN I AX YOU SUMPIN?
DIALING FOR WORK
SEXY BOY FUN QUIZ–sputnik

THE INFORMATION #930 MARCH 3, 2017

THE INFORMATION #930
MARCH 3, 2017
Copyright 2017 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
 

Honesty is the best policy–when there is money in it.–Mark Twain

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER ELEVEN: PART THIRTEEN: DAYS OF WRATH
“Yob,” said Count Victor Justin,  “if you’re the kind of Greenie who gets all his romantic notions about the criminal underworld from the pages of pulp magazines, then you are being badly misled.  Most crooks are pretty dumb, and pretty cowardly, too. If they weren’t dumb, they’d have figured out some way to get their ooftish by honest means, and if they weren’t cowardly, they would join the Army or the Navy and manage to scrape together a bankroll that way. Of course, some crooks did once go in for soldiering–and they learned an awful lot about guns in the process–but they were usually the weak-willed types, gamblers and such, who squandered their bankrolls or somehow managed to get court martialed or even cashiered as a disciplinary problem. The problem with not being selective about who you take in as a soldier is that what are you going to do with these mental and moral defectives once they get out or are thrown out of the army? Chances are, they never learned a useful trade, and so unless they go into business as policemen, they have very little incentive, it seems, to stay out of jail, where, just like the Army or Navy, you can get three square meals a day and a warm place to sleep. Well–not always warm. And almost never very comfortable. So-called decent folks don’t want criminals to have nothing. O, how their blood boils when they learn that a lean old con has somehow contrived to wrangle himself a warm shirt, or an extra blanket! I know some barbarian tribes who treat their wrongdoers with more common courtesy and compassion than they treat them hereabouts, or in England or Canada. What, do they think that compassion is wasted on the malefactor? In certain cases, I would say yes. But those are rare. I’ll tell you something Yob–it is far easier to fall afoul of the law than you might think, and, but for fortune, I myself might have been an old lag with a 25 year sentence to serve. But I never went in for any of the rough stuff, and I certainly never committed mail fraud, nor robbed any banks, though I certainly learned a lot of techniques of that sort when I was bunged up in prison on a bum rap. I was on my uppers, and fell in with a Yellof who had a racket selling Persian rugs door to door. I’d rather not go into the details, but some customers complained that the rugs weren’t as genuine as they were purported to be, and I got thirty days for selling without a business licence, which was just a low down way for the town officials–I won’t say who– to squeeze even more money out of the poor and the down and out.  Never fear–someday they’ll get theirs. Every dog has his day.  
 
“When you get sent to prison, while you’re there you get to hob-nob with a bunch of eminent Loochers with a great deal of time on their hands. They are Yobs who are prone to mischief even in their best moments, and prison brings out the worst in them. It was in prison that I learned of a new way of robbing banks. Back in the olden days, a desperado would go crashing in without even the first notion of what the setup was–he would trust to blind fate to see him through–him, and his confederates, if he had any. But when I was in the pen I heard of a new way to conduct the business–just like a military operation. First off, you have to case the joint very carefully, just as though you were doing a second-storey job. You get the layout of the place and follow the movements of the principal players, and then you write it all down and draw a map and plan the operation right down to the minute. And you need to have four people to do the job right. You have the lead robber, who walks point, and ambles up to the teller’s cage and shows his gun. You have his partner, who has a shot gun, and fires once into the ceiling so the people will get down on the floor. He’s the one who covers the bank guard, if there happens to be one. You have the getaway car driver, who needs only two qualities–mechanical aptitude and nerves of iron. Plus, an ability to read a map and find all the backroads and plot the best way to get out of town in a hurry.  And finally, you have the lookout. It’s either the easiest job, or the hardest. He stands outside the bank and if there’s no trouble, he’ll stand by the door and look official and tell people that the bank is closed due to a gas leak or something. But if a lawman or some other snoop notices something amiss and walks over to investigate, then it’s the lookout’s job to take that nebby-nose out of the picture. You don’t want to have to shoot a civilian, or especially a lawman, because it always brings down the heat, but sometimes that’s what it amounts to. You have to pick the lookout carefully. He has to be a man who knows his business, and can react quickly in a jam. An ex-soldier is best. A man who is handy with a gun, but who also can whomp up a line of smooth patter. A bad professional is better than a good amateur–that’s what all the jailbirds say.
 
“Anyway, Yob, I wouldn’t recommend going in for being a bank robber. Most of them end up in the County Morgue–a nasty place. You want to know what their motto is?  ‘Remains to be seen.’ Have you ever been there? Well, do yourself a favor, and pass the opportunity by. The morgue smells like rotten hamburger, and dead rats, and formaldehyde, and stale tobacco–because all the lawmen and medicos smoke foul-smelling cigars to inoculate themselves against the stink. But even the cheapest El Ropo won’t mask the disparate aromas which emanate off of the well-croaked.  You can count on it. And the smell gets into your skin and forms a thin greasy layer that you have to scrub yourself red and raw with a stiff brush to thoroughly expunge. It is no place to have a picnic lunch with your sweetie–and that’s a dead cert. If you’ll pardon the expression.” 
 
1*SALUTATION
AMANAZ
GREEN APPLE
5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
6* DAILY UTILITY
11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
THE FIFTY BEST ROCK BANDS RIGHT NOW
CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
914. THE SAD STATE OF ROCK

a.msn.com/r/2/AAmTShU?m=en-us

 
915. IF SUPERMAN SPANKED LOIS LANE
 

THE INFORMATION #929 FEBRUARY 24, 2017

THE INFORMATION #929
FEBRUARY 24, 2017
Copyright 2017 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
 

As yet, the Negroes themselves do not fully appreciate these old slave songs. –James Weldon Johnson

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER ELEVEN: PART TWELVE: DAYS OF WRATH
 

“Outside of that nasty diminutive pygmy Little Joe the Grifter, nothing irks me more,” said Count Victor Justin, “than them Goddamned superannuated fossils who gripe about the manners of the modern-day.  Don’t they realize that their time is past? That the world has passed them by? Modern men can no longer bend themselves to the foolish will of the horse-drawn dotard! It’s an era of gasoline, and flying ships, and heavy machinery! 

“And they always stand around the iron stove in the general store and ding a cuspidor while they fulminate about how the modern-day Negro is insolent, and doesn’t know his place. Now, as I’ve told you before, Yob, you’ll find no man to be a better friend of the Negro than I. The problem with the sleepy-eyed codgers who spitefully complain all the live-long day about the Negro is that  they still haven’t gotten the queer notion in their heads that the slavery days are over. They are too bound up in their nostalgia for the plantation south to realize that now that the Negro is free, he makes a better servant than ever before, since he can’t blame ‘Massa’ for his servitude no more, but only his own self.
 
“Have you ever heard this song? ‘Look out dar, now! We’s a gwine to shoot! Look out dar, don’t you understand? Babylon is fallen! Babylon is fallen! An’ we’s agwine to occupy de land!’ 
“Guess it didn’t quite turn out that way, though. What with chain gangs, sharecropping, house servants and all the rest.
 
“However, my sympathy for the colored man does not mean that I hanker after hearing him playing that vulgar ragtime piano, or that newfangled abomination called ‘Jass’. No, for me, the ancient spirituals and other church singing are what the Negro does best. For my money, there’s no song to top the likes of  ‘Master Going to Sell us Tomorrow’ and  ‘Zekiel Saw the Wheel,’ and ‘Wish’s in Heaven Settin’ Down’ and ‘Dey Crucified my Lord.’ ‘An’ He Never Said a Mumblin’ Word!’–that’s the good stuff! Next comes the comedy songs of the good old minstrel show, like the ones I used to see at St. James’ Hall, in Piccadilly.  ‘The Coon From the Moon,’ and ‘Silver Chimes at Midnight’ and how’s about, ‘Oh, Dem Golden Slippers?’  ‘What a great camp meetin’ there will be that day, when we ride up in the chariot in the morn’!’ Hilarious!  
“It is only when the Negro essays to slavishly copy the white man that he is shown to worst advantage. Tell me–where is the Ubangi Shakespeare, or the Zulu Dante Alighieri?  But otherwise, within his own sphere, I will admit that he is indomitable. 
 
“Young women are a lot like Negroes, as I think I’ve mentioned before. Obsessed with shoes, and gold, and glitter, and brightly colored clothing. Fond of dancing and promenading and other public displays. Silly flummery daubs and flibbertydigets without a serious thought in their heads. They only think about today, with nary a thought for the morrow. I would just as soon trust my toothless old dog to advise me on matters of consequence. 
 
“Don’t get me wrong–I will be the first to admit that women make mighty fine ornamental additions to a household, and that’s for sure. They are soft to the touch and mighty easy on the eyes, and I would trust them to soothe a crying baby or brew a cup of tea. But I wouldn’t listen to a word they had to say about politics or other matters of consequence, for these are realms with which they have next to no practical experience, and, furthermore, a man of affairs has no time to pay heed to the airy-fairy notions of ninny-hammers, nitwits, stable boys, watermelon jockeys, zooks, saps, goofs, imbeciles, nincompoops, or any other members of the tribe known as the non compos mentis. 
 
“True, when you speak of Negroes, there is also the matter of smell. There’s no getting around the fact that the Negro exudes a thick, almost musky aroma, which, splash himself though he might with pints of stinkum and other cheap perfume, he can in virtually no way efface. 
 
“This is not to say that other tribes do not also give off their own distinctive scent. The German always smells strongly of stale beer and cheap tobacco. And the men are even worse. Same goes for all your Slavs. Ditto the Limey, only they tend to smell like filthy shag and fried potatoes. The Irishman usually reeks of whiskey and Mackerel. The German Jew smells of Salmon and the Russian Jew smells of Herring. Your Italians always smell of garlic, as do your Greeks and your Spanish. The French smell like rotten cheese and absinthe, and Mexicans smell like beans, and corn, and mescal. The Chinese generally reek of fish and rice, when they don’t smell of opium. The Arab stinks of chick peas and hasheesh. Walk down any street in Blowtown after a warm spring rain, and the lingering smells from that international congregation of slum dwellers will all combine with the stench of horseapples and dead cats to add up to a veritable miasma. 
 
“Let me give you a bit of venereal advice while you’re still young enough to take advantage of it: namely, that women have a much better sense of smell than men. And that you’ll never offend by smelling like soap and freshly washed linen, even if your low-born pals chaff you with being a sissy. Young men are not always the most reliable guides regarding how to win the heart of lady fair. Chances are that a woman who is willing to overlook a putrescent stench is either desperate, or sick in the head, and probably both. Of course, it goes without saying that you should steer well clear of a girl who doesn’t know how to make herself smell like a petunia, or whatever perfumey water happens to be in vogue at present. These are the kind of women who don’t care a rap for anything under the sun, and they are sure to drag you down into the stygian depths along with them. This is not mere snobbery, but merely sound common sense. A woman who is in her right senses would very likely forego food rather than soap. Women are like cats–if they are of sound mind, they are always trying to keep themselves clean. Only a mangy alley cat will overlook the niceties of good grooming. The same goes for men. It’s one thing to sport a three days growth when you’ve been camping in the deep woods, but if you show up for work with some sloppy stray chin-whiskers, you’re probably never destined to be the boss’s fair-haired boy. Even the better classes of the criminal underworld like to dress sharp and look trig. If you don’t, then you’re marked down as a loocher and you get squeezed out of all the big-paying jobs. You heard it here, first, Yob.” 
 
1*SALUTATION
5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
6* DAILY UTILITY
JIM BACKUS
THE DIRTY OLD MAN
7*CARTOON

RACIST VALENTINE’S DAY CARDS

8*PRESCRIPTION

Rumor the German shepherd wins best in show at Westminster

9*RUMOR PATROL
HARD-DRINKING EX-PRESIDENTS
 
10* LAGNIAPPE
11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
PAINFULLY TRUTHFUL BUMPER STICKERS
 
I’M A BIG MAN…TO MY DOG
SADLY, MY CHILD IS ONLY AVERAGE
BEER DRINKERS ARE FAT
CONSERVATIVES ARE FRIGHTENED MORONS
LIBERALS ARE SQUABBLING MISFITS
DIVERSITY IS MONOLITHIC
NO LIVES MATTER
ASK ME ABOUT MY INCONSEQUENTIAL CAREER
CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
911. THE DEEP STATE

www.chicagotribune.com/news/sns-wp-deepstate-comment-b09503f0-f394-11e6-a9b0-ecee7ce475fc-20170215-story.html

912. I’M SMART

913. I’M TOUGH