THE INFORMATION #904 SEPTEMBER 2, 2016

THE INFORMATION #904

SEPTEMBER 2, 2016

 

Never slap a man who’s chewing tobacco. Never kick a cow chip on a hot day. Never miss a good chance to shut up.–Will Rogers

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TEN: PART EIGHTY-SIX: KINGDOM COME 

“People down south,” said Count Victor Justin, “will always prattle on and on about God and country, and nobility and glory, and they will always set such great stock on doing the honorable thing–and yet they’ll whip a poor Negro every chance they get. Now, you might say the darkey had it coming, but ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the sin committed by the negro is wholly incommensurate to the punishment. For instance, he has failed to turn away in time from the sight of a pretty white gal…or even a picture of one.

“Considering the slow pace of life down there, folks down south are surprisingly easy to irritate. You can always tell when they’re irritated because they talk to you as though they’re taking a shit. ‘Whut yew doin’ round here anyways? Y’all ain’t got no bidness ’round heah!’ 
“They always place great stock in gentility and manners, perhaps all the more so since those are the qualities which are conspicuously lacking amongst the folks who aren’t considered members of the gentry–in other words, the triflin’, low-down, no-good poor white trash. That’s why people down south are always asking after your parents, your children, your brothers and sisters, your aunts and uncles, your cousins, your doctor, your lawyer, and all your close friends and acquaintances. It’s not that they really care. They’re just want to know what your connections are. And also, they just don’t have an awful lot in the way of diversions to otherwise occupy their minds. They don’t have a single idea in their heads which don’t relate to Jesus or the weather, and so they spend all their spare time thinking and talking about the doings of other folks in the neighboring four counties.  A fellow who, anywhere else, would be accounted a windbag is considered some kind of highly entertaining raconteur down south. That’s because people from the Southron also place a great deal of stock in folks who can bloviate. That’s why all their politicians are such gifted bullshitters. The weak fish who can’t orate worth shucks never get elected to anything. 
“Southerners like to have everything arranged just so, and if they see you doing something which doesn’t comport with their notion of what’s proper, fitting, and just, why, then they dismiss you as a fool–not realizing, of course, that they’re the foolish ones. They are like every single frightened rube all the world over–their mouths actually gape open in stupefaction when they encounter something with which they are wholly unfamiliar–like a mannish-looking lady doctor, or a big he-man who acts a little swish, or a negro driving his own automobile.
“As I may have mentioned, I spent a good deal of time getting to know the people of the south. I’ve compiled a virtual lexicon of their doings and sayings.  There are a whole bunch of phrases for you to know which would probably prove very useful down south. ‘Yes Sir.’ ‘Yes Ma’m.’ ‘No Sir.’ ‘No Ma’m’. ‘By your leave, Sir.’ ‘If you would do me the honor, Ma’m.’  ‘Good to see you, Mr. Man–tell me how be you?’ ‘Why not set a spell–what’s your hurry?’ 
“Those are the basic ones. After you’ve been there about three days, you will also find these phrases useful. ‘The widow woman has started taking in laundry.’ Or ‘Them damn Yankees are always up no good.’ Or ‘If it ain’t found in the Bible, the dictionary, or the almanac, then I ain’t got no use for it.’ 
“Or ‘the mule still won’t leave his stall–shove some more red pepper up his ass.’ Or ‘The negroes stole all our eggs.’ Or ‘Watch out–the Sheriff’s drunk again.’ Or ‘Hogs ate the baby.’ Or The preacher-man just beat his cook to death.’ Or ‘Burn down all the shacks in Dinkeytown.’ Or ‘My lazy servants are robbing me blind.’ 
“Or ‘Grandpa just killed our chauffeur’ Or ‘You just can’t find a good jockey boy these days.’ Or ‘For Christmas I gave my sharecropper some colorful rags.’ Or ‘Box the ears of that lazy negro scamp.’ 
“Or  ‘The boy was shooting at rats and he killed an old negro by mistake.’  Or ‘I do not enjoy beating my servants.’  Or ‘Someone stole my midget butler’s stepladder.’ Or ‘Fry those greens in plenty of that good bacon grease.’ Or ‘Be careful: that swamp is full of cottonmouths.’  Or ‘Chiggers ate all the skin clean off’n his arm.’  

Or ‘All the good negroes know that I’m their friend.’ Or ‘Some of the poor white people hereabouts are lower than the snake.’ Or ‘Send your colored man over to me; I will see that he is treated right.’ Or ‘Ever since Uncle Rector was kicked in the head by a Quarter Horse, he just hasn’t been the same man.’

“Or ‘Lookie over yonder at that hollow stump–there’s an owl, a bat, and a bumblebee!’ Or ‘He’s just the kind of polecat who would cuss around the womenfolk.’ Or ‘What’s this–you’re eight years old and you don’t know how to chew tobacco?’ Or ‘What would you like to drink–dope, coffee, or sweet tea?’ 

 
“Or ‘Senator so-and-so is slicker than snot on a doorknob.’ Or ‘You’ll never get there without a horse, so you’d better borrow mine.’ Or ‘Have you gotten right with the Lordie?’ 

“I don’t expect that any of you city dubs will ever understand the ways of the south as well as a man who was born and raised in it. But I will say this much about the people of the Southron–if you’re a white man, they WANT you to fit in, and they’ll help you all they can, and forgive you if you make a boner, and they’ll only tease you about it later–for the rest of your life. 

“And I’ll also say this–unless you’re about four years old, or a hundred and four, you’d better think twice before you turn down an offer of a friendly drink, because the man who offers it will either think you’re giving him the high hat, or, worse, he’ll think your head ain’t screwed on straight. I can’t think of a single conceivable circumstance in which you would be justified in turning down a drink, unless you’re a preacher man and your church is a particular stickler in regards to old John Barleycorn. It’s kind of frightening to contemplate that the doctor, the lawyer, the policeman, the druggist, the innkeeper and the ostler are all very likely either drunk, or dead drunk. They do like their bourbon and rye down in those parts. I blame the hot weather. And the non-potability of much of the water. Plus the fact that most folks down south are descended from a long line of hard drinkers who like to get boozed up in a great big hurry and don’t make no bones about it, neither. So there you are–something else to remember. 
“And a southerner can likely hold his likker far far better than you, so don’t be getting into any card games with ’em–especially not with any man who walks bowlegged, because that means he’s a riverboat gambler and he plays cards for a living and you will never, ever be able to beat him, either fairly or otherwise. Never, ever, ever. For no matter how drunk he may be, or seem, he will clean your pockets and turn them inside out for you. Guaranteed.”
SEE ALSO:
TGI FRIDAY’S GOES MINIMALIST
2*REFERENCE
FIVE REASONS NOT TO USE GOOGLE FOR SEARCH
ONE-PAGE GRAPHIC NOVELS

8*PRESCRIPTION 

JACK SHAINDLIN

SILENT COMEDY MUSIC
https://youtu.be/b6TYyy9tyD8

9*RUMOR PATROL
WHAT WILL REPLACE THE HIPSTER?
10* LAGNIAPPE

THE DAMBUILDERS
SMOOTH CONTROL
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vrYl1e9YvK8

11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
SPRINGSTEEN FROM WORST TO “BEST”
CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.

863. ELVIS COSTELLO ON SNL

RADIO RADIO
 
THE STUNT THAT GOT ELVIS COSTELLO BANNED FROM SNL

http://www.openculture.com/2013/09/the-stunt-that-got-elvis-costello-banned-from-saturday-night-live.html

THE INFORMATION #903 AUGUST 26, 2016

THE INFORMATION #903
AUGUST 26, 2016
Copyright 2016 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com
The educated folk of the Old South took theology lightly, and religion to them was hardly more than a charming ritual, useful on solemn occasions.–H.L. Mencken

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TEN: PART EIGHTY-FIVE: KINGDOM COME 

“You think there are some bad ‘uns hereabouts, in Blowtown and in Noxtown? Why, then, you haven’t traveled any in the South. People in the deepest part of the South,” said Count Victor Justin, continuing his latest peroration, “still have this convict and warden mentality, which ain’t any big surprise, seeing as how most of their ancestors were the dregs of society back in Merrie Olde England. They were mostly the bastard sons and daughters of indentured servants, at best. And, like convicts everywhere, they are all a secret bunch of morphodites too. They worship guns, because that’s what convicts do, and they are gracious and respectful to their elders and other authority figures, not out of any actual reverence, but simply because that’s how your typical convict gets one over when he’s in prison. It is a most curious thing–these filthy and lazy and thoroughly nondescript characters are outraged at the notion that they are descended from monkeys, and they refuse to accept Darwin’s theory, citing endless Biblical testimonies first set down by credulous nomads–but these lintheads, and all those other savages who live by lynch law?–they themselves are proveably descended from the lowest form of human brute–Blutos who would put the shriekings and shit-flinging antics of the most rotten caged ape to shame. They live on horseback, as a man without a horse is derided as a no-count. They live in the back woods, as a man without land is probably a man of the colored persuasion. They live in a peculiar wilderness of word-blindness, as they cannot read a book, not even their treasured Bible; and they cannot sign their own names, except with an X. I speak here of the vast majority. What need have they of education? It’s well known among the men of the South that too much book-learnin’ will ruin your shooting eye. These worthy men of the south do not have a library, or a book store, or a truly educated man within a two-hundred mile radius of them. Nor a telegraph, nor a printing-press. They are as independent as all get-out, except for their women folk, who always worry about what the neighbors will think if they’re caught out of doors wearing a dress made from last years’ feed-sack. They are destitute of intellect, of pelf, and of nearly everything else–except their damnable, overweening pride. And their ability to hang around in hillside caves and consume inordinate amounts of forty-rod and raw whiskey and get stupefyingly drunk. And their predilection to support various lascivious itinerant preachers and other oafish snake-handlers and bible-hustlers. Religious freedom, my ass! If you’re not gobstruck by the same childish superstitions as the majority, you are a pariah. Down South, they don’t put their crazy people in asylums–oh, no–they either kill ’em outright, or put ’em to work grooming horses, cleaning up pig shit, and performing other menial chores. Then, when they become too old, they lock ’em up in an attic or something. Or, if they ain’t got no family there and they don’t have any living relatives anywheres else, they might farm ’em out for public work, or to a traveling carnival as an itinerant geek. Or maybe even give ’em a shiny new silver star and call ’em a county constable.

 
“Everything about the south reminds me of a prison. The greasy, starchy food. The false grins on the faces of the inmates. The brackish water of the stinking mill ponds. The schools, such as they are, are administered by people who never went to school. The teachers are, at best, incompetent. They are glorified child-minders; nothing more. Learning is by rote. Many parents won’t even bother sending their child to a school; they’d rather have them working a worn-out farm and staring at a mule’s ass from behind a plough. Or chopping cotton, if they are too poor to even hire a wretched negro to perform this function. Oh, they pretend to have fine manners, oh yes. Why, they even say excuse me and pardon me even while they administer forty lashes to an old negro Mammy for stealing a potato from the company store and roasting the contraband Mickey over a clandestine campfire. How else would you expect the south to be, other than lethargic–intolerably hot for close to three-quarters of the year; hag-ridden with hookworm, and pellagra, and malaria; festering with copperheads and other deadly critters; run by the hot-blooded progeny of slavemasters, criminals, and slaves. Oh, yes–many a man and woman down south has got a lick of the old tar brush, though you dast not say so, lest you be pumped full of buckshot and come down with a bad case of lead poisoning. Nor down South is it safe to talk about religion, ner politics. Hunting; fishing; farming–all of these are their acceptable topics of discussion. Lynching bees and the horsewhipping of prosperous negroes is their principal sport. And taking the name of the Good Lord in vain is their foremost taboo. Though most of these southern morphodites are busy bawling praise to their creator one minute, while during the very next minute they are fornicating with their cousin, or with some dusky high yaller slut, or with their cattle, or man to man. 
 

“Listen–I am the very soul of tolerance. I don’t care what men do in private; just so long as they don’t do it out in the streets and discombobulate the horses. I’m not too interested in the fact that a man may do another man an injury behind his back. What gets me is how proud of their backwardness these southerners are, and how eager they are to conceal any evidence of their loathsome vices. They do so by the tried and true method of overcompensation. Your average southern bully is a pretty piss-poor specimen–he rides the fastest horse, breeds the meanest dogs, bets the biggest on all the cock-fights, and owns a rug made from a bear which he kilt with his own two hands. He bawls the loudest prayers in church on Sunday, while, during the rest of the week, he leads the pack in Ku Kluxery, brawling, and the systematic consumption of fried squirrel brains. But if you even suggest that he might be swishy underneath it all, why, he’ll pick up his shotgun and blow your head off without a second thought. So much for the famous ‘Southern Hospitality’. Beneath their thin veneer of gentility, there exists among the men of the South a nation of red-handed thugs and vagabonds. For a significant majority of them are the sons and daughters of all the off-scourings of the earth. And nothing they do or say will ever alter that fact one jot, tittle, nor iota.”

1*SALUTATION
THE DRIVING STUPID
THE REALITY OF AIR FRIED BORSK
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r_KpFe9QQmk

HORROR ASPARAGUS STORIES
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IumIAl80CkU

2*REFERENCE
3*HUMOR
THE HAMBURGER BROTHERS

OMAR THE VAMPAR
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gc8nnKiDYkk

4*NOVELTY

12 SEXY ADS THAT WILL GIVE YOU NIGHTMARES

http://www.cracked.com/article/229_12-sexy-ads-that-will-give-you-nightmares/

6* DAILY UTILITY
ALSO SEE:
Cruisin’: A History of Rock and Roll Radio 1955-1970
https://archive.org/details/Cruisin-AHistoryOfRockNRollRadio
10* LAGNIAPPE

DOROTHY COLLINS
SHRIMP BOATS
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oczm7UxRuoM

11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
1977 J.C. PENNEY CATALOG
http://www.popsugar.com/celebrity/1970-JC-Penney-Catalogue-771943
 
CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.

862. WHEN JUGGALOS MEET DEADHEADS
https://www.dnainfo.com/chicago/20130815/irving-park/grateful-dead-cover-band-apologizes-fans-shocked-find-juggalos-at-bar

THE INFORMATION #902 AUGUST 19, 2016

THE INFORMATION #902

AUGUST 19, 2016
Copyright 2016 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

She might as well go to hell, cause she ain’t gonna be happy in heaven either!–Nancy B. Brewer

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TEN: PART EIGHTY-FOUR: KINGDOM COME 
 
“And, as long as we’re on the topic of all the loose prattle that goes around,” said Count Victor Justin, “especially in barrooms and suchlike places–among members of the general populace, not excluding high government officials and the like? It has been my experience that refined people converse,  ordinary folk talk, and all the riff-raff that we don’t especially like, especially foreigners such as Chinamen and the like, why, they merely jabber.  It’s the way of the world. Especially in the Deep South. Oh, I know the South. Ask me if I don’t. I’ll be lying to you if I say I didn’t. I spent twenty days there recently, and it seemed like twenty Donkey Ears. Probably not a good idea to go there in August. In any event, yeah bo, I know that region well. Folks are real nice and friendly there, not like in the big cities of the east. And you would do well to be nice and friendly right back, even if you don’t feel like it. Otherwise? Well Sir, and I swan you’ll find that they got some of the friendliest lynch mobs you ever did see. 
 
“Do you want to know the truth about the South? The real truth? Most of them there are the descendants of convicts. Pickpockets, sneak thieves, counter jumpers  and the like. And like most fools of that stripe, they’re all a bunch of marks. Just like most people, they’re very good at conning themselves into thinking their way of life is the best. It’s warm all the time in Dixie, see, except when it ain’t, and that’s seldom, so of course the lazy white man can hunker down in the woods and sit and do nothing all day. What passes for heavy industry in the south is mostly found in the cities. Other than sawmills and turpentine mills and the like. Or working on the chain gang. Here’s some advice that just might save your life: Don’t get arrested down South; the chain gang is a living hell–chopping cotton in the 90 degree sun is enough to kill a man, and the swill they feed you there ain’t fit for swine. At least in the county jail you have a chance to order something decent, provided you got the dosh. 
 
“I neglected to mention that there’s also a lot of industry on the plantations. Leastways, among the colored folk. Oh, those plantations! They stretch as far as the eye can see! You can still find the arrowheads left there from vengeful Injuns as was hustled off that land by Andy Jackson. Jackson was, by far, the best President we ever had. Most Presidents have a veneer of gentility, but Old Hickory was a genuine animal, and he didn’t care one jot ner tittle who knowed it. By the bye, watch out when a politician says ‘I have to be honest with you’. It means he’s preparing to let loose with a certified whopper. Ah, bolitics in Dixie is different from politics in the Big Cities up north. Everything is on a smaller scale. The man who would be the town loafer up North is the one they elect as Sheriff down in Dixie. Southerners admire the ingenuity of a lazy man. Your typical Sheriff down in Dixie is a big lout as ain’t good for much else. He dances to the tune of the movers and shakers, just like a Police Captain in the Big City. He’s been chewin’ Mail Pouch since he was a small boy, and by the time he grows to manhood he probably has nary a tooth in his head, but that’s all roight because his diet consists principally of corn mush fried in salt pork drippins. Your typical sheriff is so low down he’d steal the cracklin’s from his mammy’s fat gourd. In Sydney they’d call him a blodger and in the East End they’d call him a gull but down in Dixie he is the King of all the low-down, low-grade, tenth rate, good for nothing no-count white folk–to say nothing of the negroes, to whom he is like unto a God. You can see the panic and desperation in their eyes–when the Sheriff comes a-knockin’. Nothing good ever comes of it. One time down near Orleans a colored man, let’s call him Dax, was suspected of abductin’ a five year old girl. This, of course, was an unspeakable crime, since the little girl was white. My Pappy vouched for poor old Dax–said he couldn’t of done it, since Dax was with him the whole time. Of course, the Sheriff was a mean old cuss, and he warn’t having none of it. They tortured Dax, though not too much, because he was widely known to be a good boy, and then they strung him up. Of course, it turns out that the little girl had fallen down a well, and wasn’t even badly hurt, just skeered out of her little head. It was too late for poor old Dax, though. Well–he was 103 years old, and I guess it was might nigh to bein’ his time anyway. 
 
“Down South, the hard-shell bible-pounders don’t hold with liquor or card-playin’ or fornication, so perforce them there are their secret vices. Those men’s clubs they have? Lodge meetings, and the like? No women allowed? Well, that’s a sign that they’re all fucking each other, and they don’t want their wives or girlfriends to know about it. Remarkable, the secrets a man will confide when he’s drunk. Which is why hard liquor never passes my own lips. In my line of business, there’s no future in wising up a mark, nor in playing the blabbermouth. 
 
“Down in Dixie, some harmless old lady who wouldn’t even touch so much as a drop of home-made Dandelion Wine will drink those soothing syrups and other patent medicines like they was sody pop. And feed ’em to the baby, too. Them soothing syrups are, of course, is something like forty per cent laudanum, so they really make your little Goo Goo go Ga-Ga. But I will admit that some of them old Biddies can also whomp up a real mean poppy-seed tea. They ain’t all after harboring only Holy Bibles and lace doilies and other brick-a-brac, I can tell you that much. Some of them old hags have really whooped it up, back in their day. Just because they ain’t all painted up and powdered up, doesn’t mean that they wasn’t plumb loco, once upon a time. Doesn’t mean that they still don’t know how to tie one on. Lots of them fusspots are feelin’ no pain, I’ll tell you what. That’s why you don’t want to cross none of them, if you can help it. Unless you also want to have every man jack in three counties a-howling for your scalp. Some of those crones have some powerful friends and relatives in back of ’em. And a good many of them are pretty formidable in their own right.
 
“Oh, and did I mention they all have shootin’ irons? And you can bet that they all know how to use ’em, too. Hm! ‘Pore ole weak woman’ my ass!”
1*SALUTATION

DARLENE LOVE
RUN RUN RUNAWAY
 
2*REFERENCE
BRITISH SLANG TRANSLATOR
3*HUMOR
ROBIN WILLIAMS: A HISTORY IN 15 JOKES
5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

Salem State Girl Allegedly Brawls Outside A Bar, Bites A Cop’s Ear Off, And Threatens To Have All The Police Killed

6* DAILY UTILITY
A DIY Hat To Prevent Your Visibility On Cameras And Video
7*CARTOON
WERTHAM MISSED IT!
Outrageous comic book covers
8*PRESCRIPTION 
9*RUMOR PATROL
10* LAGNIAPPE
NEW LUCILLE BALL STATUE
11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
AMERICAN FAT FORTY
Fried, Captain, Fried
My Sweet Lard
It’s a Famine Affair
Dude Looks Like a Ladyfinger
Doctor My Thighs
I Will Swallow
Rock and Roll Nibbler
Fatty’s Little Girl
Your Own Special Weight
Baby I’m a Want Food
Ain’t No Mountain High Enough (To Keep Me Away From Food)
(What’s So Funny) ‘Bout Meat Lard Inside a Sandwich
12XL
Hot Stuffin’ (Can’t Get Enough)
Raspberry Sorbet
Addicted to Lard
The Gates of Eatin’
A Simple Twist of Fat
I Want Candy (Cake and Pie)
Waddle This Way
Nothing Compares 2 Food
Rolling to New Orleans
Icebox Icebox Baby
I Love Hot Dog Rolls (Put Another Dog on the Broiler, Baby)
I Want to Know What Lard Is
57 Pizzas (And All Are Gone)
All Those Beers Ago
Massive Pockets (I’m Special)
Can’t Fight This Eating
Do They Know It’s Chowtime?
This Food is So Bright I Gotta Wear Shades
(Just Like) Starting Oven
Keep Your Hams to Yourself
Making Lunch Out of Nothing at All
I’m So Lonesome I Could Diet
Beers In Heaven
Foods Rush In
Drowning (In a Sea of Lard)
Dinner You Better Get Ready
We Ate the World
CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.

861. TRAVEL TIPS

THE UNITED STATES
SAN FRANCISCO, CA. You would be ill-advised to opine that “all homeless people should be killed”.
MISSOULA, MT. Avoid patronizing references to “fornicating with sheep” or other livestock.
ST. LOUIS, MO. Resist the impulse to praise Kansas City and compare it unfavorably to St. Louis.
BIRMINGHAM, AL. Do not, by any means, ask your host if his negroid features mean that his ancestors had “a splash of the old tar brush”.
PITTSBURGH, PA. Refrain from pointing out that their PNC Park sounds like “Pansy Park”.
DOVER, DE. Do not ask, “Is Delaware even a state?” Not even in jest.
NEW YORK CITY. Do not say “Actually, I find that New Yorkers are surprisingly provincial.” 
PROVINCETOWN, MA. Do not ask your bartender about his wife and children.
PROVIDENCE, RI. In referring to the recently-deceased mayor, do not imply that he “sleeps with the fishes.”

THE INFORMATION #901 AUGUST 12, 2016

THE INFORMATION #901
AUGUST 12, 2016
Copyright 2016 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

“Consider every man colored till he is proved white.”–Mark Twain

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TEN: PART EIGHTY-THREE: KINGDOM COME
As Tipsy Smith stood behind the long wooden bar at The Seven Stars Saloon and “cleaned” the chipped and foggy glasses and beer steins with his filthy rag, Count Victor Justin continued to hold forth about his favorite topic, the unreliable and quite possibly thoroughly bent con man and fellow grifter Jake Leaming.
 
“Old Jake had quite a bit to say about a number of topics, but–holy hooch!– the most bizarre of his so-called theories had to do with racial matters. Now, I myself am a son of the South, and I understand the way the way a Southerner thinks about the Colored Man, but Jake, he tried to make a science of it, what with all his unrepeatable mumbo-jumbo about the Mud People and the Angels of the Light. I’m supposing, however, that in spite of all his hateful race theories, his Mama taught him well, because he said to me once, ‘I always call ’em “negroes” because using that other word is the sign of a vulgarian. No man,’ he said, ‘who uses that word will ever be President.’
 
“Well, I don’t know about that. Anyway, Colored people don’t bother me none. They’re human beings, just like everyone else. I mean, who isn’t? One of them even saved my life once. One time I got caught cheating at cards and I was being beaten in an filthy alley down in Dinkytown, and the local Kingpin there strode up and said, ‘OK Boys–he’s had enough.’
 
“But this Jake Leaming, remember, is the world’s expert on everything, and that’s not all he had to say on the matter. ‘The colored folk all like me,’ Jake would say, ‘because they know I am their friend. Nothing gladdens my heart more than to see a colored man faithfully engaged in productive work–these honest Sons of Ham–just like the Bible says, “They shall be drawers of water and hewers of wood”–and when I see one hard at work, I frequently give him a well-deserved pat on the back. And how it gladdens my heart, to see the blubbery lips of a chocolate-colored buck with a sweaty phiz as he grins up at me with devoted gratitude. Sometimes I even say “Here, Boy,” and I throw him a buffalo nickel–and I chuckle as he scrambles for it, because I know how much they like bright and shiny things, and the grateful negro is always quick to say ‘Yas’m, Boss.”
 
“‘Back in the golden olden days, when Cotton was truly King, the grateful slave was so bursting full of love for his master that he would sing his charming little spirituals and blues to please him as he fetched him his food and mixed him a mint julep with the mint crushed just right and muddled with cane syrup just so. Why any negro would wish to leave that little patch of heaven and live in the cold and hostile north, full of surly Yankees and querulous bohunks, is surely beyond me. 
 
“‘You know, way down south, way below the Mason-Dixon line,  the colored fellows have it pretty rough. Why, one time they whipped a man simply because he went to the general store and asked for a box of Quaker Oats. “That there is a white man on the box. So that’s MISTER Quaker Oats to you,” says the storekeeper. Still, the Southland isn’t all bad. In fact, it is a veritable paradise, where white is supreme. Where the kids grow tall and worries are small. Where the people are as hospitable as all get-out, and a man can laze about and live on the fat of the land  You see, up north, they put the colored folks in cages, and they call them ghettos. Down South, everything is easy-peasy. If the negro is a good boy, he will be well looked after, and will always have a prominent white man to see after his interests. That’s the way it used to be, and that’s the way it should be, and I know for a natural fact that all the good negroes will agree with me. For that’s the way God intended it to be. It says so in the Bible. There isn’t a man in America that has more regard for the Negro in his place than I have. But I am no hypocrite. I do not cater to him as a social or a personal equal. And I think that this is what the negro prefers. I tell you, it makes my blood boil to see those people who are in favor of intermarriage and the concomitant mongrelization of the races.  
 
“And then,” said Victor Justin, ‘he would go on some whacky tirade about ‘instauration,’ and the need to send the ‘inferior races’ right back where they came from. ‘Actually, I don’t mind the colored folk,’ he would say. ‘Actually, confidentially–it’s the Italians who I can’t stand the sight of. They are a sneaky and devious race. A bunch of Mackerel-snapping, pasta-twirling,  querulously gesticulating slobs. What with their always smelling of garlic, and their greasy complections, and their thick black mustaches, and their always chasing after fair-skinned women, and whatnot. You always see them haunting barber shops. What do they DO all day? Remember them Sicilians as got lynched down in the Big Easy? It was actually a rather good thing. It served them right, is what I say. Sicilians, in particular are lower than rats. Lower than the filth in the streets. They are all descended from banditti, and killers, and Mamalukes.They are treacherous and cowardly. They are filthy, lawless, and duplicitous, and I make it a habit to never play cards with them, because if you win and they lose they will stab you in the back soon as look at you. I am reliably informed that this is because they are part Greek, and part Mountain Goat, and part God Knows What.’
 
“It’s just a lucky thing for old Jake Leaming,” said Count Victor Justin, “that there weren’t any minorities in the room when he said all that. Because they ARE known to be hotheaded. And I should know,” he said with a smirk. “My grandmother married one.”
 
2*REFERENCE
THE REAL COLONEL SANDERS
https://www.entrepreneur.com/article/250300
ALSO SEE
There’s a hilarious interview with the Colonel, ” A Mac with Colonel Sanders,” in this book, which, alas, is long o.p., but well worth searching out.
http://www.abebooks.com/…/junk…/author/rubin-charles-j/
3*HUMOR
REMEMBERING LENNY BRUCE
http://www.latimes.com/entertainment/la-ca-lenny-bruce-remembrance-20160722-snap-story.htmlSEE ALSO:
LENNY BRUCE
HOW TO RELAX YOUR COLORED FRIENDS AT PARTIES
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ua0TT87KNwo

ALSO SEE:
DOROTHY PARKER
4*NOVELTY
JACK DAVIS COMMERCIALS
https://youtu.be/8Axl9lpeKKU
5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
The Whole Dam Family and the Dam Dog (1905)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D6i2qZ-PTak&feature=youtu.be

6* DAILY UTILITY

7*CARTOON
THE SAILOR AND THE SEAGULL
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E4w7FI2pYWc
8*PRESCRIPTION
THE REPUBLICAN RACE: WHO THEY COULD HAVE PICKED
http://www.lrb.co.uk/v38/n15/eliot-weinberger/they-could-have-picked
ALSO SEE:
10* LAGNIAPPE
Eduardo Davidson
Le Chien El Perro
11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
MEDIOCRE HORROR FILMS
The Cosby Killers
The Noble Pitbull
The Shithouse Mouse
Onan the Vulgarian
President Killer Diller
Big Chief Hug-Em-And-Kiss-Em
Big Chief No Wipe ‘Em of the Nasty-Ass Tribe
A Chicken Heart As Big As the World
The Book Group From Hell
The Legend of Stabbity McStab Stab Stab
The Thing That Just Stands There And Refuses To Go Away
CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.

860. THE TRUMP GOODNESS JUST KEEPS RIGHT ON COMING
Though, to be fair, nearly all the viable Republican candidates this year have been Bizarros, who have swiftly perished when exposed to the Blue Kryptonite of hard cold logic.

UNDERSTANDING TRUMP
 
HISTORIANS ATTACK TRUMP ON FACEBOOK
 
TRUMP: WHY NOT USE NUKES?
 
MACY’S DROPS TRUMP
 
MY GOD: TRUMP KNOWS MORE ABOUT FOREIGN POLICY THAN OBAMA
 
THIS JUST IN: TRUMP KICKS BABY OUT; CROWD ROARS
 
AND:
WHAT IF TRUMP DROPS OUT?
 
WHO COULD REPLACE TRUMP?
 
There’s no keeping up with it.
 
Why were we blessed to be so lucky?  And condemned to live in such interesting times?
 
AUGUST 3, 2016 FORECAST
 
The election of  2016 will go down as the wildest yet. 
 
And I currently predict a Hillary blowout along the lines of 55 or better for her and 45 for the other candidates, with 300+ electoral votes for her.
 
Hard to be precise, because of the Libertarian candidate, Gary Johnson, and others, who may get as much as 5% of the vote.

NEWT EXPLAINS WHY WE MUST VOTE FOR TRUMP
www.washingtontimes.com/news/2016/jan/7/newt-gingrich-understanding-donald-trump/

CNBC BEGS TO DIFFER
DEPROGRAMMING THE TRUMP SUPPORTER
 
 
TRUMP CORRECTS COURSE
 

In a Washington Post interview, Trump declined to endorse House Speaker Paul Ryan against his primary challenger
He reiterated that he hasn’t endorsed Sen. John McCain and said the onetime prisoner of war “has not done a good job for the vets”
He slapped out at Republican Sen. Kelly Ayotte, saying “she has given me zero support”
He suggested that Americans should pull their 401(k) funds out of the stock market
He said he’s “always wanted” to receive a Purple Heart but that having one gifted to him by a supporter was “much easier”
He said that the handling of sexual harassment has “got to be up to the individual”
He accused Khizr Khan of being “bothered” by his plan to keep terrorists out of the country, and said that he had no regrets about his clash with the family
He appeared to feud with a crying baby during a rally
He reiterated that “if the election is rigged, I would not be surprised”
The sitting president of the United States publicly called Trump “unfit to serve” and urged Republicans to withdraw their support for him.
Trump spokesman Katrina Pierson suggested that Obama and Clinton are to blame for the death of Humayan Khan, who died in 2004, when neither were in the executive branch at the time
An ally of Paul Manafort told our colleague John Harwood at CNBC that the campaign chairman is “mailing it in,” leaving the rest of the staff “suicidal.”
Sitting GOP congressman Richard Hanna, HP head Meg Whitman and former Christie aide Maria Comella all said they plan to vote for Hillary Clinton
The Washington Post released a transcript of its full interview with Trump, indicating among other things that he paused five times to watch TV coverage in the middle of the sit-down
A GOP source told NBC’s Katy Tur that Reince Priebus is “apoplectic” over Trump’s refusal to endorse Ryan and is making calls to the campaign to express his “extreme displeasure”

 

THE INFORMATION #900 AUGUST 5, 2016

THE INFORMATION #900
AUGUST 5, 2016
Copyright 2016 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com
 
Taking crazy things seriously is a serious waste of time. ― Haruki Murakami

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE

BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TEN: PART EIGHTY-TWO: KINGDOM COME
“Jake Leaming,” said the grifter Count Victor Justin, “is a real friend of the Sunflower brigade, and that’s for certain. Maybe even its true head, after Oscar himself. Like most morphodites, he thinks his turds are made of chocolate ice cream, because every time he goes sliding into shit, he ends up smelling like a rose. His oafish pal Smash Conklin, on the other hand, is mostly a simple stupid lout–too stupid to even act crazy. To act crazy, I think, you got to have at least some degree of intelligence. But when he’s looching about with that Nance, Jake Leaming, I guess he manages to leach some brain power out of the man, because–have you noticed?–he commences to acting all goofy. 
 
“Sanity is a most precarious thing–especially in our trade, and amongst the demimonde in general.
 
“Women? We won’t even talk about women. They’re all insane–ain’t they?–at least to some degree or t’other. And it’s men as makes them that way. Men make ’em insane, and then they make ’em sane again, once the twitchets drop a few bairns and get settled down. Y’see, women are more like animals than the menfolk. They have an advanced sense of smell–j’ever notice?–and a highly developed aversion to disgusting things, like menfolk who don’t wash regular. Women operate on instinct, and have intuitions that menfolk simply can’t be bothered with, concerned as we are with mere survival in a cold world of all against all. Don’t get me wrong–I’m not kicking about being a man–hard times keeps us sharp. When women have it soft, as lots of ’em do, it makes ’em dull. So they tend to overcompensate. They’re always upset with you, for one reason or another. It doesn’t have to be a valid one. Any pretext will do. It’s their nature. There’s simply no satisfying them. They always find something to moan about. Now, here’s the lousy part. When you first hitch up with them,. they SEEM perfectly normal. Almost too good to be true, as a matter of fact. When they are happy they don’t get snappy. There seems to be absolutely nothing that they won’t do for you. But then–and I’ve noticed this in dogs, too–as they age out, they become crotchety and growly. Always wanting you to tell them that you love them, and you find them pretty, and desirable. Always needing some sort of reassurance, in other words. Oh–and here’s the kicker–the fact that proves they’re delusional, if not out and out goofy–when you lie to her, and she catches you, it’s a very big deal. She’ll never trust you again–all men are brutes–how could you–et cetera, et cetera. But she lies to you all the time. With impunity. She knows you won’t get all ruffled. In fact, she counts on you not to make a fuss. When she rifles through your pockets. When she opens your mail. When, in a jealous rage, she destroys your property. 
 
“The crazy starts to come out while you’re in the courtship phase, if you have eyes to see it. Sure, she may have an incredible twitchet. But she’s also got them there those crazy eyes. And they’re a-watching you. Always. And you never know what the owner of them will do, or what will set her off. One day she has long hair; the next day she’s cut it off. Other women are wicked and wayward temptresses; not her. She doesn’t get along with other women because they’re jealous of her; she doesn’t get along with men because most of them aren’t man enough for a woman like her. She believes the most improbable things. Not only is Jesus Lord of all living things, but He talks to her. He tells her that you and her were meant to be together forever and forevermore. Not only is the moon made of green cheese, but they got moon maidens and crystal rock palaces, and snakes with diamonds in their heads. You’d best be careful about having knives in the house, because she just might decide to cut you. She’s so crazy that her own parents have given up on her.  She’s so crazy that one drink and she’s under the table. Two drinks and she’s under the host.  Three drinks and she’s peeling off all her clothes, much to the gratification of all and sundry. She comes home with black eyes and improbable tales of  walking into doorknobs. She owns more cats than she has hands to feed them. Pretty soon, she has you so bollixed up that you start to think that maybe you’re crazy. 
 
“Oh, and you can never tell her to calm down, or to act reasonable. That’s guaranteed to make her more insane. It goes beyond the fact that she’s utterly delusional. She is likely to be so vain that she sees nothing wrong with her behavior. Nothing whatsoever. And she’ll accuse you of being the unreasonable one. And she’s also likely to tell you to stop yelling at her, even if you’re talking at barely above a whisper. That’s where men and women truly differ. You can holler at a yellof and he’s not going to take it as a capital offense. At worst, he’ll say ‘Don’t yell at me, Yob’ and tell you to put your dukes up and maybe offer to give you a little poke in the snoot. I think that women are hoping for by using this little gambit of theirs is that you will start yelling and screaming so they can think they’ve got one over on you. Why they should feel the need to do this is something I’ll never fathom. But there you have it. Maybe they think that if they succeed with their little game, they can bend you to their will. God only knows that a lot of men are suckers and will back down when they’re confronted by an angry woman. They fear that mindless rage. Because that’s all it really is. A woman who wants to be a man, but doesn’t want to pay the price. It’s the same sad story the world over. Give ’em an inch, and they’ll take an ell. So you give them nothing. You laugh at them and tell them they’re being ridiculous and you’re not going to take it and that they can do whatever they want–but the party’s over as far as you’re concerned. 
 
“At least half the time she’ll get crazier still, but she’ll learn soon enough that the game is over. 
 
“Especially after you walk away.
 
“Actually, scratch that. Don’t walk away–run. Run!” 
 
1*SALUTATION
THE ROLLING STONES
I CAN SEE IT
ALSO SEE:
MICK JAGGER
MEMO FROM TURNER
2*REFERENCE
3*HUMOR
ALBERT BROOKS
IMPERSONATION KIT (1983)
 
STAND UP TONIGHT (1973)
VENTRILOQUIST BIT (1972)
4*NOVELTY
10K TIME LAPSE OF BRAZIL

6* DAILY UTILITY

Cornell Launches Archive of 150,000 Bird Calls and Animal Sounds, with Recordings Going Back to 1929

7*CARTOON
DR. SEUSS
PRIVATE SNAFU
8*PRESCRIPTION
COMIC BOOK PLUS ARCHIVE
9*RUMOR PATROL
WORST SONGS EVER RECORDED
10* LAGNIAPPE
FRANK RIZZO
“I’LL BREAK THAT CAMERA OVER YOUR HEAD” 
11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
TEN CLASSIC ALBUMS ROLLING STONE ORIGINALLY PANNED
 
*11A BOOKS READ AND REVIEWED
ALL-NEW WOLVERINE 1. FOUR SISTERS. ***
ARCHIE 1000 PAGE COMICS 75TH ANNIVERSARY BASH. ***
AROUND THE WORLD. PHELEN. ***1/2
BAD GIRLS. VANCE. ***
THE BATTLE OF THE BULGE. VANSANT. ****
BOMBING NAZI GERMANY. VANSANT. ****
BRENDA STARR 2. ***
THE CARTOON HISTORY OF THE MODERN WORLD PART 1. GONICK. ****1/2
CIGARETTE GIRL. MATSUMOTO. ****
DARK NIGHT. DINI. ****
DEADPOOL OMNIBUS. KELLY. ***1/2
DIVAS, DAMES & DAREDEVILS. MADRID. **1/2
DOCTOR STRANGE 1. THE WAY OF THE WEIRD. ***
EINSTEIN. MAIER & SIMON. ****
FANTE BUKOWSKI. VAN SCIVER. ****
GHOST IN THE KEY OF A. KATZ. **1/2
GRIFTER & MIDNIGHTER. DIXON. ***
GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY 1. EMPEROR QUILL. ***1/2
JUSTICE LEAGUE 3001. 1. DEJA VU ALL OVER AGAIN. ***
JUSTICE LEAGUE DARKSEID WAR: THE POWER OF THE GODS. ***
KILLING GERONIMO. DAVIS & MAIDA. ***1/2
THE NAM. 1. ****
THE NAM 2. ****
THE NAM 3. ****
NORMANDY: A GRAPHIC HISTORY OF D-DAY. VANDSANT. ****
PASCIN. SFAR. ****1/2
PLAYING TO THE EDGE. HAYDEN. ***1/2
PREZ 1. CORNDOG IN CHIEF. ****
PROVIDENCE ACT 1. MOORE. ****1/2
PUKE FORCE. CHIPPENDALE. ***1/2
THE RED BARON. VANSANT. ****
SOUL. PLATANOV. *****
STARVE 1. WOOD. ****
SUPERGIRL. WALKER. **1/2
SUPERGIRL 1: THE GIRL OF STEEL. ***
THEY’RE NOT LIKE US 2. US AGAINST YOU. ***1/2
ULTIMATE HULK VS. ULTIMATE IRON MAN. ELLIS. ***1/2
UNTERZAKHN. CORMAN. ****
WONDER WOMAN. MESSNER-LOEBS & DEODATO. **1/2
 
CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.

859. AMATEUR MEMOIRS

Unless you are Proust or someone like him, let me assure you that I really don’t care about your fond but inaccurate remembrances of things past or your endlessly regurgitated fables about the good old days. Please–just for once–drop the nostalgia and slowly back away. Spare me your chronicles of Tragic Eden and your lurid tales about the Happy Valley Ghetto. Don’t you know that virtually everybody on earth despises your highly sanitized unsolicited testimonials to an old, dead world? Your stories are rehearsals for cremation. Gear up to the now. It’s what’s happenin’ Baby; it’s where it’s at, Daddy. You want something to remember? Remember this: There’s nothing sadder than a superannuated raconteur.

MODERN WISDOM NUMBER 214 AUGUST 2016

MODERN WISDOM: AMERICA’S ONLY HUMOR MAGAZINE

NUMBER 214
AUGUST 2016
Copyright 2016 Francis DiMenno
dimenno@gmail.com
http://www.dimenno.wordpress.com

1. THIS IS THE BEST–FORGET THE REST!!!!

Hitler: World’s most famous vegetarian.

Jesus: Messiah with the purtiest mouth.

Seven: Most charismatic number.

Velcro: Most functional fastener in the universe.

E = Mc2: Sexiest equation.

Icebergs: Most obvuious threat to the Merchant marine.

Ben Gay: Most unfortunately named topical ointment.

Doom Patrol: Most misunderstood hero team in the DC universe.

April: Cruelest month.

Nonsensical Hyperboles: most meaningless form of rhetoric.

 

2.A BAKER DOESN’T NEED TO MAKE A LOT OF DOUGH

Godfather–can I sit?

Can I speak?

I know you don’t like to be bothered on the day of your daughter’s
wedding, but I’ve got some things I gotta get off my chest.

Anyhoo, me and my buddies was havin’ a drink down at the Pick-Rick,
and I was sayin, “Put the Courvorsier on the lower shelf where the
WORKING MAN can reach it, iGod!” I’ll tellya what WE need–WE need
ANOTHER war. Kids today are soft and yellow. A good scrap’ll put some
lead in their pencils, by jingo.

But not according to my Son-in-Law. He marries my daughter and
promises to support her and guess what–come to find out, SHE’s
pregnant, HE’s on unemployment, and they’re living on food stamps!
Tellya the truth, this is the first I heard of it.

It’s a terrible thing, a terrible thing.

Me and my family, we never asked the gummint for one red cent.

Godfather, lets face it–if poor people aren’t sturdy enough to beg or
smart enough to steal then they should starve.

The world has too many people as it is, by cracky.

Time was when you’d go to your Godfather and he’d take care of yuh–am I right?

My Son-in-Law, he’s been to college, see, and so he thinks he’s a
Harvard man. He comes home spouting all this nut talk about how we
oughta spend less on the space program and more on the poor. I says to
him, Don’t give me that bushwa about how we spend too much on the
military, Sonny Jim. We NEED the military because it ALREADY costs me
66 dollars to fill the tank of my SUV, for criyi.

I says to him, I says, Say, howzabout more big fat honkin’ tax breaks
for the people who actually work for a living–people like ME! Tellya
the truth, I think I’m the only person in the world who actually PAYS
his taxes!

Furthermore, I tells him, I’m sick of your cholera-palsied,
pellagra-weakened, kwashiorkor-bellied roustabouts mooching off the
public trough. They who do not work shall not eat. John Smith said it
and you’ve got to give him credit, for a son-of-a-gun-of-a-gunner was
he. You read about that in your fancy history books, Brainiac?

Furthermore, I asks him, why the hell can’t these people speak
English? It was good enough for Jesus and it’s good enough for me! My
grampa didn’t come to this country jibber-jabbering in Catalan and
expecting Uncle Sucker to give him a fat paycheck! No siree, he rolled
up his sleeves and went to WORK, by jiminy!

And another thing–these rap stars with their expensive limos and
their drug habits–who died and left THEM in charge? Me, I love that
old-time Sinatra. Or maybe Der Bingle.

This whole country’s going to hell in a handbasket, what with Beaver
and Buffcoat and Madonna and 50 Per Cent. We don’t need gay marriage
and flag burning. We need STRAIGHT marriage and FAG burning.

Godfather, let’s face it–these people–they are not like us.

They are animals.

Animals.

And I’m afraid my daughter has made a terrible mistake.

And so this is the favor I ask of you.

Give my Son-In-Law a job. Perhaps in a bakery.

Although to tell you the truth–he already HAS a loaf in the oven.

Forgive my levity, Godfather.

I wish you many happy returns of the day.

 
3. LETTER TO AN INCOMPETENT SECRETARY


Dear Fucky McFuck:

Your accusations are A WHOLE HEAP OF MISCHIEVOUS NONSENSE. Your
behgavior is TEXTBOOK EMO. I think a DOG, a PARROT, a ROBOT, a CHIMP–
even a MENTAL INVALID could do a better job than you. My advice: Put
down your National Enquirer and actually pretend to do some work. I’m
sorry if I don’t write in SHORT, DECLARATIVE, ONE-SENTENCE PARAGRAPHS
so you can read this without moving your lips. Not to be unkind, but
you are slower than a MONKEY ON DOPE. And trying to stop you when
you’re on one of your tirades is like THROWING PEBBLES AT A CHARGING
RHINOCEROUS. I understand that your comprehension of your job is, at
best, SHALLOW and, as a result, you are FULL OF ATTITUDE. This does
not mean that you are therefore entitled to behave like the GENGHIS
KHAN OF THE INTERNET. Some may be inclined to humor your WRETCHED
BLUBBERING. Personally, I believe you to be A MISERABLE SPECIMEN OF
WRECKED HUMANITY. Your HOOLIGAN REPRESENTATIONS, IRRESPONSIBLE
FABRICATIONS, and DELICIOUSLY INFANTILE FANTASIES OF DESTRUCTION
reveal you to be a HOPEFUL and PERPETUALLY THIRSTY ALCOHOLIC who
probably has a bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream in the file cabinet
under D for Drinky-Poo. I, for one, am not one to indulge in COARSE
JOLLITY WITH TERRIFIED TOADIES. I will fight your idiocy UNTIL MY
HEART EXPLODES.

Very sincerely,

 
 
4. NAMES FOR COUNTY & WESTERN BANDS

A Boy Has Never Wept Nor Dashed a Thousand Kim
A kick in the butt
A Track in the Dirt
Afternoon Everybody
Ah Please Papa
Alvin
Amarillo
Any Cow
Any Major Dude
Arnold the Pig
Ass Wranglers
Barfy Burgers
Bat’s Breath
Benny at the Wheel
Blabber and Smoke
Blazing sword
Booger Bear
Buzzard on a buzzsaw
Call Me Rusty
Care Bear Stare
Casa Loma
Chimp Boy-Ar-Dee
Chug ‘Em Down
Cincinnati
Coonie Up a Gum Stump Shoo Fly Shoo
Coot
Cootie Garage
Corn Syrup Uber Alles
Cream of Tobacco Soup
Crushing Your Head
Dead Dog in a Carnival Costume
Deadbeat Dad and his Soon-to-be-Starving Neglected
Demon Dogs
Dingos Stole My Baby
Dirtbag
Drivin On Nine
Exclamation Point and the Hysterians
Fast and Furious
Fifty dollars and time served
FIRE BAD
Firebox
Flowers and Grief
Four Roses And A Thorn
Frozen Pipes
Fun Is Fun
Get Off Me Paw, Yer Crushin My Smokes
Grab Ass
Grab Ass
Habanero Suppository Surprise
Heat Misr
Heavy Metal Thunder
Hey Edison
“Hey Red!”
High School Education and the Parking Lot Attendants
Hillbilly Heroin
Hominy Wishes And Corn Likker Dreams
Hopeless Drunks
How-Dee
I Heart My Cow
Idiot Starscream
Incinerator Babies
Jibba Jabba
Jinkys
Kenmore Square
Kiss My Grits
Let the Fraggles Play
Li’l Abner & the Mattress Testers
Long Neck Bottles
Lovers of Today
Lump and the Lumpkins
Maybe, Maybe Not
Me Grimlock, King
No Full Moves
No Hobo and Poboe
No Photo ID No Service
No Respect
Oofty Goofty
Oyer & Terminer
Pandemonium Running Wild
Papa Smurf
Paw Ain’t No Kin to You
Piano-Player Shooters
Pop and the Tarts
Pot Likker
Power of Greyskull
President Stockboy
Purty Mouth
Rabble And The Rousers
Raintree County
Raise the Roof
Random Canyon
Red Man
Riverboat Gambler
Sit, Ubu, Sit
Squirrel Brain Pie
Sticky Parts
Streets of Laredo
Sump Pump
Survey Says
The Acorns
The Apples
The Ass Harvesters
The Beverly Hellbillies
The Boxcars
The Coma Bums
The Cowboy Lepers
The Dance Crashers.
The Dance of Joy
The Floating Outhouse Logs
The HEAD!
The Leather Boyz
The Lost Coyotes
The Master Cylinder
The One-Eyed Hillbillies
The Ornery Coyotes
The Owlhoots
The Potato-Seed Eaters
The Pushbroom Zombies
The Red Devils
The Tourette-Dart Band
The Ultimate Warrior
The Underdogs
Thundercats Ho
Tonto’s Brood
Train I Ride
Train To Nowhere
Turtle Power
Virginia City
Voltron Force
Von Dutch
Why Cousins Shouldn’t Marry
Windshield
Wine Spo-De-O-Dee
Yak
Yee Haw
Yipee Skipee
YQCA

 
5. MORE NAMES FOR COUNTRY AND WESTERN BANDS

Ayds Mama and the Crystal Meth Diet Revolution
The Costco Greeters
The Cockfight Brokers
Chloral Hydrate and the Mickeys
Comedo
Birmingham Church Bombers
Cirrhosis
LD 100 Au-Go-Go
Depot Provera
Lardass
Drop Your Cocks and Grab Your Socks
Two Hours of Pushing Broom
Tongue In Mouth
Stained Teeth
Bowling for Dollars
Positive Wasserman Jones
Brokeback Jockeys
Keep Yore Hand On That Plow
The Booze Brothers
Beer For My Horses
The Snopes Clan
The Jew Punchers
Fat Boy’s New and Used Autos
The Chigger-Lovers
Shiny Happy People
Scraping Cletus Off the Wheel
Gotta Drain Mah Lizard
Armadillo Jerky
Chiggers Ripped My Flesh
Boss Hogg Foilers
Red State Zombies
Hogg Wilde
Gummy and the Stumps
Three-Fingered Mo and the Scarecrows
Smack Crack and Pot Make the World Go Round
When People Were Shorter and Lived Near the Outhouse
Peckerhead and His Feral Hogs
Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms
Porky and the Chops
Firewood for Sale
Non Compost Mentis
Chubby and the Chubb Group
The Four Beers for Breakfast Club
The Oxycontin Five
Polish Mafia
“Big Don” Trump and His Short Fingered Vulgarians
Big Barn Boring
Muttley and the Trash Dogs
Thousand Yard Stare
PTSD
The Ransom of Red Chimp
Toe Fuckers
Nambla Ramblers
Jumbo’s Colostomy Bag
Doucheland Uber Alles
Spitback and the Methodone Wranglers
Ask Me About My Meth Lab
Jug band Mujiks
Rhesus Pieces
Ass Nuggets

 
6. THE TIRED MAN


One of the
newspapers headlined it, rather poetically, A MIDSUMMER DAY’S MADNESS.


According to them, it went down roughly like this.

“I’m tired,” the tall, cadaverous white man said as he entered the
still-hissing subway train at the Haven stop. He was
heavily bundled in a long black hooded overcoat even though
it was the dead of summer and 92 in the shade and even
the normally cool tunnel of the subway station was
weeping moisture from its cobbled brick walls. “I’m tired,”
he said, according to witnesses at the scene, then
took out a machete and began menacing a sweaty teenaged girl in a pink
sweatsuit.

“I’m TIRED!” he said, as he backed her into a corner of the subway tunnel.

Just then a light flared and a young, shavetailed
and very no-nonsense Transit Cop jumped out of the token booth,
and just as quickly The Tired Man, still holding on to his machete,
took a flying jump across the tracks to the platform on the opposite
side, then

jumped off the platform and onto the tracks. The Transit Cop,
a chunky guy who ran with jackhammer steps, gave chase, but The Tired
Man ran into a tunnel where his black coat blended in
with the unlit interior. The Transit Cop
decided not to follow in after him. He was alone and had
dropped his flashlight and there were too many
unpredictable variables in following an armed suspect
into a dark tunnel. So he went back to the the platform, took the girl’s name,
interviewed witnesses, made notes for when he’d write up his report and
wondered if The Tired Man was the same freak who had
been terrorizing passengers at the Townville station.
He supposed he would check it out when he got back to
Central.

About a quarter mile into the tunnel The
Tired Man climbed up a rusty ladder, its metal
prongs like staples impressed in the cobbled wall,
emerged from a manhole on Skid Road and shambled to
his boarding-house room above a disreputable nightclub
where, every weekend evening, young people gathered to listen
to amateurish four-piece pop ensembles and underaged
three-piece heavy metal devotees as their made their Visigothic
assaults on the Western Music Tradition. He squeezed in his wax
earplugs so he could nap before the night shift. It was 4PM.

The Transit Cop got back to the station at about 4:15PM.
At 5PM, in an interrogation room with a single light and a single
wooden chair, he proceeded to beat the tar out of a
fourteen-year-old black kid named Tyrell who had gotten drunk,
stolen a Cadillac, driven it across the street, and
wrecked a police cruiser. The boy was unhurt. When they
tested him on the breathalizer he blew .29. Needless
to say, he was practically incoherent. As the Transit
Cop beat him with a nightstick rolled up in a
newspaper, he was careful to avoid the head, for he
well knew the risks of brain damage associated with
drunken concussions. As he placed a well-aimed kick at
the black beanpole’s skinny ribs, he worried about The
Tired Man. It was rare for this type of subway felon
to be white. He was more likely to be a loner, not the
kind of person who would drunkenly brag of his
exploits to his friends. How do you catch a man who
had no friends who were willing to rat him out? He
hauled the black kid up and made him sit down in the
chair because he believed he had made his point. “Stay
there,” he bellowed, and left the room to call for an
ambulance to take the kid to the hospital for x-rays.
He worried because he still didn’t have idea one of
how to find The Tired Man. It was a major black eye,
the press would likely be all over it, and the Old Chief—
an irascible Irishman–would not be happy.

The Bartender took off his heavy coat, undressed,
showered, put on a jacket, a freshly-starched white
shirt and tie, and a neatly-pressed pair of black
dress pants; pilled on his thin grey socks and slid on
his black-tasselled loafers, then proceeded to the front
door of the popular nightclub Depot Provera.
He took out his ring of keys, and unlocked the nightclub.
He turned on the exterior lights, even though it was only about 6:30PM.
He turned on the interior lights, took the chairs down from the tables,
looked at his watch—it was 6:45PM–then took his place at his station
behind the bar.

The Transit Cop decided to play a hunch. The Old Chief wanted
The Tired Man jugged and all was fair in love and war, so at about
11PM that same night he went to the Townsville hospital and visited Tyrell.
The kid, needless to say, was startled when he awoke from a dreamless drunken
sleep to see looming three feet above his head the face of the Paddy
who had sucker-punched him that afternoon. “What you want?”
said Tyrell, and looked ready to cry. “I ain’t said nothin’!”
“I know, Tyrell,” said the Transit Cop. “I’ve been asking around.
About you. You’re a smart kid. No arrests.” He paused for
effect. “But smart kids can sometimes do dumb things.”
He paused again. “Smashing up a cop car on a DWI can
get you a long haul in Juvie, but I can make it all go away,”
he said in a sing-song, “if you do me just. One. Little. Favor.”
The kid looked at him with bleary dislike.
The Transit Cop proceeded to describe The Tired Man. “Ask
around. Ask your Crew. If you find out for me who this guy is
you can walk outta here in a week and go straight home.”
The kid tried to spit on the floor but missed and instead
stained his bed sheet with pink spittle. “Why should I help you?”
Tyrell said. It was a bluff. The Transit Cop played him. “I know
you got a Crew meets at the Mall and plans subway shakedowns,”
he said. “I got nothin’ to say about that. But you gonna let some
white guy come in and mess with your turf?” “Hell, no!” said the kid.
“Das right, makes us all look bad,” the Cop half-muttered. “Find out
who this mutt is and you get a get-out-of-jail-free card.” “A whozit?”
said Tyrell. “A pass. I’ll see you walk on the DWI. I ain’t had
time to write it up yet,” he lied. “I been too busy chasing
some crazy-ass machete motherfucker.” The kid smiled,
dry-mouthed. “Lemme see what I can do,” he mumbled.
“You do that,” said the Cop. “Today.” He gave the kid his card.

But Tyrell never called him. Days passed. Meanwhile,
the Transit Cop had applied for a transfer to the Vice Squad
and by the end of summer he was on the street mostly
shaking down low-level drug dealers
for poker money which he invariably ended up losing, night
after night, to the Old Chief. During these sessions
the Old Chief complained incessantly about his nephew, a drunk
who had gotten entangled with a crack-addicted Dominican prostitute who’d
claimed she was carrying his baby. “The man is always the last to find out,”
said the gruff Old Chief, and the former Transit Cop, who owed his
promotion to the Old Chief,  tersely replied “Tell me about it,” and
tried to remain deadpan as he surveyed yet another garbage hand.
The game was Pot-Limit Omaha and, if he didn’t know better, he’d
swear the Old Chief was dealing with a marked deck. He tried to ignore
Mattingly and O’Shea, two other Transit Cops who were in on the game,
and wondered if he should ignore the conventional wisdom and
try just this once to draw to a flush.

“Ever find that skel?” said beefy Mattingly.

“Which one?” said skinny O’Shea.

“Our old friend The Tired Man” said Mattingly, casting a
meaningful look at the ex-Transit Cop.

Christ, he muttered— since joining Vice he hadn’t thought
twice about the Tired Man. It wasn’t his beef. Ancient history.
He’d hoped the guy had either moved on had or been murdered
by one of his would-be victims.

He tried to focus on his hand but by now it was a losing battle.
He was just about tapped out. He needed lots of money, and fast.
Tomorrow night, he decided,
he would pay a friendly visit to the owners of the
new nightclub down on the Skid Road. He’d gotten
vague reports of the bouncers making drug deals and
figured that might be good for a fat shakedown of five large.
That would just about cover his car payment, he thought brightly,
and longed for the day when he’d ditch the Buick and Taco Bell
and move up to a Rolls and chateaubriand. What was that joke?
“If you’re hung like a horse you don’t need a Rolls to pick up chicks.”
He chuckled through puffy lips. His poker buddies had heard him laugh
so rarely that they took this for a tell and folded their hands and just
this once he actually ended up winning the pot. Maybe the
nightclub business could wait, he thought.

By mid-October, Tyrell had had no luck with the members of his crew. Not one of
them knew or had ever heard of The Tired Man. A week later
he got sent upstate to a Juvenile Detention Facility.

The bored Bartender listened to one of his regulars gassing.
It was Halloween. The drunken white kid with the red hair and
the map of Ireland all over his frog face complained for the
umpteenth time and with all his might about his Dominican
girlfriend and how she disrespected him. The Bartender rolled
his eyes. The kid stopped sniveling and glared. “At least you
can PRETEND to listen, maan,” he said, slurring.

“I’m tired,” said the Bartender. “I’m tired.”

And he thought about someday maybe going back to fetch the
gleaming machete he had lost that hot summer day in the subway
tunnel. And he smiled.

“Wass so funny?” said the kid, still annoyed, and using
the querulous tone of voice popular with lovesick drunks.

“Freshen her up?” he said to the kid.

The kid dry-snorted. “Y’ got any gak?’

The Bartender thought a moment, then replied.

“No.”

He made a serious frown.

“NO.”

The kid backed away so fast he knocked over what was left of his
Jameson’s. He threw a crumpled wad of bills onto the bar and backed
out the door of Depot Provera.

“I’m tired,” the Bartender thought. “I’m tired.”

THE INFORMATION #899 JULY 29, 2016

THE INFORMATION #899

JULY 29, 2016
Copyright 2016 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

Schoolboys are a merciless race, individually they are angels, but together, especially in schools, they are often merciless.– Fyodor Dostoyevsky,

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE

BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TEN: PART EIGHTY-ONE: KINGDOM COME
“Smash Conklin was a Gee who hated midget-men as much as I do. And, while we’re on the topic of Old Uglyface,” said Count Victor Justin, “Jake Leaming was something of a little buddy of his. I don’t know how, and I don’t know why, because at first the two of them would seem to be somewhat inimical. There’s old Jake, the master con man, with a line of patter so slick it would make an iron-fisted Scotsman gladly unhand his Pretty Polly or would even make a shabby Jew part with his ooftish, albeit with the greatest reluctance.  And then there was Smash Conklin the strong boy–drunken, dissolute, and seemingly fallen on hard times. A more unlikely pair you would be hard-pressed to imagine. But Smash Conklin stroked and petted and fawned upon the affable grifter like a pampered pet cat. They’d go out drinkin’ together, and like as not the big galoot would be listening with his stupid mouth wide open while Leaming expounded at length about some horseshit theory or another. Leaming was the worst possible influence on the already dissolute Conklin, and would urge him to ever-greater excesses of crapulence and depravity. It was he who introduced Conklin to the dubious joys of ether. What a mess of crabs! Conklin insufflated and even drank some of the awful stuff and, as a result, he reeked of it for days on end and he stumbled around, stupider for ever, for well-nigh onto three weeks, gasping with his big mouth wide open like a beached fish.  And then Leaming had the bright idea of giving Conklin some laughing gas, and the big Thug took to it like mother’s milk until he took too hearty a whiff and fell down and chipped a tooth and also gashed his forehead on an end table, making his pug-ugly face even more unprepossessing than before. 
“Watching Leaming and Conklin in concert was rather like watching the temptation of Christ in the desert as performed by the very Devil. That is to say, if the devil were a suave and dapper looking individual, spotlessly attired, and sporting a gay foulard, and if Our Lord and Savior were a simple stupid farm boy seduced by the lures and snares of the big city into becoming a shambolic dipsomaniac. 
“A typical session between them would begin with Leaming blabbing at interminable length about some topic about which he likely knew very little, and Conklin staring at him with open-mouthed and gap-toothed admiration, saying ‘Duhh…gee, you’re so schmart. Duhh, you know lots of things!’ This is verbatim. I swear to you I’m not making this up. It was like watching a Mexican Hairless beguile a bulldog into some sort of fascinated circling about, as dogs so often do when they encounter one another on the street and sniff each other’s asses. Presumably this is how they wish each other a pleasant day. Leaming, for his part, never failed to flatter the big Bohunk, telling him how handsome he was and casually mentioning how much he admired a big strong man. Their nauseating colloquy usually went something like this:
‘Gee, Champ, you sure are strong! What’s it  like, being you? How does it feel?’
‘Duhh, it feels swell, little buddy–it feels swell.’
“It seems as if Leaming was able to lull Conklin into a false sense of complacency. For what purpose, the devil himself only knows.
“I don’t use the term ‘Devil’ lightly. In most respects, I am a rational man, and not prey to the superstitions which afflict the grifter class. But I see no value in indulging in sour oaths and vain blasphemies, and I have a healthy respect for the name of the Devil in his many guises, and do not wish to bring down any of this evil works upon my head by using His name in vain. On one occasion, guided by a dream I had, I even had the wisdom to go to a nearby park and sacrifice a pigeon by throwing it into a bonfire, so that Baphometh–but, never mind. I’ve already said too much. 
“I always wonder if there was something else going on between those two. Something a bit minty. Of course, it was well know that the mares in the stable weren’t safe around Conklin, and that some of the whores in Blowtown went to the Gypsy fortune teller and had her put a hex on old Uglyface so he wouldn’t set foot in their bordello, owing to certain vile practices of his which perhaps are left better unexpressed. Enchantments of Circe! But I will say no more.  
“Anyway, Leaming and Conklin would venture into Leaming’s usual haunts. My impression is that Leaming would use to big stupid lug as a kind of bodyguard while sounding out the depraved individuals who congregated in such places–by which I mean bar-rooms, hop dens, hobo jungles, waterfront dives, and the like. F’r instance, I’ve seen Leaming trawl the docks, looking for a bent sailor or longshoreman, or some wharf rat hungry for a jolt of hop, or even some fisherman down on his luck who desperately needs to make a payment on his boat. Conklin would tag along with him, mostly, I suppose, for protection–seeing as how there were some pretty rough characters thereabouts, and, although Leaming warn’t exactly no shrinking violet, nor was he a booze fighter. Conklin was known to be pretty handy with a pool cue or a bung starter, and that’s a solid fact. But one solid look at his fists, as fat as baby hams, would be enough to deter most potential troublemakers. Unless, of course, they were so messed up on popskull hooch that they were hog-wild. But Conklin would soon put paid to those babies. It is said that he could kill a loocher with one well-aimed blow. But never mind that. 
“Like I said repeatedly, Conklin was stupid. Maybe even the world’s stupidest man. And, yet, there he was, tanglefooting around with a wised-up grifter. A truly intelligent man. Maybe Leaming was actually the world’s smartest man, and I’m just too plain brickheaded to acknowledge it. But I doubt it. 
“Anyway, what I do know for sure is that the two of them ‘got around’, as the saying goes, and were therefore well known in Blowtown and Noxtown and environs. Particularly amongst the corrupt medicos, swishy Beau Brummels, concupiscent gobs, blackguard Marines, and lubricious civilians. Not to mention among the man-hungry clerics, debauched drummers, oversexed desperadoes, famished office clerks, sex-starved Customs officials, and degenerate wolves who prowled the Hobo jungles. They were well known, too, among all the local sporting gentry–speculators, peculators, crapshooters and horse-gamblers–yea, verily, Leaming and his henchman Uglyface were quite famous… though, naturally, all decent-minded men gave him and Uglyface a wide berth–a very wide berth indeed.”
3*HUMOR
 
4*NOVELTY

MANSPREADING

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
NUTRITION BS AT THE RNC

 

6* DAILY UTILITY
SIX BASIC PLOTS
ALSO SEE:
THE THIRTY-SIX DRAMATIC SITUATIONS
7*CARTOON
WHO IS THE REAL WONDER WOMAN?
8*PRESCRIPTION
MONKEYS ACTING AS HUMAN IN ART
 
9*RUMOR PATROL
Stephen Greenblatt’s The Swerve racked up prizes — and completely misled you about the Middle Ages
10* LAGNIAPPE
THE BEACH BOYS
CELEBRATE THE NEWS
11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
 
CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.

858. MIND KONTROL TOP 75

SHANTY TRAMP, “Ass In Pocket”

FIVE CENT TZAR, “The Very Special Episode”

HIERONYMOUS POP, “Drunken Ira Hayes” (Dance Remix)

LADY OF PAIN, “J’Adore”

JEHOVAH VACUUM CLEANER, “Dance Floor Shiny Under Junkies”

FASHION GORILLAZ, “It Makes Me Want to Kill Myself”

SEED RAIN AND THE BAT SHIT FIVE, “Rubbing One Out to April “

REVEREND DEVILLE, “Stinkfinga”

SPLENDOURS AND MISERIES OF THE PROSTITUTE, “In the Cave I Met a Hairier Version of Myself”

PRESIDENT CORNBALL & HIS ADMINISTRATION, “Conspiracy Dogs”

UNITED STATES HEROES, “Tough Guys (With Something to Hide)”

TINY SINESTRO, “Squeaky-Clean Suckers With Deep Pockets”

MR. BLOWJANGLES, “Sign of the Breast”

LYSERGIC REFLUX, “Cape Does Not Enable User to Fly”

KLARK KRYPTONITE AND THE KETAMINE FIVE,”The New Breed of Scumbag Who Cannot Fight Without a Weapon”

PITBULL DEFENDERS, “We Make ‘Em Die “

SMASH UGLY, “Midget Down”

JOEY HEROIN, “Mr. Heroin Nerves”

FIRM BUT FAIR, “Satan’s Cheerleader”

ROBOT SPYMASTER, “Normal Sadness”

THE SQUEEGEE MEN, “Fill Your Den With Liquor Using Food Stamps”

PEOPLE FROM TV, “Last of the Dancing Gypsy Bears”

THIS MAJESTIKAL ROOF, “With An LSD Girlfriend”

BLIND BEHEMOTH, “Ha Ha You Are a Slave”

HE WHO IS GOD HAS SAID IT, “Panic Inducing Marijuana”

THE ANTI-ROCK EQUATION, “Pass the Mighty Waterfall”

STABBITY MC STAB STAB STAB, “A Cat Named Frankenstein”

GOLD TOOTH FATTY, “Busy With Those Reefers”

THE BLOOD SURFERS, “Mr. Atomic Fireball”

TOOTHBREAKER, “Let Me Look Through Your Purse”

TURN ME ON DEAD MAN, “And They Are Mild”

FOOT OF ENGORGED BRAWN, “I Trust Diet Smith’s Robot”

THE CARNY ELITE, “Daddy’s Scratchy Face”

SOME DICKHEAD ACADEMIC, “The Lineaments of Gratified Desire”

SINISTER CHIPMUNKS, “Ten Times Bigger Than the Biggest Rat”

BOLSHEVIK EXPROPRIATORS CLUB, “Tender Effusions of Laxative Woodcocks”

THE TUFF-GUY HARDCORE SENSATIONS, “Thor’s Ever-Loving Hammer”

THE INTERESTING LESBIANS, “Big Chief Hug ‘Em and Kiss ‘Em”

183 DIFFERENT BOZOS, “The Freeway Is Our Ashtray”

CELEBRITY KILLERS, “Our Religion Is Love”

THE HEAD DRIFTS TOWARD THE BOTTOM, “Baby Made a Boom-Boom”

THE THIRSTY GIANTS, “(Theme From) Godsmell”

BULLETPROOF WITCH, “Acid Dog”

DAGGER STAB LEGEND, “Zip-a-Dee-Dada”

THE ALCOHOLIC BEARS, “Let Unconquerable Gladness Dwell”

THE TEMPLE EXPLODES THE CHICKEN CUBE, “Liquor Store In Nox Town”

CARLOS MARCELLO AND THE LIVARSI NA PETRA DI LA SCARPA ORCHESTRA, “(And) The Hits (Keep Right on Coming)”

WHISTLING FACE SYNDROME, “A Rage to Die”

SCREAMING MONKEY HEAD, “Pimp and Circumstance”

HELLO BECOME LOVE GIANT!, “Just Let Me Put the Tip In”

DSM-IV, “The Colour of God”

PSYCHO KITTY AND THE POWER BIGOTS, “I Heart the South”

I GOT A HARD, “Tubular Smells”

FAITHFUL AND DISCREET SLAVE CLASS, “Alpha 66 Is Go”

CIGAR SMOKING ZOMBIES, “We Who Are Not We… And Yet “

UNCLE BENZEDRINE’S ALERTED RICE, “The Sugar Cube Ride”

THE FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTHS—“The Reason”

TRIPPY DINOSAUR–“The Fairy and the Zephyr”

THE SUNSHINE HIPSTERS—“Fun is Fun”

THE WHITE BEARDS—“Mr. Captain”

GENTLE BEN–“I Love Unicorns”

THE MARTYRS–“Life is Gray”

THE 8-TEENS–“It’s All About Me”

THE SATANIC ROCKETS–“Napalm Conspiracy”

THE SPRINGTIMES–“Ride the Chopper”

THE SONIC BOOM—“Ready to Rock”

THE WAY COOL—“One Two”

THE FAMILY GARAGE–“Um…”

THE PRETEND–“Money for Rope”

MOLDY FIG & THE JAZZ REVIVAL –“Desusifunido”

SAURON’S FLAMING EYE–“When the Caissons Go Rolling Along”

HAPPY HIPPY AND HIS HOEDOWN HUMPERS–“Far Far Out”

THE BLACK BEARDS—“Making Cowboy Love”

DAD & THE SURFERS–“I Live in The Doghouse”

PERPETUAL RAIN–“Funny Ha Ha Ha”