MODERN WISDOM NUMBER 194 DECEMBER 2014

MODERN WISDOM: AMERICA’S ONLY HUMOR MAGAZINE
NUMBER 194
DECEMBER 2014
Copyright 2014 Francis DiMenno
dimenno@gmail.com
http://www.dimenno.wordpress.com

VERY, VERY SPECIAL CHRISTMAS ISSUE

1. A HEARTWARMING CHRISTMAS TALE
A kid saves up his allowance money so he can buy his mean dad a present that will make him love him. He carefully saves up every penny, earning more money by running errands and collecting soda bottles. Christmas day arrives. Angry Dad gets a genuine imitation leather belt. Which he promptly uses to whup the boy, for having given him such a cheap present.

2. MERRY CHRISTMAS: This statement features two lies.

3. KILLER SANTA; THE MOVIE “The Fat Man is back–and he’s ANGRY! He sees you when you’re sleeping and he knows when you’re awake–so you better WATCH OUT!”

  1. YULETIDE OBSERVATIONS
    The alcoholic is easy to shop for at Christmastime.

    I have learned that the Power of Christmas can cause Peace and Joy to flood into every nook and cranny–if, by the Power of Christmas you actually mean “a flooded basement” and if, by Peace and Joy you actually mean “a substantial insurance check.”

    Does Santa have monopolar syndrome?

    The Little Drummer Boy was a stage hog.

    Christmas comes but once a year–but then again, so do most other  major holidays.

    To an American who isn’t a Christian, the Christmas season must seem like National False Messiah Month.

    Here’s a secret: Santa eats children. Where do you think he  got that belly?

    Nice thing about being an exile is that you never have to buy Christmas presents.

    Holiday cheer is yet another sign of a conditioned response.

    Thanksgiving for the Puritan, Christmas for the civilized.

    Santa’s methodology: He utilizes a rip in the space-time continuum to conduct his rounds and prowl inside your homes. Mystery solved!

    This festive holiday season, I’d like for us all to pause for just a moment to think about the forgotten people….the convicts on death row. I happen to think capital punishment is an ugly expression. I think we should change it to something nice. Like “Putting the killers to sleep.” Or “Lights out for felons.” Or “Harvesting the psychopaths.” Or “Three strikes and you’re dead.” Or “Giving Amnesty International yet another so-called atrocity to complain about.” Or “A date with Old Sparky.” “Or “A great big heapin’ helpin’ of Edison’s Medicine.”

    The next time you turn down a job applicant for lack of the requisite experience, consider Christ’s resume: Fisherman, short order cook,  some light carpentry, public speaking experience, fluent in Aramaic. Then ask yourself–would you hire this hallucinating, bearded nomad?
    Well–would you?

    Perhaps next year I could write up some timely articles like “My Most Unforgettable Christmas,” or “The 10 Cutest Things Our Department Store Santa Ever Said,” or “I Am Programmed To Lay Up Stores During the Winter Solstice–Isn’t Everyone?”

    In the future: Boom! Atomic Christmas!

  2. 21 CHRISTMAS SONGS FOR THE 21ST CENTURY
    A HILLBILLY CHRISTMAS
    THE TWELVE DRUGS OF CHRISTMAS
    SOMEBODY’S BEEN SLEEPING IN SANTA’S BED
    SOUL SANTA
    DROP THE NOSTALGIA (AND SLOWLY BACK AWAY)
    SANTA THE LOUDMOUTH SHAMAN
    CANDYLAND OF VIOLENCE
    DON’T MAKE A FAT MAN CRY
    A CHRISTMAS MADE IN HEAVEN (AND LIVED IN HELL)
    SANTA DOG
    A VISIT FROM THE JESUS MAN
    THE FAT MAN IS COMING TO TOWN
    IF THAT’S SANTA KNOCKIN’ AT THE DOOR (THEN I AIN’T HOME)
    SANTA’S MY NAME (DON’T WEAR IT OUT)
    ROCK & ROLL, JESUS AND FRANKENSTEIN (WILL NEVER DIE)
    FROSTY THE WHITE MAN
    THE SEASON OF ANARCHY
    NAKED BABIES WAILING FOR FOOD AS MEN GET DRUNK ON STOLEN LIQUOR
    FOUR ROSES (AND A THORN)
    FILL YOUR DEN WITH LIQUOR USING FOOD STAMPS!

THE CHRISTMAS HOBO

  1. YOU BETTER WATCH OUT: A BIOGRAPHY OF THE REAL SANTA CLAUS

    On Friday, February 25, 2000, at 12:14 am, near the constellation Orion, a new star appears in the sky, though nobody now living will ever see it, for its light will not reach the earth for another 400 years. Over the next few hours, however, astronomers at the Arcadia Observatory note a number of anomalous phenomena: at 12:15am, over the northern part of the North Pole there came “balls of fire and a streak across the sky”. At 12:34, the heavens over the southern hemisphere were “obscured by a dark mist”. At 3:01 am, according to the notes of the chief astronomer, “an unknown body of planetary size was seen to cross the Sun.” Mercury, Venus and Mars were present and accounted for; no, this was “an unknown body.”

    At about the same time, Noxtown’s morning newspaper, The Morning Dispatch & Daily Chronicker, rolls off the presses. The headlines bear the usual simple bold text in 18-point type: REPORTER COMMITTED TO REST HOME; GRAFT ALLEGED IN HWY CONTRACT; DISASTER IN HARBOR, COALITION SEEKS REFORM; PROF. CHARGES RACISM; AREA YOUTH WINS SPELLING BEE. At four am, as the first plastic-banded bundle is thrown off the delivery truck to land on the cobblestoned street in front of the City Hall Newstand, the wind begins to whip wildly. The bundle splits open as it hits the stones, and the topmost paper flies off; its wind-strewn pages reveal the interior headlines: ECOLOGICAL NIGHTMARE, PHARMACEUTICAL FIRM INDICTED, NASDAQ SELLOFF, INFRASTRUCTURE IGNORED, OFFSHORING UNDERMINES TOWN MANUFAC. BASE, ASSN PREXY CHARGES MAYOR HAS ‘SECRET AGENDA’.

    Santa Claus awakes, as is his wont, at 5am. In spite of press reports indicating otherwise. he is not ordinarily a jolly man but on this day he awakes with a smile. When his servant brings in his paper at 5:02 am, his smile, beset with tiny teeth of a pearly iridescence, grows frighteningly wide. The 60ish Mr. Claus and his ancestors had been, for the past 300-odd years, the head of a secret society, the name of which is utterly unknown save to initiates sworn to keep its name a dark secret. In his expensive suit, custom-tailed shirt, and conservatively-cut all-silk foulard, he is, by all appearances a respectable citizen of substance and means. 

    Nobody looking at Claus dozing by the fire in his usual comfortable chair in the wood-paneled Cherry Room at the Soho Club in Old Town would suspect that this jolly 300-pound personage with the receding hairline and white beard is a man whose name is spoken of in whispers and used to frighten small boys. A sort of sinister antithesis of the beloved “jolly old elf”, those who have crossed his path have received for their temerity not presents, but a world of pain, for Santa, currently a higher-up in a secretive government agency, is said to have dabbled in virtually every form of mind-control, from those involving hypnotism, sensory deprivation, drugs, and medical procedures to others, nameless and perhaps unnamable or at least better left unmentioned. This enigmatic bachelor–the tales of a “Mrs. Claus” are a mere fable–is a serial monogamist whose partners have all either died prematurely or gone insane. Santa has been known to make grown men quake with just a cross look. It is said that a political endorsement by Santa is a Faustian bargain at best; although his candidates always win their contested races, they are almost invariably forced to resign their positions in disgrace before the end of their terms. Nowadays, savvy pols tend to steer clear of “The Fat Man”, albeit in a diplomatic way which they fondly hope will not give him undue offence. For his part, Santa wields his enormous power in city politics with quiet firmness. Those charities he deems superfluous soon relocate ; those fundraising organizations which fail to meet with his approval soon disband. Nevertheless, he himself refuses to serve on any boards, but prefers to make his preferences known through more clandestine means. It is rumored of Santa that he can make himself invisible; can make a man bark like a dog; can predict what will happen before it occurs. This is palpable nonsense; a testimony not to his true powers but to the power of public credulity. And yet…it is well known that those who have the poor judgment to defy him have a tendency to suffer episodes of delirium and erratic behavior which often provide headlines in the next day’s local paper.

    Santa is smiling because, of the six front-page headlines, he has influenced the outcome of five of them, a new personal best. REPORTER COMMITTED TO REST HOME. That is an interesting one. On Wednesday evening, a freelance reporter had called on him at his Club and interviewed him about the upcoming Mayoral election. The reporter ventured to mention that “A lot of uninformed people seem to think that Mr. Ose might act as a spoiler in the race.” He then smiled and said, “But who cares what a lot of stupid people think?” In an unguarded moment, Santa had replied, “Who cares what stupid people think? I do. The beliefs of the credulous drive the world.” The reporter was foolhardy enough to attribute this saying to Santa in the Wednesday paper. One phone call was all it took; the paper hastily printed a retraction in the afternoon edition. However, very early on Thursday morning the offending reporter had been found by police, trudging, naked and weeping, in slippery snow on the Shanty Street offramp of Route 299 in Noxtown Lower Falls. Santa notes with satisfaction that the newspaper story mentions that “the reporter has been committed and is now being given a series of tests at the Arcadia Nursing Home.” His age is given as 27. “Such a young man, what a shame,” Santa muses, “that he’ll never live to see 28.”

    GRAFT ALLEGED IN HWY CONTRACT is also Santa’s doing. The Citywide Improvement Agency had been working for months to plant a spy on the Highway Department payroll and had finally succeeded in placing the enigmatic Agent 54, who reported directly to Santa, who was able to transmit details of a forthcoming sweetheart deal to his fellow club member, agent 61, the erstwhile publisher of the Dispatch and no friend of the Mayor.    

    DISASTER IN HARBOR is only indirectly his. It is actually the work of his close associate “Zip” Zepar, a man named for his weapon of choice, a prison-crafted pair of single-shot “zip” guns, William Gilmore Simms “Zip” Zepar looks as if he might have stepped out of a 1950s motorcycle flick, with his greasy black hair combed into the classic D.A (“Duck’s Ass”) style–not to mention his well-worn red leather jacket, black leather pants, and work-worn steel-toed boots. Zepar, who stands 6 feet one inch and weighs 250 pounds, is the burly muscleman who patrols the docks of Noxtown’s Olde Mystick Village district with a rolled-up newspaper inside of which is secreted a short but lethal crowbar. His favorite remark to policemen, reporters, lawyers, and private detectives is always a terse, “Why don’t you mind your own business?” It is not clear why harbormasters, ship’s captains, and dockworkers are so deathly afraid of this man, whose whims are law, but one look at his dead-grey emotionless eyes and perpetually sneering mouth is enough to unsettle even the huskiest Bluto. Zepar lives in a modest shack by the riverside and frequently holds forth at Mickey Finn’s next door, which he owns; it’s a place where wharf rats, bent cops, crooked pols and hardened smugglers listen very carefully when Zepar ventures to offer them constructive “advice” which they invariably follow faithfully. Santa well knew it was Zepar’s advice to his minions to ignore the gale warnings of the shore patrol and continue their usual clandestine midnight cigarette-smuggling operation which led to the spectacular disaster: the mid-river collision of a smuggling sloop with a houseboat, which in turn led to an explosion which killed the houseboat’s occupants. The bodies of the two smugglers were never found, leading investigators to conclude they might have escaped amid the din and wreckage. Stolas knew the inhabitants of that particular houseboat. He considered the boat itself a nuisance and its inhabitants the sort of bohemian riff-raff who had no right to sully a rich man’s pleasure with their scruffy presence.   

    COALITION SEEKS REFORM is more of Santa’s work. The coalition in question is one between the noted feminist Thelma “Trixie” Dantalion and the radical law Professor Zora Phenex. Both, unbeknownst to even the most knowledgeable political insider, are deeply in his debt. The still-striking Ms. Dantalion, a political activist and an advocate  for women’s rights for some thirty-odd years, has recently entered the Mayoral race for Noxtown, and though she is not expected to win, she is expected to draw off enough liberal and radical votes to act as a spoiler and virtually ensure the election of the current front-runner, a dyed-in-the-wool conservative and secretly mobbed-up defense attorney, whom Santa has referred to as Agent 59. Of course, nothing would suit the criminal factions currently attempting to control Noxtown more. Ms. Dantalion is well aware of her role as cat’s-paw, however, she does an extremely good job of acting otherwise. She runs her staff ragged and as brutally as any despot or autocrat of yore, frequently exhorting them to work 14 and even 16 hour days in her Get-Out-the-Vote drives. Ms. Dantalion has been married twice, and her second husband left her well-heeled, passing on to her his substantial fortune only hours before he passed away as the result of an auto accident in which he stepped off a foggy curb and was struck dead by a protruding SUV mirror. Even so, it is not known where she gets the money to fund her rather swollen grassroots operation, though there has been talk about large, illegal cash donations by certain zealous real-estate magnates who would do anything to prevent a reform candidate from winning the race. Those who idealistically support the feminist movement have professed to be saddened by Dantalion’s presence in the Mayoral race, but righteously refuse to urge her to withdraw her candidacy; their logic is that Ms. Dantalion has every right to stand up for her principles, regardless of the probable consequences.What would these naïve idealists do if they knew the brutal truth—that Santa, her patron and one-time lover, had more or less blackmailed her into making the run for Mayor?

    PROF CHARGES RACISM. Santa smiles again. Zora Phenex, the other member of the so-called “coalition”, is a radical attorney and the head (and some say sole member) of the breakaway Socialist Authority Party, which broke from the “ameliorist policies of the pro-Mao, pro-Castro, pro-Trotsky playboy soldiers” of the Worker’s League (now known as the Socialist Equality party) back in 1976. She has run in every Mayoral race since 1980, and in her peak year, 1996, managed to garner 71 votes (out of about 40,000 cast). Hers is an entirely grassroots organization; she has never declared any campaign contributions–she claims that, in fact, that she has never received any, and, furthermore, even if she did, she would return them, because “property is theft”. Needless to say, this type of rhetoric does not endear her to anybody with any political influence within the confines of Noxtown. She is a perennial figure on the Ivy campus, where she is a tenured professor at the Law School (the first female to be given tenure, in 1975). Her favorite insult seems to be “ameliorist”; she has accused everyone from Eisenhower and George McGovern to Malcolm X and Angela Davis of this damnable flaw. She is a frequent caller to talk radio programs, where her cries of “free the political prisoners” and “the USA is a giant poison machine!” are permitted for their entertainment value. Botched plastic surgery and Botox injections have left her with a perpetually blank forehead, and her bad teeth and pock-marked face (beauty is “bourgeois”) have made her an easily recognizable figure about town. She rides a bicycle everywhere she goes. Her perpetual campaigns for various offices leave her perpetually impoverished, though she occasionally earns speaking fees from Pan-Arabic organizations who find soothing music in her anti-American diatribes. She is 50 years old; her Afro-styled hair has turned white, and her coffee -colored skin is splotched white by vitiglio. She is well over six feet tall, and claims to be of mixed Indian and Negro ancestry. Santa knows that the secret source of Phenex’s funding is profoundly conservative oilmen who are seeking to discredit certain disreputable foreigners. Of course, these oilmen worked closely with Santa. Santa gave her considerable leeway; she was and is one of the few public figures who have openly criticized him without suffering repercussions. He decided to let her live. He considers her rhetoric harmless. He finds her amusing. And, he likes her style. She is one of the bravest people he has ever met, and that was saying a lot, considering Santa had consorted with presidents, potentates, and war heroes by the score. Phenex is utterly fearless. Her politics are so idiotic they were almost charming. In fact, Phenex would have been rounded up years ago, and given the what-for by the boys with the pinkie rings, if Santa hadn’t stayed their hands. She had charged “racism” so often then that boys at the Morning Dispatch had that headline stereotyped back when they used typesetting.

    AREA YOUTH WINS SPELLING BEE was the only headline he could take no credit for, but as if to make up for it, there was the utterly delicious above-the-fold headline in section two, ASSN PREXY CHARGES MAYOR HAS ‘SECRET AGENDA’. Santa well knew that the details of this so-called ‘secret agenda’ didn’t really matter; just accusing a political foe of having one is red meat to the conspiracy nuts on both the left and the right, and is just the sort of irritating insinuation which is not only impossible to deny, but is also one which was sure to galvanize the Mayor’s foes to vote for anybody but him. Perhaps as a response the Mayor would even be inspired to actually develop a secret agenda!

    Santa is gratified but not overly shocked to note that every other headline in section two pertains to interests he had long had a hand in: ECOLOGICAL NIGHTMARE was the result of Santa’s many real estate ventures in Brazil; the PHARMACEUTICAL FIRM which had been INDICTED was one in which Santa had taken great interest and had, up to about two weeks ago, invested heavily in; now, of course, he could take the profits from he recent sale, buy up their stock for pennies on the dollar and gain a controlling interest with no additional outlay on his part. NASDAQ SELLOFF is indirectly his doing; his inside knowledge of the bursting of the tech bubble has enabled him to sell his e-commerce stock at its peak. As much as he’d like to take credit for INFRASTRUCTURE IGNORED, it is actually more the result of people under his control electing to prioritize cash flow into other areas. He’d have to talk to Agent 62; it didn’t look good to have headlines like that. A bicycle path in Old Town and a pocket park in the Cannery District would create some favorable headlines. OFFSHORING UNDERMINES TOWN MANUFAC isn’t really directly Santa’s doing either; again, it is the responsibility of people   under his direct control, particularly Agent 47,  who has gotten greedy and has neglected to hire the public relations help he needs to recast his cost-cutting measures in a more favorable light. Opening a new sneaker factory and a cut-rate furniture store in Noxtown Lower Falls would create front-page news to counter the offshoring accusation; he’d tell his people to get right on it. 

    Incidentally, Santa is said to have a curious tattoo, though nobody can agree as to what it represents; some say it is a dragon, and others have variously reported it as a star of David, a crown, a crucifix, a lion, a bearded man, a sphinx, a corpse, a heart, a dagger, a globe, an all-seeing eye, a phoenix, a bell, a spider, a tiger wearing an army helmet, a bear on a unicycle, lengths of a chain, a skull in a cobra’s basket, a mermaid, a coiled rattlesnake, or a pair of circling sharks. 

    Apparently, no one has gazed upon Santa’s totally nude body…and lived to tell the tale.  

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THE INFORMATION #813 DECEMBER 5, 2014

THE INFORMATION #813
DECEMBER 5, 2014
Copyright 2014 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER NINE: PART THIRTY-NINE: THE MAYOR OF HELL

Round about the time you turn twelve or thirteen, Yob, is when you realize that things ain’t always as they seem. That, in fact, in what the mystical sorts call the luminal world, that things are seldom what you think they are

For instance: picture putrid old Coach Crump, the pallid slum landlord and real estate man with the pointy nose whose creaky face needs a going-over.  Preferably with a steamroller, to smooth out all the crags. At the first of every month he goes from door to door collecting the rent money. Colored folk in Jivetown call him Mr. Rent Man. But he is far more. Namely, he is  is a well-connected Jacketeer who owns property up and down Noxtown. He takes his cut all the way from the top–skyscrapers and ever’thing–right down to the bottom–from Blind Tom the news vendor (who’s not really blind, and not really a vet, either, even though he says he is) and Luigi the fruit vendor (who has a thick Italian accent when he’s on the street, to baffle his foes, but who, I’d be willing to bet, speaks The King’s English flawlessly when he’s in his own home, three crowded rooms over the Fruit Stand–oh Luigi, you are a Man of Mystery–who knows what other secrets you conceal?) and from a ramshackle shanty known as the Old Sailor’s Home (where a bunch of superannuated fishermen sit on the front porch taking whiffs from their smelly corncob pipes and bragging about the gold they found in Timbuctu and other such mealy tommyrot, even though a good many of the old salts had never drifted any further than sixty miles from the shore).  

Old Coach Crump–nobody ever knew his real first name–it was probably something like Archibald or Percy or maybe Leslie–some girlish name–not fit for manly company–was a fraudster. He too pretended to be full of interesting facts, but he was a crashing bore. Allus telling you things you didn’t want to know–for instance, about the self-styled mountain man who lived at the top of Shanty Street on the grassless hillock in a tarpaper shack and brutalized his daughter–something’s got to be done, says he, pretending to care–but nothing ever was. I saw this girl he spoke of one time. She was wearing a torn flour sack for a dress and her hair was filthy and matted, like a wild animal. The Brute had her chained to a tree, like any beast. I brought her some water like anyone with a heart would do for so much as any panting dog and there was the sound of a rifle blast and some buckshot raised dust in the dirt beside me and I skedaddled, and right smart, too. I noticed while running to save my skin that the trees above the Brute’s shack were Catalpas, also called Indian Cigar Trees, with long slender tobys hanging from in between their heart-shaped leaves.  
 
I eventually guessed the reason old Coach Crump never did nothing about the girl, even though he owned the shack and even managed to collect rent on it onct in a while, was that he himself was doing things to the girl; likely jazzing her, and perhaps also doing other things that my immature mind could not yet then wrap itself around.  Crump was loony for Zooks, but any frail would do, when he got the fever.  

I don’t know why he never hired no other man to collect his rents for him, although I guess it meant that he didn’t trust nobody nohow to look after his interests as well as him. Him, with his turkey neck. He was well-known to keep a lucky charm wrapped up in a twenty dollar bill–sometimes he even wore it out in the open and then you could see him as he strutted around with a bone from a raccoon penis hung around his neck–it looked like the curved stem of a pipe–he said it was his good luck charm–you’d hear him on the brag among the menfolk at Feist’s Cigar Store–he’d keep his mouth shut when any of the Big Boy’s men were there, but you’d hear him with his ferrety nattering voice a-puffing and blowing himself up big when it was just the fellow small timers who was present and accounted for. He fancied himself some kind of combination of poet and sport—and he would bore his listeners for nearly an hour with a labored description of his prowess at making a girl feel satisfied–though I lived in the whorehouse and knew that for all his bragging he was actually more of a Minute Man–a sixty-second kind of fellow–the whores and Zooks all called him “The Rabbit Man,” and was always glad to see him because he never took up too much of their time ner made too much of a mess, neither. They flattered him shamelessly too, because they knew he had big time connections. Anyway, he would brag about how he throwed the whores across his knees and fucked ’em. Old Judge Rance Sniffle was there one time; he was a regular over t’ Feist’s part of town; he was a laughing but pompous man with a big alderman for a belly and had a watch-fob with an elk’s tooth and all sorts of medallions on the breast of his old fashioned jacket. The Judge was also a petty thief who was the terror of Blind Tom the news vendor and Luigi the goofy Eye-Talian fruit-peddlar–he would filch from their stands, not from need, but out of sheer cussedness, and they could do nowt. Like I said, Old Judge Rance Sniffle was connected. 

So Coach Crump starts into his bragging, saying, “And so I takes her behind the shed of the rail depot and I fucks her….”

“Hrmpf, my good man,” says the Judge. “Do endeavor, in the future, to nut use such vulgar terms.”

“How else kin I describe what happens, Judge?”

“Use the term ‘intercourse’.”

“‘Inntercourse’? What’s that?”

“That, my good man” says the Judge, “is a technicality of the language which you wouldn’t understand.”

Coach Crump obligingly resumed his story. “So there I was, intercoursin’ her back o’ th’ shed, and then I gave her a taste of the old Chicago Cross Jostle.”

Then Judge Rance Sniffle pipes up: “What’s that?”  

Crump: “Why Judge, that’s a technicality of fucking that you wouldn’t know anything about.”

Big haw haw from the assembled loafers and loochers.  “That Judge really is an ape-headed chump,” says one. The Judge wheels on him with all the dignity he can muster and pronounces the man a common vagrant who will fare poorly next time he is brought before his court, and the goof shuts up yammering trap right quick. But the damage was done. Wasn’t too long before the tale of how Coach Crump insulted the old Judge passed into local lore–and even legend. 

1*SALUTATION

DANGERMOUSE
ENCORE
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JbXLp2z6xL4

2*REFERENCE

TEN POPULAR MIND CONTROL TECHNIQUES USED TODAY
COSBY MADE WHITE AMERICA FEEL GOOD
ALSO SEE:
COSBY, MEGALOMANIAC
http://www.pajiba.com/think_pieces/a-quick-history-of-bill-cosbys-strongarming-megalomaniacal-behavior.php

COSBY: “SPANISH FLY”
OCCULTED LAYER OF ICONIC FILMS
NATIONAL GRID SEEKS 23 PER CENT RATE HIKE FOR RI CUSTOMERS
DYLAN’S ALBUMS FROM WORST TO BEST
HUNTER S. THOMPSON AND THE HELL’S ANGELS
DON’T RAKE YOUR LEAVES
MYTHCONCEPTIONS DEBUNKED
DR. BUZZARD’S ORIGINAL SAVANNAH BAND
CHERCHEZ LA FEMME
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4CK-f-Hhij4

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

BILL COSBY. See BOB HOPE. Same superannuated refusal to retire; 
same coasting on a long reputation; same uncanny willingness to shill for
the highest bidder; same impulse to subject his audience to cranky,
retrograde, conservative rants. And those are his good qualities. 
Oh…and then there’s that other thing.

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
771. TWELVE SIGNS REPUBLICANS ARE MENTALLY ILL

Anger- Check out our articles about doing battle with angry conservatives on Facebook who lash out at “effing statists and socialists,” attack folk singer Cat Stevens in a fit of rage, and flip out on liberals saying they are “lower than a snake’s belly.” Or feel free to check out how they attack each other if they disagree on something, such as the time last week when they slammed Ted Cruz. You can also check out the time Bill O’Reilly freaked out on an intern.
Antisocial Behavior – See Republicans’ hatred of women, gays and minorities.
Avoidance – Here’s a personal favorite: Michele Bachmann fleeing a CNN reporter after being caught in a web of lies.
Confusion – Check out this list of 10 of the most idiotic statements by Republicans, including favorite moments such as Rick Perry being unable to name the three government agencies he would cut if elected president, Sarah Palin insisting that Paul Revere warned the British, and Michele Bachmann confusing John Wayne the actor with notorious serial killer John Wayne Gacy.
Deceitfulness – I don’t even know where to begin on this one. How about these 10 insane, fear-mongering GOP lies from the recent election cycle? Or you might want to check out The Daily Banter’s recent article Debunking the Top 10 Most Egregious Republican Lies.
Delusions – Check out Republicans who cannot accept that Obamacare is here to stay – in specific the 54 times (and counting) they have voted in four years to repeal Obamacare – which could easily fit into the next category as well.
Denial- Check out the GOP’s Top 10 Climate Change Deniers, or how about the time Fox News claimed we were running out of sand in a segment denying the reality of climate change.  How about the time Michele Bachmann stated that God would overturn Obamacare? Or how about the time the creator of the death panels lie walked out of an interview after being confronted with the success of Obamacare?
Fears – see Fox News
Grandiosity- see Sarah Palin, Ted Cruz and Ted Nugent or if you want something an little more countrified how about Duck Dynasty…
Hallucinations – the prevalent belief amongst conservatives that God wanted George W. Bush to be president. Better yet, how about the time Bush said to James Robinson: “I feel like God wants me to run for President. I can’t explain it, but I sense my country is going to need me. Something is going to happen… I know it won’t be easy on me or my family, but God wants me to do it.“
Intoxication – How about House Republicans boozing it up while voting to shut down the government last year? Or how about a book detailing George W. Bush’s cocaine arrest or another book detailing his community service to cover up a DUI?
Sexual Preoccupations – check out Republican efforts to control when, where, how, why and with whom we have intimate relations.

THE INFORMATION #812 NOVEMBER 28, 2014

THE INFORMATION #812
NOVEMBER 28, 2014
Copyright 2014 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER NINE: PART THIRTY-EIGHT: THE MAYOR OF HELL

In Noxtown we gave directions to strangers by using as our landmarks police stations, saloons and sweatshops.  Otherwise, you could get lost: It was miles and miles of rickety wooden tenements packed with sallow-faced people, many of them with a mean glow on. However, I should also mention that any fool newcomer who came to those precincts, unless he was a pretty rough customer, was quickly swallowed up by the criminal elements.
 

Like I said before, people came to the the uneven streets of unruly Noxtown from all over the area during the harvest and Big Carnival and at every other time–looking for fun which they wasn’t too likely to find–they came from tiny green Arcadia and the grim flat plains of Chokecherry, from wooded Dowagertown and the strip-mined precincts of Hungry Valley, from gaudy Nitburg and the factory blocks of Stinktown. They’d come from nearby Harmony and from far-off Murder Lake; from rural Friday Valley and the notorious crime enclave of Greasy Ridge; from swank Runnymede and from humble Uneeda.

Noxtown had con men and it had gun molls and pickpockets, sure, but you were lucky if all it was you got picked was your pocket. As a stranger, you might be invited into The Seven Stars, Tipsy Smith’s ill-omened groggery, for a friendly cup of cheer, only to find yourself instead the victim of knockout drops–chloral hydrate–and stripped naked, and left to fend for yourself in a filthy alley, of which Noxtown had plenty. There was Pig’s Alley and Mad Alice Alley and Thornbush Street and Arch Street; there was Tam Lane and Mud Lane and Mitre Way and Penfort Way. And hundreds of others. 

We had in Noxtown around the turn of the century a sloppy mix of recent immigrants, all different ethnic types, any one of whom who would do the business of robbing you blind: snooty German Jews, scrappy Russian Jews, swaggering Irishmen, flinty Scots, devious Italians, stolid Poles, credulous Greeks–the works. 

Any querulous Bohunk who took his pay packet into the Seven Stars and who wasn’t a regular there was likely to be fleeced, and then some. One of Red Mary’s girls might invite him to Come See Her and he would accompany her to Red Mary’s Brothel where he would spend five dollars for the girl and fifteen dollars on the drinks–cheap champagne, because most people couldn’t tell the difference anyway between sparking wine and the genuine article.  It would almost be enough to make you wax poetic, the ways in which a Yellof could be swindled. Watching it was like watching a piece of chuck meat going though the meat grinder. 

Scar-faced Joe Rumbuster the numbers runner, the terror of Shanty Street, him with his sneerface demeanor and perpetual hangdog look, was always up for rolling a helpless drunk or a hopelessly lost countryman. He was something of a lushman himself, and you looked at him, with his lumpy ferret face, and his shiny black hair slicked back with gookum, and his  bulging chest–and you’d think, “A Most Unpleasant Young Man.” An ugly customer, him.  A frowning goof, with two front teeth sticking out and a peanut-shaped hat which he took great pride in; allus cleaning it with a little bottle of hydrogen peroxide and woe betide you if you dinged or duffed it up. He would yell insane little insults at you. “Hey, you stupid! Yuh done damaged my hat!” You could tell from the way he talked–half meticulous and swanky and half vulgar Yob talk–that he was a certified nut. A cackling chaffer and a boshing blabber.  Both strangely back’ard and strangely bold among the ladyfolk, though. “I am most pleased and pleasured to make your acquaintence, Zook,” he would say to a low beldame, as he swept off his ludicrous chapeau.  And he’d also make the queerest observations. “Don’t think I ain’t watched how you eat,” he said to Red Mary. “You just nibble and gnaw at them comestibles like a little squirrel.” Comestibles? This from a sixth grade drop out? All I can say is that me must have had a keen parrot-brain and he caught some of the conman patter–which was plentiful at the Seven Stars–on the earie. He talked slowly, like a dolt. Didn’t talk much unless he had to; was always afraid he would say the most inappropriate thing–either that, or he gloried in the fact–who could say?

“Hey! Lady! Duh, didn’t I see you at the fucking dog show?” he shouted one time to Lady Astor as she was coming out of a Rambler Surrey to walk into a luxe hotel. “I’m talking to you, Fatso!” he bellowed, as she did her best to ignore him while the chauffeur, a big bruiser of a fellow himself, got out of the driver’s side of the brand-clean velocipede and glared at him. “I’m sorry, fat Lady,” he yelled at her retreating form, “If we ain’t been properly introduced.” He then glared back at the chauffeur. “Wanna go a round, little sister?” The Chauffeur did not. He got back in the Rambler and tore away at a life-threatening 20 miles per hour.

Joe Rumbuster didn’t have much use for the likes of me, though he tried to hide it; he was afeared of hot-tempered Red Mary and what hell she might pull down over his ears should he so much as harm a single hair of my chinny-chin-chin. He had his little sideline of rolling drunks, and tramps and bums, and he didn’t want no trouble, so he was either in cahoots with or he stayed well clear of the likes of Smash Conklin, who had his own tramp-rolling enterprise. He was certainly beholden to any of a number of fixers, conmen and wheeler dealers who made the city run smoothly.  This cast of characters also included Conrad Tench, the kickback-hungry copper who was the terror of all the nigs in Jivetown; Titus Peep the bloody-handed and red-haired shyster lawyer, whose services Rumbuster required on occasion; and Cool Slopp the Pawnbroker, who swindled the poor duffers and clued Rumbuster in on who had just cashed in a big load of swag.  These huskies all worked in turn for Alderman Adam Tyler, Police Captain Tom Aston, Beuuregard Nash the vice lord, Coach Crump the estate mogul, and, above them all, he Whose Name Must Not Be Used in Vain, the terrifying “Cokey” Stolas–the Big Fellow

1*SALUTATION

Abbe Lane & Orq Xavier Cugat 
Eso es el amor
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lfff9T3vFUU&app=desktop

2*REFERENCE

ABILIFY: MOTHER’S LITTLE ANTI-PSYCHOTIC
ALSO SEE:
VINTAGE PHARMACEUTICAL ADS

3*HUMOR

THE TEN WORST BEATLES SONGS
ALSO SEE:
THE BEATLES AT THE HOLLYWOOD BOWL
AYN RAND IS FOR CHILDREN
ROBERT ANTON WILSON REALITY HACKS
I WRITE LIKE….
Using four random samples of writing I got Twain, Vonnegut, Rudyard Kipling, and H.P. Lovecraft. What we really want it to say is “You write like nobody else!!!”
ALSO SEE:
Q&A WITH THE CREATOR
The Metropolitan Museum of Art Releases 400,000 Images Online for Non-Commercial Use
The manager at a Chick-fil-A made a list of words his employees were no longer allowed to say
DR. STRANGELOVE
22 HABITS OF UNHAPPY PEOPLE
http://www.infobarrel.com/22_Habits_of_Unhappy_People

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

A CONSPIRACY THEORY TOP FIVE
http://disinfo.com/2014/11/conspiracy-theory-top-five/

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
770. COSBY’S MASSIVE SOCIAL MEDIA FAIL

THE INFORMATION #811 NOVEMBER 21, 2014

THE INFORMATION #811
NOVEMBER 21, 2014
Copyright 2014 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

“The imagination of man’s heart is evil from his youth.” –Genesis

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER NINE: PART THIRTY-SEVEN: THE MAYOR OF HELL

Certain bums on the plush will tell you that when things get tough the tough get going, or some such other rubbishy fairy tale. 

But if you listen to me I’ll tell you the real what’s what–life is as fragile as an egg and you never know when some weasel is going to come around to suck all the joy out of it. 

Ain’t that the plot of well nigh every stage play that’s ever been? 

I don’t mean to give you over to a premature case of the blues–there’s enough of that going around–it’s as contagious as the influenza–but you is got to remember that nobody cares about you but yourself, and if you want to get ahead, you got to keep that in mind and not waste your time on crying about kittens in a sack or blind and helpless puppies. Way back in the olden days they would leave sick babies on a rock. And the old folks would be left to fend for themselves once all their teeth were gone and they were too weak to throw a spear. Don’t think it can’t happen to you, Yob, because sooner or later it happens to everybody and you can live to be 103 and all you’ll get for your trouble is a birthday card from the President.  

All alone in a dangerous world, we are. No better than the caveman. Sure, he has his friends, but what good are so-called friends when every last one of them runs away the second you need a boon? Sure, he has his family, but his ingrateful daughter is plotting to run away and his ingrateful son would no doubt like very much to take his place and his wife is tired of him after so many years so even that can only go so far. Believe me, living on the road, I ain’t very smart but I ain’t dumb, either. I meet a lot of people and all of ’em tell their tale of woe and it all amounts to the same thing–don’t trust no one.  How many men have a met who lost their jobs, lost their money, took to drink or the dope and well-nigh lost their minds. I ain’t never yet met a tramp as would turn down a snort of firewater. There’s a moral in this somewhere, but you’d best figure it out for yourself because I ain’t yer Paw, and it’s better that him, or someone as you will listen to, should tell you about the dangers of a drink craving. I was never one of those, but some bums lap up so much of the hooch that before long they gotta have it and won’t give it up no matter what. They can’t. they’ll fight you for it and they’ll fight the world and in two falls out of three I’ll bet you the world will win. 

Even among bums you got to learn to fit in. Be you a little too highfalutin, they won’t have you, and if you got no decency at all they will drive you away. One hand scratches the other and if you do a good turn for certain tramps, they will be there for you in your time of need, but more often than not your average bum will completely forget that you were the one who sprung for that last round of Sneaky Pete or that it was you as stole the pertaters for the mulligan. Sure, most camps is a wide open camp, so say we all, and anyone be welcome, even if he is on his uppers, but even Hobo charity only goes but so far and if you’re going to ask me to take the food out of my mouth to feed a sick jocker than I don’t want to hear it–take care of your own, Yob, is what I would have said back when I was a young tramp with no ambition.

You’re saying to yourself that he’s only an old Hobo; he never had any ambition; what does he know, but let me tell you something–once upon a time I had me some nice clothes and a loving wife and even a fine auty-mobile. See, the thing I’m trying to tell you was I wasn’t always a tramp. I worked hard to get to where I got, and I wasn’t inclined to give a stewbum any more than the back of my hand. In my great swollen head of mine I thought, I got mine–why can’t he do the same as me and get his? Not counting in my head, of course, all the lucky breaks I got, first of all in marryin’ a woman with money who I also happened to love. Her family blamed me for ruinin’ her, but they loved her too much to cut her off completely. But that’s a story for a later time and I might not get a chance to tell it to you because I really am all in.  

Life is pain, Yob–there’s no way around it, but it’s still possible to be happy when you’re in pain, though I know of very few men who could do it. 

We spoil the children, you know–tell them their mud daubings are art masterpieces–make their faces glow–and they chase after that elusive glow for the rest of their lives by trying to do something or build something, but praise is a very sometime thing and people don’t just hand out plaudits because they feel like it; you got to do something to deserve it and there’s some folks as can and there’s some folks as can’t, but all folks long for it, and Oh, how disappointed they are when they get to be old and there’s nobody to tell them they did a good drawing and maybe give ’em a gold star. That’s why so many people like dogs–a dog is always willing to hand out a compliment, and they just love to obey. One thing a dog can’t do that a man is able to put into action is to master his own feelings. You do that by telling yourself the good stories. Too many people tell themselves the bad story–all kinds of foolishness about ghosts and unforgiven sins and guilt over things that were done in the past. You can’t get nowhere like that. You get somewhere by telling yourself the good stories. By paying attention to the things around you. And…by writing your own happy ending. 

1*SALUTATION

REVEREND GARY DAVIS
IF I HAD MY WAY
FIFTY WEIRDEST ALBUMS EVER
 
3*HUMOR
CAR TALK LAUGHTER
FORTY WEIRDEST XMAS RECORD SLEEVES
MENTAL HEALTH PATIENT ART
WELLCOME LIBRARY
MISSISSIPPI FRED MCDOWELL
GOING DOWN TO THE RIVER
HOW TO LOOK AT MODERN ART IN AMERICA 1946
HOW TO LOOK AT MODERN ART IN AMERICA 1961
8*PRESCRIPTION
RANDOM DEEPAK CHOPRA QUOTE GENERATOR
NEW AGE BULLSHIT GENERATOR
POSTMODERNISM GENERATOR
9*RUMOR PATROL

FACEBOOK FRAUD EXPOSED

10* LAGNIAPPE
JOHN LEE HOOKER

THE JOURNEY
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9yFNHEWICRQ

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

ELECTION DAY
When you stop to think about it, Halloween is the perfect holiday for the Congress. Just like Congress, greedy little babies come to your door in what they think is a foolproof disguise and ask people in the neighborhood for hand-outs. Me, I used to always hate it when I’d go trick-or-treatin’, back when I was a tot, and, sure, they’d give me nickels and chocolate bars and salt-water taffy wrapped in wax paper, but then there were always a few old ladies who would give you this awful stuff called candy corn, which wasn’t really candy and it certainly wasn’t corn. It was this awful orange and yellow gunk that fell to the bottom of the bag and just stuck there. Well, that sort of reminds me of Congress. There’s no limit to how low some of ’em will go, and a lot of them just stick there. Anyway, the next time one of these featherbedding politicians asks for your vote, you know what I say? I say, ‘Give ’em candy corn!

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
769. FIFTEEN RULES FOR CREATIVE SUCCESS IN THE INTERNET AGE

THE INFORMATION #810 NOVEMBER 14, 2014

THE INFORMATION #810
NOVEMBER 14, 2014

Copyright 2014 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

Ad ogni pazzo piace il suon del suo sonaglio.–Italian Proverb

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER NINE: PART THIRTY-SIX: THE MAYOR OF HELL

Now, you can gab and gobble all you want about the doin’s at Bughouse Square, but I will say this. You can talk and talk all you want, ye yobs and yellofs, about the working man and the war between capital and labor, but most working men don’t understand ner care about no such highfalutin terms. 

What sets your everyday working Joe on the earie is the whole concept of fairness. 

Likety-like, is it fair for the cop to lay an egg-sized lump on my head just because I stole an apple from Luigi or whatever his name is when the cop hisself helps himself to all the fruit he pleases and Luigi never says a mumblin’ word–or say some jacketeer dressed in a smart sharkskin suit sidles up to the old fruit stand and pinches him a few choice peaches–what’s Luigi–that’s his name–poor sap–what’s he a-gonna do? What’s he a-gonna say? 

He’s not a man of violence. With his short runty built and his thick old fashioned mustache and his conical hat and his comical accent–why don’t he learn to speak English good like all the rest of us had to learn, Yob? 

With his thick eyebrows and his slouchy posture and his shiny suit jacket that screams greenhorn he shambles into a bank–I saw him–and shrieks at the Bank Teller, “Ees a safe, my mo-nee?” And the bank teller chuckles with a patronizing air, “Yes, Luigi,” (for that, the Teller has decided, is the greenhorn’s name–must be–regardless of what it says on his bankbook–does the ignorant animal even know what a bankbook signifies, he wonders, with a scratch to his well-groomed head–the Teller, whose name, incidentally, is Grant Grandison–don’t ask me how I remember that–is smartly dressed from head to toe with a blonde thatch of well-oiled hair, making it appear wavy–and with a celluloid collar and a briskly tailored suit jacket in a shade of crimson-shaded red approved by the bank for its minions and lackeys who work with money (management wears strict black).) 

“Yes, Luigi,” he says, with a chuckle rising in his well-bred throat, for he is the scion of a line of Grandison moneymen going way back, “Your ‘mon-ee’ ees a ‘safe’,” or, to put it in simple language which your kind can easily understand, nobody touch-a da money, for the mon-ee, she is yours,” and there is the very trace of a sneer on those thin and aristocratic Protestant lips, for the ape-like Luigi (where do they GET these people? from the dregs of Rome and Naples? From what sewer do these guoppos crawl out of?) is still standing there in front of the teller’s cage. still hunkered precipitously in front of the bars, although he is also standing there in his fruit-spattered and beat up old work boots, which make him look faintly ludicrous, him in his cheap suit–a suit cheap enough to be buried in–why doesn’t this monkey disappear back into the jungle, thinks the teller, and slap at his fleas, and stop pestering me? Give me a real customer, a customer with cash money, give him a chance to make a deposit–but the teller, with three years on the job, is anxious for a promotion and a raise, both of which are long overdue, so he manages to control his rising temper and says to Luigi, yet again, because apparently the lunkhead needs to have things repeated to him several times, for such is his ape-like comprehension of plain English that he just doesn’t GET IT, “Yes, Luigi (heh heh) I assure you, your mon-ee ees a-safe,” and still Luigi just stands there, like the rock of Gibraltar, with his shrill voice shrieking like a parrot, albeit one with beetle-dark eyebrows, “My mon-ee, ees a safe?” and then the Teller (who, after all, is only human) decides to have some fun at the greenhorn’s expense and he says to the other teller standing in the teller’s cage next to him,  “Luigi, here,” (could he be more patronizing?) “wants to know if his money is safe. Tell him, Bob.”    

Bob joins Grant Grandison in the teller’s booth (although strictly speaking, this kind of behavior–mocking a perfectly good customer–is strictly forbidden and they could both be in a lot of trouble if the bank manager found out. But the manager just happens to be Grant Grandison’s Uncle Pete, so it’s unlikely there’s be any serious consequences anyway.)

Bob, who has witnessed this entire encounter in between customers, leans into the window and hisses, in the voice of a conniving drunkard, “Yassh, your money ish shafe!” Grant begins to chuckle in that affable way which some people, like me, find so infuriating. But I was just a young whippersnapper myself, so what did I know. Don’t ask me why I bothered to follow Luigi into the bank in the first place. Maybe because I wanted to see him outside of his ordinary life as a fruit vendor. 

Grant starts in on Luigi again, with Bob as his interlocutor. “Bob–Luigi here wants to ask another question. What is it, Luigi?”

“I no like-a you. I theenk I take-a my mon-ee out of here.”

Grant chuckles. “Fill out this slip then, Luigi.”

But Luigi’s thick ape-like fingers have trouble holding the pen, so, finally, he say ‘Scrooch!’ and hustles out of the bank. The mocking voice of Grant Grandison following him, “You mon-ee ees a safe! Heh heh heh.”

I heard that Luigi did take his money out of there. It was quite a pretty penny, and three weeks later the bank closed its doors. Not because of Luigi, but because one of the periodic bank panics that were hardly unknown back then. 

Anyway, you have all these people saying how they’re going to do this and that to help Tom, Dick and Harry–but who is going to help Luigi, the produce peddler? He stands there all day selling peaches and plums and lumpy pomegranates and dreaming of Rome or Naples or wherever he’s from, and wondering why he ever came to savage Noxtown. Who is going to help HIM?

1*SALUTATION

THE DREAM SYNDICATE
HALLOWEEN
40 MAPS THAT EXPLAIN THE MIDDLE EAST
MUSIC THAT MAKES YOU DUMB

4*NOVELTY

WORST FOOD NAMES
 
ALSO SEE:
BIZARRE RELIGIOUS BOOK TITLES
ALL THE WORST CANDY CAME FROM BOSTON
Here Is Your Nasty, Glorious, Freewheeling Alternative History Of American Art
 
ALSO SEE:
“What Nerve! Alternative Figures in American Art, 1960 to the Present”
 
SEE ALSO:
8*PRESCRIPTION
ESQUIRE’S 80 ESSENTIAL BOOKS
10* LAGNIAPPE
TERRIFYING SLOWED DOWN VERSION OF ROCK LOBSTER
SHITTY PUNK ROCK RECORD REVIEW GENERATOR
*11A BOOKS READ AND REVIEWED
ALL-NEW INVADERS: GODS AND SOLDIERS. **1/2
ALL STAR. LONERGAN. ****
AMAZING X-MEN 1. ***
ANDRE THE GIANT. BROWN. ***1/2
AVENGERS 5: ADAPT OR DIE. ***
BATMAN SUPERMAN 1. ***
BATWOMAN 4. ***1/2
BEST AMERICAN COMICS 2014. ***1/2
CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE WINTER SOLDIER PRELUDE. ***
CAPTAIN AMERICA: LIVING LEGEND. ***1/2
THE CASE OF MADELEINE SMITH. GEARY. ****
THE CAT WHO WALKED THROUGH WALLS. HEINLEIN. **1/2
COP HUNTER. MURANO. ***
CROSSING TO SAFETY. STEGNER. ****
FEDERAL BUREAU OF PHYSICS 2: WISH YOU WERE HERE. **1/2
THE FIRE DREAM. LIEB. ***1/2
FURY. RUSHDIE. ***1/2
GALAPAGOS. VONNEGUT. ***1/2
GOOD FRIDAY. HOLT. *1/2
THE GREAT GATSBY. FITZGERALD. *****
HARD RAIN. JOHNSON & GANE. ****
INJUSTICE 2. ***1/2
JONAH HEX: LUCK RUNS OUT. ***1/2
JONAH HEX: COUNTING CORPSES. ***1/2
JONAH HEX: THE SIX-GUN WAR. ***
JONAH HEX: TALL TALES. ***1/2
JONAH HEX: BURY ME IN HELL. ***1/2
MAJESTIC. STRIEBER. ***1/2
THE MANSION ON THE HILL. GOODMAN. ****
THE MEPHISTO WALTZ. STEWART. **1/2
A MOST IMPERFECT UNION. STAVINS. ***1/2
NEMO: THE ROSE OF BERLIN. MOORE. ***1/2
ON THE TRAIL OF THE ASSASSINS. GARRISON. ***1/2
THE PARTY AFTER YOU LEFT. CHAST. ****
PHILOSOPHY: A DISCOVERY IN COMICS. DEHEER. ***1/2
PHOTOBOOTH: A BIOGRAPHY. FITZGERALD. ***1/2
RITUALS OF THE SEASON. MARON. **1/2
THE SEA WOLF. LONDON & REB’S. ***1/2
VICE. BAKER. ****
THE WARREN COMMISSION REPORT: A GRAPHIC INVESTIGATION. ***1/2
WIDOWS. CORSON. **
WINGNUTS. AVLON. ***
WOUNDS IN THE RAIN-ON LAND. CRANE. ****1/2
X-FORCE: SEX & VIOLENCE. **1/2
YOUNG AVENGERS 2: ALT CULTURE. ***1/2
ZERO. VAN LUSTBADER. *

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.

768. THE HATE BUS

Hate, sinister and old,
Come Aboard. We expect the bold.
Hate, and the sweetness of death.
Let it flow, and flow in every breath.
The Hate Bus soon will be making another run
The Hate Bus promises something for everyone
Set a course for gravity,
Your mind on a new depravity.
Hate will hurt forevermore
It’s an open snarl on a hostile shore.
Yes HATE! It’s HATE!
Hate Bus soon will be making another run
The Hate Bus promises something for everyone
Set a course for gravity,
Your mind on a new depravity.
Hate will hurt forevermore
It’s an open snarl on a hostile shore.
It’s HATE! It’s HATE! It’s HATE!
It’s the Hate Bus-ah! It’s the Hate Bus-ah!