MODERN WISDOM NUMBER 201 JULY 2015

MODERN WISDOM: AMERICA’S ONLY HUMOR MAGAZINE
NUMBER 201
JULY 2015
Copyright 2015 Francis DiMenno
dimenno@gmail.com
http://www.dimenno.wordpress.com

  1. MODERN WISDOM PRESENTS: THE MODERN WISDOM DYSLEXICON

CORN. the food ingredient that dare not speak its name.

CORNY: Anything that happened more than 50 years ago.

COST OF LIVING: If you have to ask how much it is, you can’t afford it.

CROSSWORD PUZZLES: Reverse DYSLEXIA.

CULTURE. A Petri dish of the mind.

DEAN MARTIN: Patron saint of inebriates who was popular in the 1960s.
DADA. Is beginning to look sane.

DEATH: Like taxation, only kinder. Because it only happens once.

DEMOCRACY. May the worst man win.

DISNEY: A poisoned lollipop.

  1. NOIR MISFORTUNE COOKIES
  2. You might have escaped but greed was your undoing.
    101. You will end up like your father–a hopeless drunk.
    102. Your brother will recant his exculpatory testimony.
    103. They’ll refuse to believe it was actually your evil twin.
    104. A ricochet will incapacitate your youthful sidekick.
    105. Suicide? A suspicious detective will conclude otherwise.
    106. One more stupid wisecrack will earn you a fat lip.
    107. You’ll certainly rue the day.
    108. Don’t you get it? You are already a dead man.
    109. The old man kept a notebook. He wrote it all down.
    110. Someone’s got it in for you.
    111. Everyone is fully aware of your utter impotence.
    112. Your opposition is more than a match for you.
    113. They are monitoring all your calls.
    114. Scratch all you want–the insects will never go away.
    115. Even your lapdog is addicted to the fumes of opium.
    116. You will never be able to locate all the hidden bugs.
    117. Your life as you once knew it is now over.
    118. Your legal problems have only begun.
    119. You will never live to spend that stolen loot.
    120. An escaped lunatic is lurking in your garage.
    121. You’re thinking you can’t sink any lower. You are wrong.
    122. You are only a pawn in their evil game.
    123. You should have known she was another man’s wife.
    124. Your friendly pawnbroker has ratted you out to the cops.
    125. You never should have double-crossed the Syndicate Boys.
    126. Both you and your associate are doomed.
    127. You haven’t gotten away with it…yet.
    128. You want something done, go see the Boss.
    129. Who benefits? Everyone but you.
    130. Looks like your luck has finally run out.
    131. Stupid! You never say “No” to the Big Man!
    132. You just made a deadly mistake.
    133. They can practically smell your desperation.
    134. Heads, you lose; tails, you lose again.
    135. The old lady across the street is spying on you.
    136. For you, one drink is one too many.
    137. You will soon be murdered by your psychotic sidekick.
    138. All of your actions will have unwanted consequences.
    139. Everlasting grief and sorrow will be your destiny.
    140. You were born dead. So die, already.
    141. They are just beginning to pay you back.
    142. Trouble is all you know.
    143. Sanity has left you, forever.
    144. Misfortune is your middle name.
    145. What part of ‘surrender’ do you fail to understand?
    146. Your wound is far more than merely a scratch.
    147. It is far too late. They are inexorably closing in.
    148. You have lost everything but you will lose even more.
    149. It’s a trap. Even a child could tell you that.
    150. Just when you think you’re safe is when they’ll strike.
    151. Mister, you do not have a lucky face.
    152. They are doing this to you simply because they can.
    153. Vital information they withhold will seal your fate.
    154. There is nothing you can do to stop them.
    155. Everybody knows you are a stupid coward.
    156. This is indeed happening. This is very much happening.
    157. You will be trapped by your own excuses.
    158. It is far too late to try to make amends.
    159. It is you who are your own worst nightmare.
    160. You have signed your own death certificate.
    161. She never had eyes for you. Only your money.
    162. They just can’t wait to throw you under the bus.
    163. When you’re dead, you’re dead, and you…are dead.
    164. God has never liked you and He never will.
    165. They will dance at your funeral, and scalp tickets.
    166. They will call your parrot to the witness stand.
    167. Confess? Forget it. The police will laugh in your face.
    168. Your dealer has been arrested, and you’re next.
    169. You only think you left no fingerprints.
    170. Your new best friend is an undercover cop.
    171. Dad would be very disappointed, if you hadn’t killed him.
    172. You are not feared in your neighborhood or anywhere else.
    173. That girl from the church social is a crack whore.
    174. You will be interrogated by Bad Cop…and Worse Cop.
    175. Your paranoia will be your downfall.
    176. The elderly pensioner knows your secret.
    177. You will never again experience serenity.
    178. You can cheat the casino, but not the hangman.
    179. Peaceful death was never meant for one like you.
    180. You were set to take the fall from Day One.
    181. Past indiscretions will haunt you forever.
    182. Whatever is under the bed wants to kill you.
    183. The police blame the crime wave on you.
    184. You have run out of veins to stick the spike.
    185. The police dog snarls at the smell of your guilt.
    186. Nobody makes the Big Man look like a chump.
    187. You will be murdered by a vengeful psychotic clown.
    188. The Doctor knows you were a shaken baby.
    189. Your enemies operate at the highest level.
    190. The conspiracy is real but you will never prove it.
    191. Spring flowers portend renewal for everyone but you.
    192. That snooping reporter will never stop until you are arrested.
    193. Your Malibu’s belt-driven pulley-type fan will decapitate you.
    194. The nosy pensioner reports that he saw you do it.
    195. You’d have escaped detection, if not for those meddling kids.
    196. The crooked sheriff will murder you in your sleep.
    197. Your evasive answers deceive nobody.
    198. You are trapped in your own web of deceit.
    199. Your wife is secretly a stripper who dances for ruffians.
    200. Your daughter is now in love with an evil stranger.
  1. ZEITGEIST TOP 50
  2. The Tea Party is mad as hell because the government has too much  power. And now they’re demanding that the government do something about it.
    2. I’m a jolly sort of guy. I love to share a husky laugh in the courthouse elevator with policemen I don’t really know…yet.
    3. Death is a lot like taxation, only kinder. Because it only happens once.
    4. On the weekends I let myself do whatever I want to do, because I strongly believe in having spontaneous fun on a very strict schedule.
    5. An elephant never forgets. But what does an elephant have to remember? Peanuts? The hook? Or maybe that clown he mutilated back in Cincinnati….
    6. Canada has a 100 per cent literacy rate. But what do they have to write home about? “Dear Mom: It snowed. Again. Love, Pierre.”
    7. Canadians tend to be more diplomatic than Americans. What choice do they have? When their militia is told to haul out the big guns, that means they’re being directed to put rocks in the snowballs.
    8. The microbiologists at the Center for Disease Control always sweat over the small stuff.
    9.  “Jim Morrison” was a pseudonym. His real name was Fatso McBeerhart. They say that Mr. Morrison died in the bathtub. That was probably the first bath that man ever took. It wasn’t the drugs, it was the shock of cleanliness that did him in.
    10. The trouble with the United States is that all the fat jokes aren’t really jokes.
    11. I sure could go for a fat, plump missionary right now. Gather up the kindling and stack it below the implausibly large iron pot which my ragged and destitute people have somehow contrived to have delivered to the middle of the depths of the impenetrable jungle. Ho! Light the fire–quick! before the bwanas with the boom sticks come! 
    12. Nobody ever seems to fight for slavery anymore.
    13. Nowadays the Reactionaries are cocksure while the Progressives are full of doubt. 
    14. I’m still pissed off about the ending of the movie “Titanic,” where the wheezy old dame bores the dredging crew for 2 1/2 hours then drops the sparklers in the drink. Some gratitude!
    15. Sooner or later, even Mantovani becomes hip.
    16. I was in a bank and a Roosevelt dime fell out of my pocket. I picked it up and said, “Get back in there, Frankie–you’re with the big boys now.”
    17. Starbucks is the opiate of spendthrifts. Patronizing that fine establishment, with all its arcane rituals and paraphernalia, is like announcing to the world, “Oh God, I wish I still used drugs!” 
    18. The gummint won’t never knock on my door: I got me a big sign in front that sez, “I Heart Zog.”
    19. A bank run must seem perfectly logical to an ant. 
    20. Most people are familiar with the song “Five Guys Named Moe.” In my neighborhood, it was more like “Five Moes Named Guy.”
    21. High white finance is a black art.
    22.  If dogs ruled the world, this old earth would be a much better place, except maybe for all the leg-humping and begging for treats. 
    23. Science fiction is kind of like baseball for people who throw like girls.
    24. Media commentators are upper class people with lower class minds. Or vice versa.
    25. I have found that when the pundits disagree with me, they are idiots and traitors, but when they happen to share my point of view, they become peculiarly insightful savants and I marvel to discover to what degree their thinking has matured.
    26.  It’s my birthday, so today I get to tell the President what to do. (Note: It’s not really my birthday. Also, the President doesn’t return my calls.)
    26. Why is it that people with Libertarian sentiments are, 90 per cent of them, prematurely senile Get Of My Lawn-style grouches with severe substance abuse problems? Who don’t even HAVE lawns?  
    27. I tried to vote the straight anti-Masonic party ticket, but was told that the party hasn’t existed for 168 years.  Needless to say, the man who told me this was a Mason. It’s a conspiracy!
    28. At one time I was convinced that the black helicopters were following me. Of course, I was slightly delusional. I now know that they were actually following my dad–because he owed them money.
    29. Johnny Thunders was Dean Martin with the puke out in the open.
    30. We are all (strictly speaking) purely a function of the algorithm.
    31.Your life: If you break it, you pay for it.
    32. Our lives do not belong to us. We are, all of us, merely a tiny part of a vast web of interconnectivity. To maintain otherwise is simply a comfortuing self-delusion. So gimme a dollar.
    33  I’ve never met an Irishman who said, “They’re after me Lucky Charms!”
    34. It’s hard to care about the world caving in, if you’re already living in a cave. 
    35. They will take away my copy of “Gandhi On Non-Violence” when they pry it from my cold dead fingers.
    36. Ideologies are like fine wines–they need to be swirled around in the mouth then vigorously spat out–never swallowed. 
    37. Ideology–melts in your mind, not in your mouth.
    38. We must stop glorifying violence. The alternative? A boot grinding a face forever. Yay!
    39. It’s always nice when homicidal maniacs and coldblooded fascists can resolve their differences and agree to disagree.
    40. I’ll be the first to admit: I’m not such a remarkable guy. But my terrier, Jacko, once killed 1,000 rats in an hour and twenty minutes. When he died, he was buried in a piano crate. He sure did like those rats!
    41. Cave Deum.
    42. Never sell America’s shirt.
    43. I have yet to see polar order.
    44. Be fruitful and multiply. I’m hungry. 
    45. Insincere politeness is and has been a commonplace gambit of many civilized societies. F*cker.
    46. Just when you think you’ve seen everything, you get glaucoma.
    47. My motto: Peace out, bitch.
    48. I will pray for you, because God hates a loser.
    49.Life is like watching a fornicating ball of garter snakes. Initially, fascinating in a horrible way. Then, disgusting. Finally, unbearable.
    50. Always remember that no matter how high you may rise in life, that God’s alias hangs over your scene.
  1. THE WORST MOVIE CLICHES AND STEREOTYPES

    All knockabout hoboes, twinkly-eyed coots, and sassy fat black women have lived unquestionably noble lives of incredible suffering and hardship and are therefore incredibly wise.

    The timer for the doomsday bomb is always defused at 00:00:01.

    Free spirit shows tight ass how to enjoy life. 

    The People-getting-to-know-and-gosh-darn-it-enjoy-each-other’s-company montage scene.

    All businessmen and political authorities are evil and have something to hide. (Particularly in 70s films).

    All war vets are psychotic (Ditto).

    We are almost never told how affluent people made their money, unless they gained their fortunes through trickery and deceit.

    From about 1933 to around 1958, men seemingly always “talked turkey” in a clipped, staccato tone. Like every second of the spoken word costs them a year of their life so they’ve got to say it FAST. Of course, SWEET SMELL OF SUCCESS (1958) is where this trick was mastered.

  1. SCREAMING BABY AT THE WHINE TASTING

This story is all too common. Allow me to describe, in admittedly passing detail, the downscale groggery in which the tasting takes place. Strip Mall. Garish neon sign, visible from the local highway. Shop is sandwiched between a dollar store and a sneaker shop. You enter through the wide glassy automatic doors and are greeted by an array of security cameras. The wine is arranged in open displays. Cooler cases stocked with cheap beer on the far end and pricey beer within eyeshot of the counter clerks. Baseball bat behind one counter; loaded pistol behind the other. The only small sign of gentility here at World of Wines is the weekly wine tasting. And here comes somebody to spoil it. A morbidly obese wheezing welfare mother with a twitchy left cheek and a bad blonde dye job has arrived, holding in her pudgy biceps a screaming brat with a dripping diaper. He–I think it’s a boy–it’s hard to get past that screaming face–is remarkably ill-featured. “I didn’t think it was possible for a baby to have acne,” I mutter to myself. The fine vintages on offer here at World of Wines are as battery acid when the acidulous howling of the autocoprophagous stripling arise, siren-like, and ascend in a slow wheeze like the inharmonious groans of a terminally defective accordion. What manner of fiend in womanly guise arrives at an adult gathering toting a screeching, baboon-faced, dyspeptic moppet? One notices with dismay that on her left arm she has a tattoo of a red red rose. With myriad thorns. On her right arm–she proudly wears an oversized short-sleeved shirt emblazoned with an enormous Tweety Bird–is a tattoo of the inevitable butterfuly. Bringing along her little crumb-crusher would be bad enough. But the woman, who has big blubbery lips and dirty hair, is also drinking as much wine as she can get her hands on. “Hey Lady–it’s a TASTING–not a GUZZLING”. I actually muttered this out loud. She either didn’t hear me over the roaring of her kid or she heard me and she just didn’t care. She reminds me of the woman at the Walmart who cuts into the 12-items or less line with 30 items. “It’s OK,” she assures you–but it isn’t. I see this sort of societal breakdown constantly reenacting itself on a larger scale. OK–cry me a river–on an annoyance scale of one to ten, this is, at most, a two. SLOPPY BLONDE BRINGS TOT TO LIQUOR STORE; GULPS FREE VINO, the newspaper headline would read.Then she switches the baby back to her left arm, to free up her champion drinking hand. “Yuh got anything bigger than these teeny cups? I can barely get a buzz.” I wait in suspense to see if a larger glass is forthcoming, but it isn’t. A cheese and cracker tray is brought out, and the screaming bairn is temporarily assuaged with a Ritz cracker, which it gums with preternatural quietude while his rowdy Momma grabs a handful of cheese and begins whooping and hollaring for “more of that juice.”  I suppose such atrocities are the price we pay to live in a free society. But sometimes, I think, that price is too high. Finally, the store manager, a grizzled gent–who wears a grey wool scally cap and looks for all the world like a squinting cab-driver of the old school–makes an appearance and peremptorily announces that the tasting is over. The disappointed Mom stumbles off toward the blistering hot parking lot, and the few remaining customers desultorily mill about the cheese and cracker tray  “Hully chee,” slurs the blond, switching her dripping whippersnapper to her other arm, “Wait’ll I tell the girls at the laundromat about this joint.” As she pases through the automatic doors, I visualize a new headline; this one in the newspaper’s Living Section: FINE WINE TASTINGS ATTRACT NEW AUDIENCE: UNWED MOMS. And then I shudder, and throw up a little in my mouth.  

6. I am being asked via email to participate in the “Men’s Wearhouse National Suit Drive” (“give a suit, change a life.”). There, I think, is a story in itself.

GIVE A SUIT, CHANGE A LIFE

Imagine it’s sometime in the 1950s, in the Midwest. Bum from off the street–John “Bum” Howard–ex-con–alerted by friendly cop, Gunnar (“Gunner”) Eriksson. (“Here bane a ten spot–whyn’t you get yourself cleaned up?”) strays by chance into the Suit Depot, gets himself fixed up in gray flannel, goes and wows personnel over t’ the car lot and gets a job as a salesman. “I like the cut of your jib!” says the Boss/Owner (“Honest Jim” Pixa). Sells three new cars in three days; passes probation, gets a nice apartment, starts into shady sales practices, feels guilty, turns to the booze, the gray flannel is soiled but he goes to Robert Hall and is fitted with five new suits, falls into debt due to his newly hubristic lifestyle, takes a fancy to the Boss’s wild daughter–Boss says she’s not for him, warns him that he’s straddling a thin line–he takes heed–gets back on the water-wagon, meets a nice girl at the Boss’s church, daughter of a Greek immigrant, confesses his former sins, they marry in the Greek Orthodox Church (in spite of the querulous greenhorn protests of her Pappy) have three dark-featured chillun; he eventually falls off the wagon due to job-and-family-related stress, goes on a bender, gets snared in a botched robbery attempt, goes back to the big house for a dime, kids are farmed out to resentful relatives, Wife gets a job as a receptionist in a Doctor’s office. Meets a handsome young intern, divorces Hubby. 

At first the cons are resentful that their old buddy, “Bum” Howard has gone all high-hat on them; him, what with his snazzy gray flannel suit. But he entertains them with wild tales of life on the used car-lot. “Most of them are worse bums than me. They’re all crooks as ought to be in jail with us. You wouldn’t believe half of what goes on in a place like that. If I ever get out of here I’ll blow the whistle on the whole rotten racket, sure.” “Bum” Howard keeps his nose clean and gets sentenced to an early parole. His Boss “Honest Jim” Pixa takes him back. Puts him to work as a janitor. “Bum” Howard makes good and soon is back to selling cars. Pixa’s wife is incredulous.. “You hired an ex-con? With HIS record?” Pixa: “He has a lot to prove. He’s a good worker. He’ll sell lots of cars for us.” But Pixa’s wife is not convinced. Sure enough, “Bum” Howard has been passing along tips to favored tough guy customers about which cars not to buy. The lemons he unloads on “civilians”. The Boss doesn’t mind this; he would just as soon stay on the good side of the tough guys. But he’s curious about “Bum” Howard. How did he end up in stir in the first place? Turns out he was an ex-serviceman on leave who was also the prime suspect in a lurid murder of a femme barfly out in Cali.They held him in the county lock-up for several months, but none of the leads panned out and the cops had had to cut him loose. Pixa wonders if, by chance, he was guilty. He’s also worried that his wild daughter might get involved with him again. He decides to make things hot for “Bum” Howard. This makes our pal turn back to lushing, and pretty soon he’s back out on the street. Gets a job as a bouncer at Dizzy’s Lounge, his favorite watering hole. Kills a man by accident. Cops have him pegged as a three-time loser and back to stir he goes, pursued by an over-zealous D.A.   

At first the Boss’s wild daughter visits him in jail, but her visits grow less and less frequent and eventually she meets somebody else and her visits finally cease. Desperate, “Bum” Howard participates in an ill-advised escape attempt. He improbably succeeds in eluding the lawmen and makes a new life for himself in New Orleans as a colorful bohemian “character”. He gets a job as a janitor in a law office, and soon becomes an errand and delivery boy. By now, of course, he’s considerably the worse for wear. On one occasion a visiting cop–none other than Gunnar (“Gunner”) Eriksson–recognizes him. Urges him to turn himself in. Says the prison warden will go easy on him. He surrenders to the lawmen, but, when asked to name his accomplices, “Bum” refuses, knowing that to have a reputation as a snitch is a death sentence in the big house. (“I wouldn’t rat out a yellow dog!”) They put him in “the hole”. But “Bum” is made of sterner stuff than they suppose, and he won’t talk. He is something of a hero to the cons who know his story. 

Improbably, he’s given another chance to make good. Gunnar (“Gunner”) Eriksson vouches for him–gets him a job as a cook in a Greek Diner in Florida. There he whiles away the years until his retirement. He is eventually reunited with his children. He tells his story to a local newsman, and publishes an autobiographical book with a small local press. “My Wild Life”. He is pictured on the back of the dust jacket wearing a suit.

A gray flannel suit. 

  1. MUKWONAGO
    My grandmother’s head exploded.

    Oh, not literally. I don’t mean to say it actually blew up, like in
    those cartoons I used to watch while lying on Grandma’s green shag rug
    sipping from a chalky white mug of Swiss Miss hot chocolate with
    little marshmallows floating in the grayish brown liquid like tiny
    submarines bobbing to the surface following some very fearsome
    maelstrom.

    Every Saturday morning, as televised mayhem thundered and boomed,
    Grandma would sit in the corner of her living room–she called it her
    parlor–like some big white fireplug angel with her knitting needles
    going click click click….

    Grandma didn’t like me watching those cartoons. She was a very proper
    Presbyterian lady, Or maybe she was an Episcopalian–in my childish
    mind I never could keep the differences between the two religions
    totally straight.

    I think she might have been an Episcopalian, because one time I
    remember my fearsome Uncle Ralph made her very upset by referring to
    her as a “Piss-in-a-pail-ian.”

    Grandma was very devout, and she told me the reason that she didn’t
    like me watching cartoons because she thought they filled my heads
    with deviltry and mischief. Those were her words.

    Maybe she was right. This was when I was five years old, going on six,
    and Mamma had had to leave me in Grandma’s care because she had to
    work because Pappa wouldn’t work but instead he would go off with his
    older brother Uncle Ralph.

    Off to God Knows Where, said Grandma, doing God Knows What.

    The television programs I would so avidly gaze at for hours on end
    were beamed to us all the way from the incomprehensibly enormous city
    of Chicago, which, as a farm girl who was born in Mukwonago, seemed
    magical to me. I now realize that the kiddie fare they used to show
    was mostly the standard Dog versus Cat versus Mouse cartoons which
    were then a lingering presence still on every Saturday morning. But to me, amid all their shrill clamor and zany sound effects, they seemed new, and fresh, and sometimes, even profound.

Saturdays were special, Grandma was up by five in the morning. I would
wake up at six and tumble into the dining room to eat french toast, or
waffles, or eggs in the basket, which is fried toast with a fried egg
in the middle.

Uncle Ralph would shock Grandma by calling them “Gas House Eggs.” One
time, Grandma–who was squat like a fire hydrant but strong and
feisty–actually attacked him with the straw end of an ornamental
broom for referring to her scrambled eggs on toast as “Adam and Eve on
a Raft, and Kissing.” Only he didn’t say “Kissing.”

I remember that Grandma would always urge me to go out and play. Even
on those frosty winter mornings in February when icicles hung even
from the carrot nose of Mr. Frosty, the snowman that Pappa constructed
every December behind grandma’s farmhouse, on the back forty. She
would bundle me up from head to toe with warm, goose-down puffy
clothing and swat me on the bum and playfully tell me to shoo, as
though I were some sort of unwanted stray cat.

Life was normal. I always knew what to expect. I wasn’t happy,
exactly. First grade in Mukwonago was no picnic. At recess the girls
would laugh at my home-made clothing. After school the boys would
follow me down the dirt road back to Grandmas house, and snicker.

But other than that, you might say I was contented. Mostly because of
Saturday mornings.

Until May 5th.

That was the fateful day when Grandma’s head exploded. I was only six
years old, and, at least, that was the way I understood what had happened. The story I pieced together during the summer weeks that followed was that Uncle Ralph had said something to Grandma and Grandma fell over and the ambulance came, and Grandma was put on a board and taken to the hospital and then she went to a place called a Hospice and then they took her to a funeral home and then they buried her in a graveyard.

On the day of the burial the story that Mamma told me as she was
combing my hair while we waited for the babysitter was that Grandma
had gone to “a better place” and was watching me “from up in heaven”.

For weeks and weeks I believed that my watching television had had
something to do with Grandma going away, and so instead of watching
cartoons, I took to reading the Bible, or trying to. In the month of
June I got as far as the end of the book of Genesis, and then in the
month of July I started all over again. All that summer long I was a
gloomy and devout child.

Nowadays, we would call this “mourning.” Back then, people said there
was something wrong with me. Uncle Ralph said I gave him the creeps,
the way I used to stare at him every time he walked into the
threadbare apartment where Mamma and Pappa lived.

The two room apartment was in a dirty, noisy section of the city of
Waukesha, and it was on the second floor of a beauty parlor. I had had
my own bedroom at Grandma’s house in Mukwanago. But I had to share a
bedroom with my mother in Waukesha.

Every day that summer, starting at eight in the morning, the rising
fumes from the ladies getting their hair fried downstairs would make
me sick to my stomach.

So I would walk down Carroll Street and up North Grand Avenue to
Cutler Park. I spent a lot of time at the Waukesha Public Library.

This too meant that there was “something wrong with me.”

That entire summer we didn’t go to Grandma’s house even once.

It belonged to Uncle Ralph now.

In November of the year I entered second grade, we went to Uncle Ralph’s
house for Thanksgiving and I got a horrible surprise.

Grandma’s beautiful house was full of trash.

And Uncle Ralph was seated at the kitchen table, drinking from a bottle of cheap whiskey, and laughing.

Like he knew something we didn’t. And maybe he did.

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THE INFORMATION #843 JULY 3, 2015

THE INFORMATION #843
JULY 3, 2015
Copyright 2015 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

He’d undertake to prove, by force Of argument, a man’s no horse; He’d prove a buzzard is no fowl, And that a lord may be an owl, A calf an alderman, a goose a justice, And rooks Committee-men and Trustees.—Samuel Butler, Hubridas

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

“And this, then,” said Count Justin Victor to Pappy O’Day and Tipsy Smith, “is the stew-pot we all find ourselves a-cookin’ in. Blutwurst, kielbasa, cabbage, potatoes, pasta and probably some cat-meat, too. Foreigners of every stripe—and how do ye keep a saddle on ‘em? Well, that’s where your alderman comes in. Your typical alderman sits on the City Council, which I suppose is about as foreign a place to you as the bath-house. (I’m just funnin’ with youse. I know for a fact, Tipsy, that you take a bath at least once a week. And I ain’t castin’ no aspersions on you, Pappy—you’re so old you don’t give off much of an aroma a-tall.)

“And what does an Alderman do? As far as I can tell, he puts his feet up on the desk, has a nigger lad with a whisk-broom to brush away the crumbs and pass the jug when he gets dry, manufactures cigar ashes, sees that the bridges and hospitals are built with only the finest sand, and steals big fat parcels of prime real estate out from under the noses of the would-be slum-lords and sells them back to ‘em at a juicy profit. He promises his constituents—that’s a fancy word for the sheep that go out and vote in November—promises them the moon in the sky, and leaves them flat on their ass, and seein’ stars. An alderman gives out lashings of dough to his fellow crooks with one hand, while trying to grab a slice of that same pie for his own Ward. Which usually means, “for himself.” Because one way or another, whatever an alderman does for his ward, he also does for himself—in spades.

“And what would you say if I told you I know Adam Tyler the crooked Alderman—that’s a joke, they’re all crooked—better than his own mother does? For his mother is only a woman, and will love him no matter what he does, but a man’s a man and can usually see the way clear.

“Why should any man but a dyed-in-the-wool chump be honest when there’s corruption all through the precincts, on the City Council, and right on up to the Mayor? It’s everywhere. The Funeral Home Operator is paid by the city to dispose of indigents; it helps that he’s the Alderman’s first cousin and pays him a pretty penny. Come high, come low, it’s all the same racket, says I. Want to leave your hoss tied to a post, you better pay an urchin a nickel to watch him. It would be a shame if something were to happen to him, says he. I calls that the ‘Extortatory subjunctive’.

“I can see plain that ye ain’t egg-zactly Latin scholars. So let me put it to you in plain talkin’ language any man could understand. The alderman does the old ballum-rancum with every ball of wax and cat’s paw in Noxtown. You’ve seen him, haven’t you? So blonde he looks like he’s the Sun God come up to these precincts from the fabled Southland. You’d think that butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, and that he consorts with celestial poultry. He’s all slibber-slabber when he spends his posh on drinks f’r the house, but chances are he’s part-owner of that very same establishment where he’s standin’ treat, and he makes his ooftish back in any number of ways, number one being the actual rotgut he peddles to rummies who are on their uppers. You know what I mean—the ‘All Nations’ that are served for a penny to the most desperate benchers. Did you know that he also employs the bug-hunters and lush rollers and splits their swag after they’ve done their dirty work? There’s scarce a chance a man will come home with any paycheck at all after such shenanigans. So the tailor don’t get paid and doesn’t mend the children’s clothes and the grocer don’t extend credit ner the coalman, and the family bids fair to starve and freeze to death because the old man is a doddering old sheep’s head and is blubberheaded enough to take a free drink from Alderman Tyler. Then, of course, he goes to the very same Alderman f’r a short-term loan, and the Alderman, he fronts him the Actual, gladly, because there’s always plenty more money where that came from, and plenty more suckers to take it from.

“I can’t get over the blonde Alderman’s white smile! His smile! His smile is killin’ me! All the while he squares up and down in front of the beer garden while his Blutos look for a hapless country cousin from Squantum, where the Hayseeds grow. Those jakes get a snort of red-eye and they start to slop over and soon enough and sooner there’s another crossroads clown left high and dry—haw! He should have bought him a half a pint and stayed in the wagon yard. Ought to have known that City Slickers would trounce any old poor old Tim Doodle that came mooching around Noxtown in search of adventure. Why this thusness? Because nearly every grown man in Noxtown is ready to kill a baboon and steal his face. I tell you true—every Captain Sharp, arch-goniff, bilker, blown-in-the-glass stiff, shyster, snaffle, sawney-hunter, thimblerigger and wild rogue does prowl the thumping cement sidewalks in search of a thing of a man. No bird is so proud that he won’t accept crumbs, and I have known a man to shoot a policeman over an uncured ham. Think, then, of how a man’s very last penny ain’t safe; not if he puts it in his shoe ner even his mouth. Can’t blame Adam Tyler for that– t’was ever thus. But he ain’t lookin’ out for the poor man; no; it’s the Tippy-Bobs he aims to please. And the world over, the best way of doin’ that is by loochin’ off’n the socker, the stravaiger, and the strawberry preacher. Amen!

1*SALUTATION
LOU REED
I Wanna Be Black
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ehoomjQjfI

2*REFERENCE
THE TRUTH ABOUT DRUGS
http://www.drugfreeworld.org/drugfacts.html

3*HUMOR
CIA GLOBAL VIDEO PROGRAM: SOVIET PERCEPTIONS OF USA
http://disinfo.com/2015/03/cia-global-video-program-soviet-perceptions-of-the-usa/

4*NOVELTY
WHAT EACH STATE HAS MORE OF PER CAPITA THAN ANY OTHER
http://dangerousminds.net/comments/handy_chart_shows_what_every_state_is_1_in

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
HUMANITY’S END IS NOW IN SIGHT
http://jonathanturley.org/2015/06/19/scientists-humanitys-end-is-now-in-sight/

6* DAILY UTILITY
PROPAGANDA POSTERS
http://guity-novin.blogspot.com/2010/05/chapter-29-propaganda-posters.html

7*CARTOON
DAVE BERG A-Z
http://www.tcj.com/my-friend-dave/

ALSO SEE:
NATIONAL LAMPOON’S MAD PARODY
http://kittysneezes.com/?p=2071

8*PRESCRIPTION
IF YOU LIKE ANY OF THESE SONGS, YOU ARE A TOTAL ASSHOLE
http://www.mandatory.com/2014/02/26/if-you-like-any-of-these-songs-you-are-a-total-asshole/

9*RUMOR PATROL
Hollywood Moguls’ Arm Candy Du Jour: Goodbye Asians, Hello Yoga Instructors http://www.hollywoodreporter.com/news/hollywood-moguls-arm-candy-du-802699

10* LAGNIAPPE
HATEBEAK, THE DEATH METAL BAND WITH A PARROT FOR A SINGER
http://dangerousminds.net/comments/polly_wanna_headbang_the_return_of_hatebeak_the_death_metal_band

11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
EMBARASSING MOMENTS
BY GEORGE HERRIMAN
http://allthingsger.blogspot.com/2015/06/the-more-merrier-man.html

*11A BOOKS READ AND RATED
3 LIVES FOR MISSISSIPPI. HUIE. ****
BATMAN ’66. VOL. 3. ***
THE BEST AMERICAN CATHOLIC SHORT STORIES. MCVEIGH & SCHNAPP. ***1/2
THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF THE MODERN AGE. ANGUS. ****
THE COCAINE CHRONICLES. PHILLIPS AND TERVALAR. ***1/2
DAREDEVIL: DARK NIGHTS. ***
DAREDEVIL 2. WEST-CASE SCENARIO. ***
FATALE 1-5. BRUBAKER. ****
FILTHY RICH. AZZERELLO. ***1/2
FLASHPOINT: BATMAN. ***1/2
FLASHPOINT: SUPERMAN. ***1/2
FLASHPOINT: WONDER WOMAN. ***1/2
FLASHPOINT: GREEN LANTERN. ***1/2
GREAT SHORT STORIES OF THE MASTERS. NEIDER. ****1/2
THE GRAPHIC CANON OF CHILDREN’S LITERATURE. KICK. ****1/2
GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY BY JIM VALENTONO. ***
GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY 1. COSMIC AVENGERS. ***1/2
GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY 2. ABNETT & MANNING. ***1/2
INCOGNITO. BRUBAKER. ****
INCOGNITO 2. BAD INFLUENCES. BRUBAKER. ****
THE LEAGUE OF REGRETTABLE SUPERHEROES. MORRIS. ***1/2
LUTHOR. AZZERELLO. ***1/2
MS. MARVEL 2. GENERATION WHY. ****
NOVA 1. ORIGIN. ***
POWERS: BUREAU 1. ***1/2
SLEEPER: OUT IN THE COLD. BRUBAKER. ****
SLEEPER: ALL FALSE MOVES. BRUBAKER. ****
SLEEPER: A CROOKED LINE. BRUBAKER. ****
SLEEPER: THE LONG WAY HOME. BRUBAKER. ****
THOR 4. TO WAKE THE MANGOG. ***1/2.
THE THRILLING ADVENTURES OF LOVELACE AND BABBAGE. PADUA. ***1/2
WONDER WOMAN 1. BLOOD. ***1/2
WONDER WOMAN 2. GUTS. ***1/2
WONDER WOMAN 3. IRON. ***1/2
WONDER WOMAN 4. WAR. ****
WONDER WOMAN 6. BONES. ****
X-MEN 4. EXOGENOUS. ***1/2

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
802.
50 FAVORITE CARTOONISTS
E C Segar
Harvey Kurtzman
Will Elder
Milt Gross
George Grosz
Chester Gould
Thomas Nast
Steve Ditko
Wally Wood
Will Eisner
Walt Kelly
Harold Grey
Al Capp
Robert Crumb
Spain
Justin Green
George Herriman
Willie Murphy
Rick Altergott
Guy Colwell
Roy Crane
Jack Kirby
C. C. Beck
Jack Cole
Floyd Gottfredson
Tex Avery
Cliff Sterrett
Billy DeBeck
Geo. McManus
Alex Toth
Frank King
Carl Barks
Bernie Krigstein
Frank Miller
Charles Schulz
Gene Deitch
John Stanley
Bob Clampett
Jack Davis
Basil Wolverton
Johnny Craig
George Evans
Graham Ingels
Jack Kamen
Dick Briefer
Art Spiegelman
Bill Sienkiewicz
William Messner-Loebs
S. Clay Wilson
Gilbert Shelton

THE INFORMATION #842 JUNE 26, 2015

THE INFORMATION #842
JUNE 26, 2015
Copyright 2015 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

I grow dizzy when I recall that the number of manufactured tanks seems to have been more important to me than the vanished victims of racism. –Albert Speer

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

“Did either of you Yobs ever notice,” said the ever-cynical Count Justin Victor to Pappy O’Day and Tipsy Smith, “how Jews is too clever to ever be used as a dray-hoss for another man? They’re always after going into business for themselves, where they rise and fall on their own merits. From push-cart peddler to merchant prince—often in the same generation. They’re not the boys for mooching after Gummint jobs—there’s no such jobs open for the likes of them to begin with, but even if there were, could you imagine a Jew as a mailman, carrying around that heavy bag all the live-long day, bein’ bitten by sullen curs and scolded by fat old hags? No, they’d rather buy up a bit of property and then, when they have to go on foot, it’s to collect the yaller boys as is their monthly rent. And here’s another thing I’ve noticed about ‘em—they hardly ever go where they’re not wanted. They tend to stick to their own. Real slick. Not because they’re afraid of being razzed, like the Dagoes and the Hunkies—more because they’re kind of aloof and stand-offish, like a cat. But don’t confuse me with the facts—I just know what I know.

“Another slick bunch of buggers are the Yellow Men. Forget about whining your chops about that poor Chinaman, who does your laundry. Ye needn’t feel sorry for the likes of him. Don’t you know there’s a fabulous warren of tunnels extending far below Noxtown where the heathen Chinee all eat and sleep, and where some of whom, like a coal-mine mule or drayhorse, never do see the light of day? They smoke opium and gamble down in them tunnels, and carry on with white women and all the other unspeakable practices that are attributed to them are no doubt true, for where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Where they came from, I hear, they still believe in slavery. I got it from a reliable source. I heard it from a friend of a friend, who got it from a Catholic priest.  

“And—while we’re on the subject of the Mackerel Snappers–Are the Irish very much better? God Damn Your Good Luck Soul if you think so! Forget Sean O’Blockhead, the conductor of the electric trolley-car, for his is a hard lot, but he will always accept a little palm oil in lieu of throwing yer whole party of Blutos off’n the tram fer want of payment—the stinkard!  Forget the Policeman on the beat, whom everyone calls Clancy, even though yon wild Hibernian might be anything from a Mick to a Seamus. He can be bought off for a bright red apple or a shot of whiskey or a crisp dollar bill. Like magpies they are, these Irish policemen—they’ll allus come over on you, and will glaum onter anything in sight, including a hot stove. And ain’t they cute, the Peelers, with their little helmets and their billy clubs that they like to pound on the sidewalk whenever they need some assistance in a great big hurry now. I’ll tell you this—you don’t have to be a half-grown shad to be a Copper—but it don’t hurt none. What kind of man takes a job cleanin’ up after someone else’s garbage? I’ll tell you another thing–An Irishman is like a Greek—he won’t forget a wrong and he’ll hold a grudge forever—furthermore, he’ll cook the devil in his feathers. Don’t ask me where they come by it—all their argumentative nature and drunken fussin’. Must have been inherited from the legendary bog-trotters as trod the earth once upon a day. Or maybe the Irish are half human and half fairy-folk, like the legends say. I’ll tell you this much—there’s nothing like the love of a good woman to soothe your savage Mick. Though it doesn’t last. Love never does. After she’s squeezed out a dozen bairns—and usually well before—old Mikey is back on the sauce. A-loungin’ with his fellow lushmen, listenin’ to idiotic jigs, a beefin’ about the Gaw-damn English, and hardly ever up to doin’ anything except to be goin’ home to beat the candle and blow out his wife—or vicey versy.

“Well, now, I say God bless the Dago for one thing—he keeps the Irishman in line. As blustering as a drunken Irishman can be, a brawlin’ with his fists, never fear—because along comes a sneaky Dago with a knife and gives him the old au reservoir. No wonder the Dagoes have been around for thousands of years. Those greasy, garlicky, oily sons-of-bitches usually know when to keep their mouths shut, which is all the time, unless, of course, they’re with their own kind, then all they do is talk. Never knew such a crew for yapping and blowing and making with the grand gestures. Screaming and hollering, whenever they’re not eating and drinking, and sometimes before,  after,  and during. Now, a few of these Dagoes—you can’t really call them white men, now, can ye—they become Doctors and Lawyers and such-like—that’s the dream of Dago heaven right there—but most of them seem to find themselves working in construction. Which is fine, for the well-built ones. Otherwise, the scrawny and squinney-eyed ones end up as priests. Which is fine—why shouldn’t they profit from all their dumb-fogged fables and lackwit superstitions? Or otherwise they become fruit stand vendors, or barbers, or Goddamn pimps. Some of them dagoes is mighty handsome, in a greasy way. Probably on account of many of them, they are a mongrel race. It’s a known fact that they got all kinds of bloodlines mixed into ‘em, over many thousands of years. Including the old Tar Brush, you may be sure. Well, they say a mongrel is always healthier than a pure-bred.     

“Then there’s the Hunkies. Them, and their blessed chalk, and their Bitter Lamentations, and their cabbage, and their duck’s blood soup, and their blasted kiełbasa—and their vodka! They’re even after putting booze in their doughnuts! Work hard, play hard—phaugh! That’s the same excuse that drunks give out the world over! I’ll tell the world: If ever a man was made to push a wheelbarrow and be made into a beast of burden, it’s the Hunky. He’s got no ambition to do anything greater. And if he has, you know that he lives far away from where he was brought up, and has probably changed his name to sound more like an Englishman. God knows you can’t talk to them. I’ve tried. For I’ll swear that they don’t say much and they don’t have much to say. Cept’n maybe ‘Pass the doughnuts.’

1*SALUTATION

THE DIXIE CUPS

IKO IKO

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0wNSHPQj0W8

2*REFERENCE

‘The Cutting Challenge’ on social media

http://q13fox.com/2015/06/02/a-dangerous-trend-among-kids-the-cutting-challenge-on-social-media/

3*HUMOR

In the room the women come and go. Talking of Mr Craig Raine-O. (I’m a famous heterosexual man, you know.)
http://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2015/jun/03/craig-raine-poem-prompts-twitterstorm

4*NOVELTY

MIRROR WORDS

http://txtn.us/mirror-words

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

Top 12 Assclowns of the GOP 2016 Presidential Field

http://welcomebacktopottersville.blogspot.com/2015/02/top-12-assclowns-of-gop-2016.html

SEE ALSO:

How Bobby Jindal lost everything: A one-time GOP hope, gutted by Grover Norquist worship and his own ambition

http://www.salon.com/2015/06/01/how_bobby_jindal_lost_everything_a_one_time_gop_hope_gutted_by_grover_norquist_worship_and_his_own_ambition/

SEE ALSO:

The special awfulness that is Rick Perry:

http://www.csmonitor.com/USA/Politics/2015/0604/Can-Rick-Perry-2.0-overcome-Rick-Perry-1.0

ALSO SEE:

Scott Walker Moves Toward Candidacy With Fund-Raising Arm

http://www.nytimes.com/politics/first-draft/2015/06/18/scott-walker-moves-toward-candidacy-with-fund-raising-arm/

6* DAILY UTILITY

SEVEN REASONS TO UPGRADE TO WORD 2010

http://shaunakelly.com/word/management/7-reasons-to-upgrade-from-microsoft-word-2007-to-word-2010.html

7*CARTOON

A GOOD SHIT IS BEST

BY WILLIE MURPHY AND HARVEY PEKAR

http://heim.ifi.uio.no/~mortenj/fimland/goodshit/

8*PRESCRIPTION

CVS PROFILING BLACK CUSTOMERS

“ill-founded institutional belief … minority customers are criminals and thieves.”

http://www.nytimes.com/aponline/2015/06/04/us/ap-us-cvs-racial-discrimination.html?_r=0

http://www.ny1.com/nyc/all-boroughs/news/2015/06/4/cvs-faces-lawsuit-for-allegedly-profiling-black–hispanic-customers.html

Nota bene: 

http://www.snopes.com/racial/business/cvs.asp

9*RUMOR PATROL

REICH OF THE BLACK SUN

http://archive.org/stream/RacialiistMaterial/Reich_of_the_Black_Sun_djvu.txt

10* LAGNIAPPE

Carl Jung’s Delightfully Disgruntled Review of Ulysses and His Letter to James Joyce

www.brainpickings.org/2015/02/02/carl-jung-ulysses-james-joyce-review-letter/

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

Actors reportedly paid $50 a pop to cheer at Donald Trump’s presidential campaign announcement

We can see that Trump is already keeping his promise to create new jobs.

http://www.independent.ie/entertainment/actors-reportedly-paid-50-a-pop-to-cheer-at-donald-trumps-presidential-campaign-announcement-31311710.html

ALSO SEE:

TEN STORIES ABOUT DONALD TRUMP YOU WON’T BELIEVE ARE TRUE

http://www.cracked.com/blog/10-stories-about-donald-trump-you-wont-believe-are-true/

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
801. CURRENT SUPERSTITIONS (1896)

  1. “Sparks on the bottom of the tea-kettle means rain”.

I would like to compile a series of modern superstitions. 

  1. A squealing fan belt means wet weather.
  2. Grinning clowns portend infantine nightmares.
  3. Big shoes, big package. Small shoes, not worth the bother. 

http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/18992

THE INFORMATION #841 JUNE 19, 2015

THE INFORMATION #841
JUNE 19, 2015
Copyright 2015 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

There is no way to peace along the way of safety.–Dietrich Bonhoeffer

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

“I tell you all this on the D.Q.,” said Count Victor Justin to Tipsy Smith and Adam O’Day, “and you’re not to yip to a soul, but I know you will anyway, but I’m not worried. This rank whistlestop is just a watering hole for me. I got my people all over these United States. They all know a little bit, but not all of ‘em knows the whole picture. I suppose my pals will get together if anything ever happens to me and hash it out amonsgst themselves.

“Let’s face facts—I’m no Saint–There are no saints in this man’s city—and certainly not that mysterious Reverend John Cross. That Blackfly Limey preacher with his sanctimonious mien–you know the one I’m blowing about–a-scraping and a-gnawing at the vitals of your soul on every Sunday. A Body of Divinity Bound in Black Calf. He’ll convince you that your soul is the most precious thing you own, but don’t you believe it for a minute, for if he himself has one, he don’t look after it none too good. Sure, or maybe his vocation means he needs must sally forth into a Moth House in the dead of night and consort with ladies and sometimes laddies of easy virtue—but I bedoubt it. Strongly. B-r-r-r. Miss Nancy makes out like he wants to lead a G-rrrand Crusade and extirpate all the vice in Blowtown—won’t be steered from off his path by the likes of Smash Conklin—he’s a one-man Protestant Revolution, him–but somehow the Gib Yellof gets to him and all of a sudden he’s just as meek as a little lamb, telling his congregation to forget about shutting down the Stinkfinger Palaces and focus instead on saving their own souls. Haww…I wonder what they managed to get on him? Do ye want me to spell it out? It doesn’t take much to knock some sense into a soft-handed duffer like that. One night he takes a wee dram in a knock-out joint and next thing he knows he wakes up next to a live boy and a dead woman. Police Photographers and Reporters are called. The whole thing is a dreadful misunderstanding, and can be cleared up, of course, providing certain conditions are met. Need I tell you what they are? Keep mum about the vice rackets in Blowtown, Reverend, and meanwhile we’ll just keep these pitchers in a wonderful tin box that we’ll just put in our safe here, in case you forget yourself. So nowadays when he comes preachin’ against the sins of drink and gambling in his great vice crusade—him, with his black pants and his black shirt and his black derby and his black umbrella and his white and sallow face—looking just like a hungry ghost with those big blue eyes of his’n—I turn away. Because just looking at that man makes me as frightened as seeing The Black Spy himself.

“No, there are no Saints in the city. What of the place where you buy your grub?  Old Eisenhauer the German grocer with his great big blubber and guts and his wheat-colored handlebar mustache and his gleaming bald dome and the delightful crinkles around his jolly piggy eyes and that gap-toothed smile of his’n—and his cut-throat practices—looks can be deceiving–he’s no Saint–puttin’ his big bloated thumb on the chopmeat scales when weighin’ –and buyin’ from bakers who put plaster of Paris in the bread –and dairies who water their milk–and performing other deeds of dark infamy which ye don’t want to know about. He ain’t always givin’ out peppermint-stick-candy to orphans. That’s just for show. Chargin’ the well-dressed man a nickel or dime or quarter more for his vittles; how d’ye like that? Puttin’ pebbles in the coffee beans. Essence of horse dung in your tib of occibot. Dust in the pepper. Sand in the sugar. Every low-down practice and sneaking trick—that’s what our friendly friend Mr. Dutchman is up to. And to make matters worse, his place never does see the natural light of day. Nor ary a speck of soap. Not that it matters, because everything in it is covered in soot from the pot-bellied stove and droppings from the rats—rats as are big enough to scare a fat tabby—not to mention the filth from what the customers coming in from the street have drug in. Oh, he’ll kill you and your whole family with his wares–if you let him. He’s got all the soothing syrups and Bower’s Infant Cordial, Bull’s Baby Syrup, Harter’s Soothing Drops, Dalby’s Carminative—all guaranteed infant-killers. If the pneumonia don’t get ‘em, the remedy will. He’s probably got a side deal going with both the undertaker and the carpenter as fabricates the caskets.  And, Hell—if his soothing syrup don’t kill you, his home-made Blutwurst is enough to make cold meat of you. God alone knows what sorts of stray and missing creatures go into the making of it. Eat a piece of that and you’re not only a dead fool–you’re dead dead—you’re super dead.

“Stop yer gob, ye say; take it in your stride and stop your whining; you’re acting like a filthy Jew. Speakin’ of which–Ferget poor Aaron Klein the tailor—ye feel sorry for him, don’t ye, but don’t ye know that he starves his helpers—includin’ his own wife and children–and that he keeps for himself any money that he happens to find in yer pockets? Even though the rogue is half-blind from all the close-work he does with a needle, he can smell a yaller boy from a mile away. You can be a mouse pissing on a piece of cotton in Old Cathay and he’ll hear you coming. Now, don’t get me wrong–I’m not one who’ll be after slanderin’ the Jews for bein’ sub-men and Christ-killers who are not worth their weight in offal—they’re a mighty slick crew, and that’s no Harvard lie. Why else do you think they get blamed for every low practice? Fact is, I have a sneaking admiration for the Israelite. It may well be that I’m part Jew myself. Guess there’s no way I’ll know for sure; I was reared up an orphan. Never knew my folks. Maybe that’s why I’m allus tryin to put one over on the world—because it sure as hell put one over on me, from the very black day that I was born. 
1*SALUTATION

Ornette Coleman Quintet Live October 1958 at the Hillcrest Club, Los Angeles California

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=su1cDihBbWg

 

ALSO SEE:

ORNETTE COLEMAN’S GREATEST HITS

http://www.nytimes.com/2015/06/12/arts/music/ornette-coleman-greatest-hits.html?_r=0

2*REFERENCE

Can Reading Make You Happier?

BY CERIDWEN DOVEY
http://www.newyorker.com/culture/cultural-comment/can-reading-make-you-happier

3*HUMOR

BE CAREFUL WITH THAT HAMMER & SICKLE, EUGENE: SOVIET ACCIDENT PREVENTION POSTERS dangerousminds.net/comments/be_careful_with_that_hammer_sickle

4*NOVELTY

Art Garfunkel on Paul Simon: ‘I created a monster’
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/music/rockandpopmusic/11626027/art-garfunkel-interview-paul-simon.html

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

This Comic Will Forever Change the Way You Look at Privilege

http://www.vagabomb.com/This-Comic-Will-Forever-Change-the-Way-You-Look-at-Privilege/

6* DAILY UTILITY

You can’t rent a one-bedroom apartment anywhere in America on a minimum-wage job
http://www.rawstory.com/2015/05/you-cant-rent-a-one-bedroom-apartment-anywhere-in-america-on-a-minimum-wage-job/

Here’s the hourly wage a full-time worker would need to “afford” to rent a 2-bedroom unit in every state.
http://happyplace.someecards.com/rent/heres-the-hourly-wage-youd-need-to-afford-a-2bedroom-rental-in-every-state/
7*CARTOON

25 COMIC BOOK MOVIES THAT NEVER GOT MADE

http://www.therobotspajamas.com/25-comic-book-movies-that-never-got-made/#more-24983

8*PRESCRIPTION

The Stacks: Mr. Bad Taste and Trouble Himself: Robert Mitchum
http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2014/07/19/the-stacks-mr-bad-taste-and-trouble-himself-robert-mitchum.html

9*RUMOR PATROL

JACK CARTER

http://classicshowbiz.blogspot.com/2011/04/interview-with-jack-carter-part-one.html

http://classicshowbiz.blogspot.com/2011/04/interview-with-jack-carter-part-two.html

http://classicshowbiz.blogspot.com/2011/04/interview-with-jack-carter-part-three.html

http://classicshowbiz.blogspot.com/2011/04/interview-with-jack-carter-part-four.html

http://classicshowbiz.blogspot.com/2011/04/interview-with-jack-carter-part-five.html

http://classicshowbiz.blogspot.com/2011/04/interview-with-jack-carter-part-six.html

http://classicshowbiz.blogspot.com/2011/04/interview-with-jack-carter-part-seven.html

http://classicshowbiz.blogspot.com/2012/01/interview-with-jack-carter-part-eight.html

10* LAGNIAPPE

THE TOP TEN UNRELEASED ALBUMS FROM THE MID-1960S THROUGH THE EARLY 1970S

http://www.richieunterberger.com/wordpress/the-top-ten-unreleased-albums-from-the-mid-1960s-through-the-early-1970s/

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

THE MOST SKIPPABLE BEATLES CUTS

http://www.avclub.com/article/most-skippable-beatles-cuts-all-you-need-love-yell-220201
CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
800. MURDER, MORPHINE, AND ME

Possibly one of the most influential stories of the Golden Age–in a decidedly negative sense. Jack Cole, already famous for his Plastic Man, ventures into the True Crime genre with his hyper-kinetic style, and the results are explosive–so explosive, in fact, that this story becomes exhibit A in a Congressional hearing investigating the link between comic books and juvenile crime. 

http://seductionofdainnocent.blogspot.com/2011/11/true-crime-comics-murder-morphine-and.html
http://seductionofdainnocent.blogspot.com/2011/11/true-crime-comics-murder-morphine-and_24.html

THE INFORMATION #840 JUNE 12, 2015

THE INFORMATION #840
JUNE 12, 2015
Copyright 2015 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

Power is the most persuasive rhetoric.–Friedrich Schiller
WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TEN: PART TWENTY-TWO: KINGDOM COME

I remember to this day what the shyster lawyer Titus Peep said to me
as he took my money and cheated me out of my score. “Count, I can
charge you whatever I like because you’re strictly small-time; a
chumperoo; a fart blossom. I could comb your head with a three-legged stool and you wouldn’t say a mumblin’ word. I’ve got the whip-hand, and you’re good and waggled. You think you’re a screamer, but you’re a scowbank, a mountebank, a rasher of wind.  You are a gentleman of the three outs. Furthermore, you have gone out of God’s blessing into the warm sun. Fit only to pester the denizens of a low ale house. You’d sell your Maw for a tib fo occibot. If it weren’t for me, you’d be a Mizzer and a stewbum. As it is, you are a veritable Leary-cum-Fitz. If not for me, the only prospect you would have would be that of an old lag. You may talk large, but you’re loose in the hilt, and everyone knows it. You’re a blackguard, a bubblehead, and a fop-doodle. You dress like a flashy spark, but you’re little more than a fiddler and a Jack Pudding.”

“What did you say to that?” said Adam O’Day.

“Well, Sir, I ups and I says the following. I says, ‘What are we to
make of  you, Titus Peep? Such a person as you have revealed yourself to be, with your splenetic cavalcade of callousness, low wit, and querulous badinage? I’ll tell you a story of Old Mother Money. You are most aptly cognomened, because you are as tight as they make ‘em. You are a malignant wet-blanket; a gripe-fisted ignoramus with the sensibility of a half-trained water spaniel and the soul of a thieving counting-house clerk. You are a cultural infidel without even the sense to pay heed to the advice of people who have seen trouble and who magnanimously seek to assist you in avoiding the same.

“You are a mental malcontent; an indiscriminate
solipsist; a myopic creature of the zeitgeist, a bawling cad; a
whinging malcontent, a spectacular eidoloclast scarred inside
with vile thoughts; a vendetta-seeker in a graveyard; a dragonslayer
of spooks; a barely articulate word-tinker.”

“I don’t need to take your guff,” says he.

“Oh, yes you do, says I. It’s about time that someone told you this.
You are a veritable pasha of piffle; a baron of despair; a czar of
self-loathing; a maharajah of pointless malice. You are the top cat of
offal; the big cheese of ephemera; the overlord of disordered and
confused pseudo-ratiocination. Judging from the elevated level of your discourse in this little exchange, you pride yourself on possessing a level of maturity and sound judgment, in respect to which the screaming infant is your equal and the unborn bantling infinitely your superior. By now, an intelligent person with a bare modicum of self-respect would have realized just how very outclassed they are. Or would have at least attempted to respond in kind.”

“You—you!” says he.

“Never fear. I quite understand your inanition. You are, indeed, an
autochthonous rube micturating in a gutter of your own finding and
fouling. Let’s face it, Shyster. You come from a world where ugly
illogic is a way of life. In your vile atelier, the soup du jour is
happy horse apples, the main course is inarticulate ad hominem blustering, and for dessert you dish up a heaping helping of inexplicable rodomontade. Tut tut! Too bad for you. Because I just rolled a seven, you sculpin. And you’re faded, fucked and forgotten. Of course, if you’d prefer to persist in playing handball with your own shit, that’s entirely up to you.”

“Not a word of that is true!” says he.

“Yes, indeed. So why deny it? I have painted you a picture, Peep. It’s
a portrait of a vindictive soi-disant oracular quasi-literate. You
remind me of a spiteful monkey ladling down hot pitch upon hapless
passersby from a high tree occupied by a rabble of similarly
autocoprophagous baboons of your despicable tribe. Apparently the
world’s assessment of your intellectual capabilities and
accomplishments have so addled your already fevered brain that, like a garden-variety sneak who stands at the edge of an unsuspecting crowd, hurls a fizz-boom, then calmly walks away, you continue to decline to make your avocations known to the world at large. And
fittingly. Judging from your double-crossing a perfectly good client
such as myself, you are as fond of depraved and corrupt practices as
the devil himself is fond of snatching away from God’s ultimate mercy theoretically repentant sinners. When it comes time for them to autopsy your cancer-riddled corpse, I do hope they find some vestige of non-cancerous tissue there, so they can at least bury you in a shoebox.”

“And what did he say to that?” said Tipsy Smith the barkeep. 

Count Justin Victor pulled himself up to his full height and replied, “He said ‘You had best leave your steamer trunk at Cool Slopp the
Pawnbroker, because it looks like you’ll be taking a long trip soon,
and you’ll need to be travelling light.’ Y’see? I lost my temper with
the shyster, and it looks like all bets are off.  So if he comes
askin’ around here, you don’t know me—see? But not to worry—he won’t. He don’t know about this place, unless one or both of you tell
him–then I’ll know who my true friends are. Because I’ll tell you
something about the lawyer-man. I don’t understand him and he don’t understand me, and I would just as soon keep it that way. Sure, I make my livelihood in fleecing suckers, but I do it with a smile on my face and a song in my heart. Him, he’s supposedly on the up-and-up, but he fleeces his clients all the same, and never a smile will crack his face, the ball-headed rascal. He takes no joy in what he does, but he does it all the same, like some automaton designed to squeeze the last drop of blood from a stone. But ye need not worry boys—he’ll get his one day–and when he does? I’ll be perfectly happy to dance on his tombstone.”

1*SALUTATION

NUGGETS 2 DISC ONE
1. Making Time – The Creation 2. Father’s Name Was Dad – Fire 3. I Can Hear The Grass Grow – The Move 4. My Friend Jack – The Smoke 5. My White Bicycle – Tomorrow 6. I’ll Keep Holding On – The Action 
WHITE PEOPLE JOKES
50 THINGS THAT EACH STATE IS ABSOLUTELY THE WORST AT
SIX WORST CHAIN RESTAURANT MEALS

6* DAILY UTILITY

WAYS TO IMPROVE YOUR LINKEDIN PROFILE
THE LEAGUE OF REGRETTABLE SUPERHEROES
BEST CHEAP PCS UNDER $300
BILL COSBY RANTS ABOUT RAPE
It might be seen as cruel, even evil, to remark on it, but don’t the following terms clearly conjure a mental image of a particular order of things? (a) barcalounger, (b) trailer park, (c) WWJD, (d) community college, (e) Tom Jones, (f) spam, (g) gin and tonic, (h) dinner jacket, (i) pesto, (j) 100% polyester, (k) white supremacy, (l) homemaker, (m) National Enquirer, (n) The New Yorker, (o) Nantucket, (p) Detroit, (q) credit card debt, (r) bodice-ripper, (s) short-sleeved dress shirt, (t) pocket protector, (u) hunting dog, (v) Armani, (w) Ivy League, (x) inner city, (y) Dairy Queen, (z) educator. –Antonio, from Bogota Columbia
http://www.amazon.com/Class-Through-American-Status-System/product-reviews/0671792253

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

AN OPEN LETTER TO WHITE MALE COMEDIANS
Listen. Being a woman is a bitch. Not only does everyone treat you like a fucking idiot all of the time, being a woman can be scary! Not scary in a big, obvious, goofy way—it’s less like a horrible slavering dog running toward your face (except for when it is like that) and more like when you can’t find that huge spider you saw on your bed earlier (if spiders also had the capacity to transform into slavering face-hungry dogs). We’re not walking around actively terrified in the middle of the afternoon, but there’s always a small awareness that we are vulnerable simply because we are women. Cavalier jokes about domestic violence and rape (jokes that target victims, not perpetrators) feed that aura of feeling unsafe and unwelcome—not just in the comedy club, but in the world.
CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
799. FRAMED PICTURE OF JESUS APPEARS TO BLEED
Still, even if it is rust, that doesn’t necessarily mean that it is not the work of God, Humphrey said.