MODERN WISDOM NUMBER 205 NOVEMBER 2015

MODERN WISDOM: AMERICA’S ONLY HUMOR MAGAZINE
NUMBER 205
NOVEMBER 2015
Copyright 2015 Francis DiMenno
dimenno@gmail.com
http://www.dimenno.wordpress.com

  1. MODERN WISDOM PRESENTS: THE MODERN WISDOM DYSLEXICON

MAXIM: Esquire for Bastards.

MUSHROOM. Honeymoon suite.

NIETZSCHE. A crazy man who said something bad about whipping women.

OPTIMIST’S CLUB. I tried to join–but I knew they wouldn’t let me.

PARANOIA. Certain people say I’m dangerously paranoid…I would kill to know who.

PLUM. Rehydrated prune.

POTATO SALAD: Adult ice cream.

PRESIDENT. I’d rather riot than be President. 

PROVERBS. Wisdom lite.

REFEREES: Elitists.

  1. NOIR MISFORTUNE COOKIES
  2. They are never going to stop kicking your dog around.
    502. Famed for reliability. No. They call you a “real liability”.
    503. For Halloween you should dress like the failure you really are.
    504. Your Heart is made of Stone; your Jaw, of Glass.
    505. Haven’t you heard the news? You’re all washed up.
    506. The hangovers never used to be that bad before.
    507. You learned, too late, that things are different in The South.
    508. Don’t try to do the thinking–it doesn’t suit you.
    509. Your life has been a Carnival–a Carnival of Crime.
    510. Nobody’s fooled–everybody knows your name and your alias.
    511. They will hunt you like the rabid dog you are.
    512. You’re the biggest drunk in town–and it’s a big town.
    513. Someday you will pay and that someday is right now.
    514. You’re impossible to kill but they will find a way.
    515. You are never lonely, for you are surrounded by enemies.
    516. Midgets are good luck, until they shoot you.
    517. She is nothing like the Little Girl you once knew.
    518. Big mistake–referring to The Don as “Fatso”.
    519. No more Sex Kittens for you–only the sad Cat Lady.
    520. Like Jesus, you will die for someone else’s sins.
    521. Eating this Fortune Cookieensures a lifetime of misfortune.
    522. Even the Psychotics whisper that you are completely insane.
    523. Are you really Paranoid? Only They know for sure.
    524. Listen, Hillbilly–Leave the musket. Take the pork rinds.
    525. He who laughs last will be the first to die.
    526. Your craven drunken partner does not got your back.
    527. You are World Class all right–a World Class Chump.
    528. Even the indulgent priest will never absolve you.
    529. She’s either started smoking cheap cigars–or there’s another man.
    530. Coward! You left your Men behind, to die in Tiger Cages.
    531. The Early Bird gets helplessly swept up in the Dragnet.
    532. Even your most educated guesses are illiterate.
    533. Nobody gets fat by standing in the Big Man’s limelight.
    534. Only change the Dame and the tale will be told of you.
    535. You always said you wanted nothing, and now you got it.
    536. Hunchbacks are lucky; all YOUR hunches have been dead wrong.
  3. You’ve gone straight–why must they drag you back in?
  4. Take only the clothes on your back and flee town–now.
    539. They can easily prove your story is nothing but lies.
    540. Poor Fool. You were so sure you could outsmart The Brain.
    541. Your dog will accidentally maul the Boss’s youngest son.
    542. This isn’t over–they aren’t through with you yet.
    543. They’re not afraid of you and they will kick your ass.
    544. They’ll find you long before you manage to find them.
    545. They thoroughly discussed you. You thoroughly disgust them.
    546. You’re acting like a dizzy sap over that two-timing Dame.
    547. You’ll never breathe easy until all the witnesses are dead.
    548. Chase her all you want–catch her, and you’ll be sorry.
    549. They’ll call you ‘Chuckles’ because you never smile.
    550. You’ll forever think the Fuzz are breathing down your neck.
    551. You’ll beg for cheap liquor in a bar you once owned.
    552. All men love the darkness, for their deeds are evil.
    553. You will soon see even more of the world’s backside.
    554. Very few people can match your callow, vain stupidity.
    555. It’s a GOOD Sterno; it’s not a GREAT Sterno.
    556. Your apartment smells like cat piss; you don’t own a cat.
    557. You had better change your mind; it’s full of shit.
    558. A million men and a million dollars can never be defeated.
    559. Didn’t you even know enough to get out of their way?
    560. You have lit the firecracker at both ends.
    561. Hatred of you shall unite all feuding clans.
    562. Your long nightmare is only just beginning.
    563. When elephants dance, the dwarves must die.
    564. At the Laughing Academy a padded room awaits you.
    565. They tolerate your cowardly fear; it is fun to watch.
    566. The strangers watch your house for a very good reason.
    567. The Boss once found you entertaining; you bore him now.
    568. No excuse can possibly explain your sinister behavior.
    569. Your troubles will never end; not even in the grave.
    570. You will never be permitted to atone for your sins.
    571. You won’t know what you are until you lose it.
    572. People are much happier when you’re not around.
    573. You will never be allowed to eat solid food again.
    574. You will die a million deaths, and yet live.
    575. It is far from over. It will never truly be over.
    576. A daily apple keeps away doctors–not policemen.
    577. Justice will always be a luxury you can never afford.
    578. None of the gossip about you can be refuted.
    579. Enjoy your day; it may well be your last.
    580. You are too experienced to ever be optimistic again.
    581. Your marriage is made in Heaven but lived in Hell.
    582. The explanation is a simple one: They all lied.
    583. Survivor’s Guilt? You are fooling absolutely nobody.
    584. You are far more spinned against than spinning.
    585. Destiny whistles through your hollow existence.
    586. Your wife will always put her business before your pleasure.
    587. You are wearing a mask which will eat your soul.
    588. A hand which you know not shall lay you dead.
    589. You know everything, and yet you can do nothing.
    590. What are your saving yourself for? You die tomorrow.
    591. You’re living on borrowed time; now They want it back.
    592. You are wise to run away, but not THAT way.
    593. The man with the gun is looking strangely at you.
    594. Bums will ask you for directions to the homeless shelter.
    595. Magical Thinking? Magical Lack of Thinking will do you in.
    596. The small, still voice inside you says you must die.
    597. They’ll call you the cutest serial killer on Death Row.
    598. She’s a smart cookie–too smart for your own good.
    599. You have the virtue of being consistent–consistently troubled.
    600. Dignity and self-respect are words you never heard of. 
  1. DOWNWARD NOBILITY

Every since his head injury, my brother-in-law Dix has taken an ardent, if somewhat addled, interest in the whole question of pitbulls. Are they the Frankenstein dogs of the Chicken Little media, or an unfairly maligned but noble breed? He says the former, but I’m not so sure.

Just last Friday I drove for several hours and paid a family visit. Which mostly consisted of me tagging along behind Dix and his wife, my sister Terry, during Saturday morning as they “made their rounds”. 

Of course, this need not have taken place on a weekend at all, since neither of them happen to work at actual jobs. 

My sister is currently collecting unemployment. Or trying to. She can frequently be heard on her government cell phone engaged in screaming matches with the person on the other end of the unemployment hotline. She picks up some under-the-table spending money on Saturday and Sunday nights bartending at some shitty ramshackle joint just across the state border. It’s the kind of cow palace of a place that makes your average beatnik basement dive of yore look like a regular Valhalla. She makes most of her money in tips, since she is a compulsive chatterbox and had an easy way with the regulars. Dix usually has nothing better to do than to hang around the bar to “protect” her, as a sort of semi-official but unpaid bouncer. Because he has prior convictions, he has to be very careful about getting into fights–but once he gets into the whiskey, it was anyone’s guess as to whether he might drunkenly beat the shit out of some tough guy for the serious crime of simply looking at Terry the wrong way. 

It was my distinct impression that my sister mostly spent her windfall tip money on Mani-pedis and extravagant orders at McDonald’s. (“I used to work there,” she told me. “I know how to get the good stuff.”)  McDonalds was her favorite meeting place for a night out on the town, presumably because Applebee’s, Chili’s, and The Olive Garden were “too swank”.

My Brother in Law is known as Dix, both to his friends and to the local police. (His real name is something like Sylvester Percival Murphy, but he doesn’t like to talk about it). Seeing as how he has lived all his life in his Godforsaken little town, He also knew the names of all the local cops, the lenient ones and the tough ones, as well as the lenient and the tough judges, since he had been to court several times on various beefs–drunk and disorderly, child support from his first marriage, assault, driving an unregistered vehicle–the usual panoply of sad sack brushes with the law. No felonies, though. Lucky for him. Felons can’t legally own firearms, and Dix has quite a few.

He’d recently “won” what some wags in my neck of the woods refer to as “Disability Powerball.” Meaning that he collects disability payments from the Federal Government, even though he’s not even 40 and still seems to me to have quite a knack for heavy lifting, if very little else. Of course, he makes more money than that, under the table, doing odd construction jobs. 

How did he qualify for disability? It seems as though a plastic garbage can fell on his head while he was on some kind of Municipal make-work Job with Parks and Recreation.  

Dix doesn’t beat my sister, as far as I can tell. I am glad. He is a big fellow with a broken nose. Looks like he’s been in more than a few fist fights. I’m not sure I could take him. In fact, I’m sure I couldn’t. I don’t have the killer instinct. He does. One look at him would convince you of that.  

Well, he does wear a wifebeater t-shirt. But since I know for a fact that Terry buys all his clothes, that was her choice of apparel, and not his, I suppose.  

Dix calls my sister Terry “Boo Boo,” or “Mama” when he feels affectionate and “The Duchess” (pronounced “Doosh-ess”) when he feels as though she’s behaving like a bitch. This is usually when he’s drunk. 

He’s a sarcastic drunk, for the most part. Given to saying things like, “Hey there, high and mighty–you think you’re better’n me?”

I overheard them arguing late on Friday night, when I first got there. I was sacked out on a sofa near the kitchen area of the trailer.

Terry: “Be quiet, my brother can hear you!” 
Dix: “I DONT FUCKING CARE IF THE WHOLE WORLD CAN HEAR ME!”

Terry: WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?
Dix: SHUT UP! THAT’S WHO I AM! NOW SHUT UP!

Et cetera.

Dix: Most every night finds him drunk to at least some degree. But especially Friday. Meaning that on Saturday morning he usually has a pounding hangover and chooses to sleep in. Which he does every day of the week anyway. 

Leaving Terry to do the grocery shopping that Saturday morning, bright and late. In their 1992 white Honda Civic that is beat to shit. It is a car with a dented white body and a black hood. It looks vaguely boxy and sinister. The rear bumper seems to be held together with bumper stickers for such delightful institutions as Wrestle Mania, Easy Riders, The Big Johnson, Rebel Yell, and the local tattoo parlor. She’s got Rosary beads hanging from the rear-view mirror, which is funny because she’s not even a Catholic but a member of some weirdo Protestant sect that her foster parents once belonged to–one that preached the Prosperity Gospel, though it certainly hadn’t done her a lot of good. She also had an evergreen-shaped pine air freshener which had long since stopped doing its job, because even though her two children by her first husband out of High School are in their twenties and mostly on their own, the car always smells like Marlboros, mildew and sour milk. 

Anyway, she’s my sister, and I love her, of course, but ever since she’s had her two daughters she’s really blown up. She looks, from behind, a lot like one of those houses that people put on casters and haul down the highway behind enormous flat-bed trucks. She gets welfare and food stamps, only, of course, they aren’t stamps any more but a little credit card pre-loaded with a couple hundred dollars every month. You’d think that you could buy quite a bit of healthy food with that money, but I notice that Terry buys all sorts of expensive junk, like bottled soda, and coffee in K-Cups, and bags of candy and potato chips, and then she complains on about the 20th of the month that the money doesn’t go far enough. Whatever happened, I wondered, to buying potatoes and rice and bread and tuna, I ask her. You could easily feed your family for a month on what she spends in a week, on junk. She says, “I’d rather die than live like that.” Then she’d go out and loudly rev her car engine for like, ten minutes. 

Welllll….ooookay, then.

Of course, who am I to criticize? I suppose if I were what our elders used to quaintly call “collecting relief” and out of work and depressed, I too might be tempted to gorge myself on ice cream and Beefaroni and Vienna sausages and Treet–which, I was interested to learn, is Spam for people who can’t even afford Spam. And if I were on disability, maybe I too would be tempted to use my girlfriend’s maxed-out credit card to rent a big-ass television from Rent-A-Center, and then have them take it back because I didn’t keep up with the payments.   

You’d think that instead of sketching designs for new tattoos he was planning on getting, Dix would spend some of his ample free time improving the conditions around their trailer. But no. In spite of the ancient, sun-bleached beach ball and rusty girl’s bicycle, the weed garden in the back yard was hardly what you’d call ornamental; the cracked asphalt in driveway looked like it belonged in a panorama of the origins of the earth, and the quack grass overrunning the front yard provided the only sign of active human habitation because at least it was desultorily mowed once every six weeks or so. Although he would miss patches here and there. A Mohawk lawn. Charming. There were nip bottles and empty Dunkin Donuts cups scattered around the doorway, as well as a delightful congregation of cigarette butts and Blunt Cigar wrappers. During seasonal weather, Dix would sit on the front stoop either drinking fireball cinnamon-flavored whiskey from a coffee mug, or smoking reefer. Just like he just didn’t give a shit what the neighbors thought. Because he didn’t. Not that the neighbors were any better. Most of them were doing the exact same thing. Never let it be said that Dix was any kind of an Odd Man Out. Protective Coloration was his own peculiar form of genius. When it came to his local environment, he could fit in nearly anywhere. He would have made a good undercover agent, though that particular boat had left the dock a long time ago. 

No matter what the weather, Dix was nearly always seen wearing a sleeveless t-shirt, usually wearing on top of that his red leather jacket with the elasticized orange cuffs. His perpetually slavering Pitbull puppy, Sergeant, was generally to be seen industriously straining at the end of a rust-flecked chain which was attached to a metal stake driven deep in the ground–but not deep enough, as we were to tragically discover later. 

Watching Dix, you got the distinct impression that Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms was not only a Bureau–it was his weekend.

As loopy as Dix was, his mother was altogether another story. She lived in the trailer two down from his. Her Eyes: Bloodshot. Her Nose: Deviated septum. Her Mouth: Running cold sores. Her Teeth: Ground down to yellow stumps. Her Breasts: Saggy. Her Ass: Bony. Her Shoes: Flip-Flops, in all weather. Her fingernails: Chipped and broken. Her Employment history: spotty. Last known place of employ: Some sketchy “collection agency” that eventually got shut down by the federal government for extortion.  

The collection agency must have paid well, or otherwise she must have been upwardly mobile a long time ago because she drove a grey 1985 Chevrolet Impala. The thing looked like a deracinated monolith on wheels. Nowadays, she had fallen on hard times. Her ex-husband was incarcerated, her bank account was overdrawn, and yet she still managed to make at least one trip a month to the local casino, and was never seen without her scratch tickets. She told me she made some pocket change giving rides to old folks who had lost their drivers licenses because they couldn’t see very well, or because they had drunk driving convictions, but I can’t imagine she had any other source of visible employment. I have a feeling that she hung around with bikers and shared her fading favors with Truckers, because her daughter-in-law was always gifted each Christmas with a variety of Biker and Trucker souvenirs. Outsized caps. Too-big t-shirts. Scale replica toy trucks. American Flag patches. Small jugs of maple syrup which you only ever see sold in interstate highway gas stations. Every time I saw her, I threw up in my mouth a little. 

Other than that, she was a perfectly nice woman, I guess. She had a variety of tattoos from back in her glory days, when she was a Foghat groupie.Up and down her arms. On her ankle and lower back. Mostly cheap amateur jobs. A martini olive. A butterfly. A red star. A Chinese character meaning ‘Good Fortune’. And something mystical. Actually, it was supposed to be a big fat unicorn. It was stamped on her flabby arm, which was the size of a joint of roast beef. 

She chewed cinnamon gum, which she always parked outside whenever her son took her to her weekly visit to the Chinese Buffet, which was some 45 miles away. Which they invited me to on Saturday night. They spent three hours there, and ate everything in sight, until even the case-hardened Chinese waitresses were giving them death glares. Their secret? Apparently, they starved themselves for days, and took laxatives in between their third serving and their fourth, fifth, and sixth helpings. Dix’s Mom also had a purse the size of a duffel bag lined with cloth napkins into which she surreptitiously stuffed goodies wrapped in napkins “for later”. 

Afterwards, we–meaning me, Dix and his Mom–went back to Dix’s Mom’s trailer, where they drank a 30-pack of Keystone Light. It’s a very good beer, she said, for the price. I took a sip. It left a distinct aftertaste of soapy dishwater and old leaves. “Wassamatter?” said Dix. “Too good to drink with us?” I had my own instinct for protective coloration. “All I ever drink is Budweiser. You got any?” Turns out the answer was no. So I borrowed Dix’s Mom’s car and went to the local bar to buy a six pack. Driving her Chevrolet Impala was like piloting a tank. The car burped and popped whenever it was in idle and the brakes, I found tout seconds too late, were mushy. I very nearly plowed into three motorcycles which were parked in front of the local brewmongers. 

I had hoped to be in and out without incident, but one of the locals–a Biker, from the looks of him–sized me up and said, “You’re not from around her, are you, Boy?”

“I’m visiting Dix. He’s a good freind of mine.”

“Well, Boy Howdy,” he said. Say hello to his Maw for me.” And he actually winked at me. Him with his fat, bearded and hoggish face. It would have been enough to make a cat laugh, only I was terrified, and got out of there in a hurry. The guy wore a chaion for a belt, and it looked small on him.   

Anyway, as I mentioned before, Dix, bless his soul, is what you might call a firearm aficionado. He has a modest selection of guns which he kept in the trailer he shared with my sister. All duly registered, he was careful to tell me. A scofflaw he wasn’t. At least, not at present. Though he seemed peculiarly eager to show me the scar left by his compulsory ankle bracelet, “Back when I was on house arrest, before I was on fucking probay-shun”. 

“With that kind of attitude, it’s a wonder you ever got off probay-shun.”

I thought this. I didn’t say it. Why take chances angrifying a man whose biceps were the size of Cincinnati Hams? And who counted among his close freinds a Biker the size of Godzilla?

On Friday night, when I had just gotten in, he showed me one of his rifles. Actually, he pointed it at my head. His idea of a practical joke. When I got mildly annoyed, he explained slowly and carefully, as though talking to an imbecile, that it “wudn’t loaded”. That’s the only time, by the way, I ever heard him speaking below a dull roar. He was what you’d call a loudmouth. Still, salt of the earth all the same, I suppose. Also, as I mentioned, he was very much taken with the idea of owning a Pitbull, though he was as lazy and ignorant as the day was long, and he did absolutely nothing to train the animal. Instead, he spent that Saturday morning sitting on the doorstep of his trailer and taking large sips of fireball whiskey as he watched Sergeant the Pitbull straining and quivering on the end of his vibrating chain, presumably trying to reach some invisible antagonist. “Sarge,” as Dix called him, was a brown and white brute with a glassy stare. “Don’t worry, he don’t hurt no one,” Dix would shout. To no one in particular.

Why did Dix name him Sergeant? To get back at a hated Topkick in the Army? Prior to his Dishonorable Discharge? I never bothered to ask.

Actually, Sarge’s brown and white coloration did make him look vaguely Army-like. Sergeant the Pitbull would have blended right in with a group of rifle-toting jarheads sporting camo gear in some post-apocalyptic fantasia.

Personally, I’m a big dog-lover, and would have been willing to give Sergeant every chance to worm his way into my heart–worms and all. But not after what I saw him do up at Friendship Park on Sunday afternoon.

We spent Sunday morning going to the oddball hard-shell Baptist Church that my sister favors. Dix was dressed up. It was October, and in lieu of his usual t-shirt he wore his fancy black cowboy shirt with the white piping and a white bolo tie. He spent most of the church service bullshitting outside with the other bored husbands, many of whom, like him, wore leather jackets and world-weary looks of utter dissatisfaction with their lot in life. I could indulge in no such practice. My sister had apparently told her Pastor all about her brother from back East, and she was counting on me to listen with devoted attentiveness to the fantastical hogwash the preacher was giving out. There was something about “Looking at the world through Christ-colored glasses,” and a whole lot of other nonsense I can’t even bring myself to remember, let alone repeat. The church pews were hard wooden benches. In that particular House of Worship there were no padded kneelers or any other creature comforts as far as I could see. In fact, it looked not unlike the bar where my sister had spent the previous  Saturday night hustling drinks. After the Service, the Pastor wanted to know how I liked the sermon. I told him that ‘Christ-colored glasses’ seemed to me to be a particularly apt metaphor. He looked at me with mild curiosity. He apparently had no idea what I was talking about. I blustered my way through with a translation into localese: “It was fine, I liked it fine! It was fine, fine!” He smiled, and asked me if I planned on watching The Game. I said “Sure, sure. It’s gonna be great!”

And thus we parted, on mostly friendly terms. 

Sunday afternoon was to be devoted to letting Sergeant off the leash, so he could “socialize” with the other dogs at Friendship Park. Having seen the pup in action, I wasn’t sure this was such a grand and glorious idea. That very morning Sergeant had pulled the stake out of the ground and chased a squirrel up a tree, leaving claw marks all around the trunk as he barked until he was out of breath and, incidentally, long after the squirrel had migrated to another tree. 

Dix assured me that Sergeant would be fine. “Won’t he, Terry?” My sister Terry said nothing. She felt a little intimidated by Dix, who was a high school graduate, while she was putting off getting her G.E.D. because she was afraid that the third try might not be the charm. (She was severely math-challenged. She also couldn’t write a coherent sentence with a noun or verb to save her life.) But her feelings were hurt, so she decided to stay home while Dix and I took Sergeant up to Friendship Park. 

It was really a Park in name only. Just a narrow strip of land which extended for about a fifth of a mile with some desultory trees and a winding path. 

I was busy kicking fallen leaves between my feet when I heard a snarl and a yelp. I turned around to see Sergeant attacking another dog and Dix trying his best to extricate the the wrinkled ass of the yelping pug dog from between the clamped-down jaws of the ravening Sarge. Dix finally got the dog free and, grabbing his Pitbull, ran from the park. I hung around for a few minutes to see how badly the Pug was hurt. He had puncture marks on his back from Sergeant’s teeth and was pathetically licking the face of the lady who owned him, who was screaming and crying and hugging the pug dog. Helpful fellow dog walkers gave her the name of a nearby pet clinic, and she carried her dog to her car and sped off. I noticed that her licence plate read PUGGS.

I saw no sign of Dix, or his mother’s car, which he had borrowed for our little expedition. So I walked the roughly three-quarters of a mile back to the trailer park. 

I found Dix in his mother’s trailer. The two were seated at the tiny built-in modular kitchen table, drinking Keystone beer–the old lady must have had a 30-pack in reserve–and conferring.

“The bitch had it coming. Walking around with that fancy dog of hers, like she owned the world.”

“Did she see my car?”

“No, Mom.”

“Does anybody up there know you?”

“No Mom.”

The old lady turned to me. “You didn’t say anything, did you?”

“No, Ma’am.”

“Call me Mom,” she beamed. And she exhaled a drag from her Kent. And offered me a beer.

I already had one. 

The first of many.

  1. THE ANYTOWN ‘YOUNG TURKS’ 

By “Peanuts” Butler & Arentino Capriccio
Staff Reporters, TIDINGS Magazine
These brash upstarts aren’t the ruling elite—yet! But they’re poised to take over when their time comes nigh! Meet:
Kevin Abale
Mo Abbey
Iris Aberti
Bahia Abura
Quentin Acorn
Delphine Adelphi
Whitey Adelphi
Limba Afara
Assamela Afronmosia
Tola Agba
Sifou Albizia
India Allman
Goncalo Alves
Camacari Andiroba
Julia Anger
Iris Apple
Amarillo Arariba
Sagitarius Arrowhead 
Ash Ashley
Dina Badger
King Balau
Vera Balboon
Phil Baleen
Cole Barilla
Birch Barkwash
Linney Basswood
Merle Basswood
Goldy Bean
Eomonn Beardtongue
Castor Beaver
Sally Bedstraw
Mona Beebalm
Clinker Beech
Yuri Beech
Lolita Belia
Rose Berlin
Otis Bighorn
Satin Bilsted
Conrad Bindweed
Itchy Birch
Corny Birdfoot
Dundas Blackbutt
Mpingo Blackwood
Merle Bluebell
Leo Bluegill
Tony Bluet
Eck Blueweed
Orville Bobo
Bobo Bojanga
Yenga Bombanga
Caroline Bouchet
Maracaibo Boxwood
‘Whitey’ Boxwood
Fern Bracken
Myles Brownbat
Bobo Brummel
Tim Bruni
Caddie Bunchberry
Soapy Buffaloberry
Blackie Bullhead
Cornelia Bunchberry
Pal Burdock
Quentin Buroak
Vavona Burr
Clem Butterflyweed
Jurgis Butternut
Sonny Bye
Lena Campion
Peter Canaletta
Skeezix Carp
Selena Catchfly
Acacia Catclaw
Tyrone Cattail
Deodar Cedar
Dame Cervus
Cholly Chainfruit
Alvin Cheesewood
Horace Chesnutt
Sweetie Chestnutt
Mimi Chipmunk
Wilma Chokepear
Buddy Chumm
Burl Citron
Don Coachwood
Granadillo Cocobobo
Smitty Coltsfoot
Phyllis Columbo
Ruth Coneflower
Sigmund Cottonrat
Daisy Cottontail
Easy Cottontail
Laura Coyote
Castor Coypus
Silver Cudgerie
Faro Copal
Penny Cress
Magnolia Cuke
Phoenix Datepalm
Virginia Datepalm
Melina Dayflower
Ellen Deal
Vermillion Decatur
Paul DeOleo
Diane Deptford
Prudence Dewclaw
Phat DiBase
Daily Dillo
Jacaranda Domato
Juan Durango
‘Scary’ Eiger
Sergio Elk
Libby Engel
Daisy English
Burl Everlast
Ossie Fern
Kaye Fieldmark
Ratty Figg
Phil Fireweed
Gail Firewheel
Marty Fisher
Simon Fivefinger
Plum Flatwood
Linus Flax
Harry Fleabane
Cordelia Fluke
Calliope Focker
Frieda Free
Colorado Frick
Katherine Fuchs
Angouma Gaboon
Prunella Gargle
Callie Gata
Sally Glasswort
Amos Goat
Russ Goatbeard
Zia Goldpoppy
Pigtail Gooseberry
Thomas Gopher
Sissy Grass
Laura Greenheart
Pia Groundnut
Salvatore Guardineri
Gula Gula
Melida Gumm
Delilah Gumweed
Charmin Hagbrook
Roz Harebell
Vincent Hatico
Prudence Healall
‘Lazy’ Hoar
Lola Hollywood
Ash Hooper
‘Hoop’ Hooper
Otis Hophorn
Crispus Horsetail
Colonel Housewren
Tammy Hudson
Danielle Incenso
Gabon Izombe
‘Uncle’ Jag
Manzanita Jarrito
Rosa Jet
Patience Jewelweed
Tata Juba
Felix Kahn
Shira Kashi
Kiki Keaki
Eddy Kelp
Mack Kelp
Charity Killdare
Violet Kingwood
Kosi Kosi
Mephisto Krink
Johann Kuhn
Sally Kunda
Laney Lang
Phineas Larkspur
Alison Leek
Sally Loosestrife
Simon Loosestrife
Lily Lotus
Rufus Lynx
Packy Madrone
Corey Mandel
Tricky Mann
Guy Marble
Mary Marten
Roger Martin
Todo Matsu
Cephalus McGraw
Al Mendro
Howard Milkweed
Whitey Minque
Mendel Mint
Omar Misericordiae
Hick Mockernut
Fishbone Mogoubi
Ma Monax
Alyssa Moneywort
Mimi Monkeyflower
Alice Moose
Midge Moose
Cotton Mouse
Charles ‘Chick’ Mouseear
Kajat Mukura
Herman Muledeer

Eddie Nam
Macca Nambar
Roxy Nazareno
Sugar Nettletree
Tess Nodding
Edward Noga
Tochi Noki
Taz Oakum
Pard Ocelet
Rocco Odum
Naga Okwen
Meg Optera
Phil Osama
Red Osier
Lucille Otter
Lacey Overcup
Herman Oystercatcher
Cam Paduca
Rio Palissander
Abbot Palmetto
Elena Paloverde
Buddy Palustrus
Orvie Palustrus
Raji Pappadum
Jacaranda Pardo
Holly Parker
Hickory Pecan
Theodore Peccary
Virginia Pencilwoode
Myrtle Pepperwood
Rosa Peruba
Ellen Phlox
Cordell Pickerelweed
Amy Pigweed
Prince Pika
Hunky Pill
Hazel Pine
Matilda Pineweed
Ivory Pink
Wes Pipistrelle
Sarah Pitcher
Major Plantain
Stormy Poorchild
Ethel Pork
Ginny Possum
Misty Prairiedog
Laura Preto
Amy Prieto
Lance Primrose
Andrew Pronghorn
Luna Purdy
Anthony Pussytoes
Genevieve Ramen
Marshall Rarebit
Celia Redstart
Stu Ringtail
Richard Robusto
Algernon Ruby
Mfutu Sabaki
Canary Saddletree
Paula Santo
Cameroon Sapelli
Betty Saponeria
Cinnamon Sassafras
Porky Scat
Coco Seagrape
Ginger Shepardpurse
Hart Shumard
Anson Silverweed
Ira Sledge
Antoinette Snakewood
Helen Sneezeweed
Autumn Somer
Alice Spargel
Veronica Speedwell
Trajan Spiderwort
Violet Squashberry
Crabapple Squeaker
Ennea Graham Starling
Biddy Sticktight
Cornelia Stinkhorn
Olive Stinkwood
Tammy Striatus
Myrtle Stringybark
Thistle Strongtea
Olivia Stumpwood
Fay Sung
Mel Sweetclover
Myra Sweetgale
Race Sweetgum
Rufus Thimbleberry
Laura Timber
Lucille Toppin
Rain Tree
Aeriopagus Trout
Jack Tulipwood
Rocky Ulme
Vi Violet
Penn Vole
Tansy Vulgare
Scarlet Waxycap
Orson Wale
Allen Waterrat
Googy Wawa
Louann White
Red Whiteclover
Cody Whitenose
Virginia Whitetail
Jughead Whitewood
Daria Wildcarrot
Cherry Wilde
Angus Wishmore
Cardinal Wood
Jenny Wood
Lance Wood
Lily Wood
Possum Woode
Taki Taki Wordman
Mother Wort
Silas Wright
Wesley Xapata
Yew Yah Yew
Claire Yipe 
Red Yronwood
Solomon Zag
Musky Zither
‘Hi’ Zombe

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THE INFORMATION #861 NOVEMBER 6, 2015

THE INFORMATION #861
NOVEMBER 6, 2015
Copyright 2015 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

I prayed for twenty years but received no answer until I prayed with my legs.–Frederick Douglass

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

“You won’t hear me say a mumblin word agin’ God Almighty,” said Count Justin Vistor to Pappy O’Day, who was barely awake but who remained determined to stay upright as long as the Count was providing him with free drinks. “I got no beef agin God. Like I said before, there’s no percentage in bad-mouthin’ The Lord, or using His name in vain, or attracting the unfavorable notice of the Divine. But the same doesn’t hold for the various churches that have sprang up like mushrooms in cowflop, and all claiming to be the one true, and sole representative of the Almighty. I’ll admit right now that the Roman Church has had some time to set themselves up to look mighty slick, but some of them Protest-Ant churches are mighty peculiar. I guess the likes of the Piss-in-a-pailians are laughing themselves sick over the snake-handlin’ antics of their lesser brethren. I got no gripe against any particular church. Going to church makes you a very popular citizen, in some quarters. It’s always good for an enterprising grifter to mingle with the quality, and get a whiff of the good life, and get a load of what the well-dressed pluty-crat will wear. 

“The way I see it, this business with the fool hath said in his heart there is no God reminds me an awful lot of the Gold Brick. That’s where you offer to sell a piece of lead painted over with gold paint at a “bargain” price to some enterprisin’ sucker. Churches remind me of the cute little stunt that Barnum had. He would hire a man to go around town with a brick, picking it up and putting it down where everyone could see him. he would begin to gather a crowd, and once he did, all paths led to Barnum’s American Museum.
“A church is an awful lot like Phineas T.’s Museum. You got the architecture, and the stained glass, and the pictures on the walls, and the big pipe organ, and men in dresses who stink of myrrh–and every other inducement to lure in the rubes who are looking to add a little color to their lives. Mostly, I’m talking about the mackerel-snappers. What with the blood drinking and the flesh eating and all that, I never professed to understand ’em. But it does add a great air of mystery to the doin’s, especially with all that Latin palaver that the priests are slinging around–Dominick Nabisco and all of that. And some of them colored Baptist churches also put on a pretty decent show, or so I hear. 
“Me? I’m a Hindoo, I guess. Let’s face it–all the major religions have got a whiff of the old bunko. It takes a grifter to know a grift. Don’t get me to talkin’ about Moses. He goes up a mountain and he comes down and tells the people that he talked to God himself and that God chiseled the commandments on a couple of stones? Sounds to me like Old Man Moses was the one who was up to some chiseling. Not even a small boy would fall for that one, now-a-days. He’d tell you to get wise to yourself, and to peddle your papers elsewhere.
“And then, of course, there’s Jesus. He was either the Son of God, and therefore the greatest man who was ever borned, or else he was a grade-A confidence man, who thought out every move even more carefully than Houdini. Just think of it! Out of nowhere here comes this fellow who can heal the sick, make the blind see, the lame walk again, and the dead go cavortin’ around like a spring lamb. Here’s a Yellof who takes a dozen of the most chuckleheaded Yobs who ever drew breath and forges these hobos into an evangelizing army. This here Jesus moke must of had a whole lot of what the Perfessers call ‘charisma’ and the Yids call ‘chutzpah’. Here he goes, smashing the tables of the moneychangers, tellin’ off the greybeards, makin’ friends with prostitutes and tax collectors–that act still wouldn’t fly for a Preacher-man, even today, so it’s small wonder that they nailed him to a tree. I’m wondering why it even took ’em as long as it did, to be honest. Seems as though everything Jesus did, he did backwards from the way a normal sinner would conduct himself. Like I say–he was an A-1 grifter. If He was a speculator in the stock market, I’ll bet He would of made a bundle, buyin’ low and selling high, and keeping his cool in a stampeding panic right after the bubble burst.
“Don’t get me wrong–I ain’t disrespecting The Saviour. If He is who He said He was, then that was something holy and divine. But ask yourself, what if the whole story is one of the slickest hoaxes you ever did hear about, like the Cardiff Giant, or George Washington’s Nurse, or the expedition to the Moon? What if Jesus was a Feejee Mermaid made of part mythology and part history? Then what we got here is a classic ‘Big Store’ operation, with all these disciples stumblin’ around and gettin’ each other’s way and acting like Jesus is all holy and hustling the rubes one at a time to sell off all their worldly goods and get on board the Messiah Wagon. Even Judas with the thirty pieces of silver makes sense. He was jealous of ole Jesse and wanted to cut into his racket, and figured 30 shekels would get him a bit of a grubstake. There’s always a snitch in every crowd, and, by the way, I’ve been wonderin’ who the snitch is here at the Seven Stars. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Tipsy?”
But Tipsy Smith was, by now, literally asleep on his feet, and in no condition to provide an intelligent answer–he only mumbled.
“Of course, them Roman Centurions took a dim view of all of this Messianic horseplay–they were the bunko squad of their day, I suppose. But instead of sending Jesse down the river to Joliet, they gave him a thorny crowned headache and hammered him on the cross. And that wasn’t all! Ha! That part about Rolling Away the Stone was real inspired–a bit of conjurin’ genius.” 
Count Victor Justin Smiled complacently and took a long sip of beer and said, “The great Houdini his own self couldn’t of done better.” 

1*SALUTATION

CREEPY MUSIC
 
ALSO SEE:
The 10 Best Songs About Crystal Meth

2*REFERENCE

You’ve Gouda be kidding me: Scientists discover cheese is as addictive as drugs

4*NOVELTY

17 ANIMALS TAKING CARE OF OTHER ANIMALS

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

Ben Carson Is Too Crazy And Completely Unfit To Be President

ALSO SEE:
CREEPY AND WEIRD: BEN CARSON IN 2016

You know the old campaign question: ‘is the candidate someone you’d want to sit down and have a beer with?” Well with Carson, honestly the guy is creepy, I’d ask: “Is the candidate someone you’d let watch your kids?” Trump, yes I would, I may not agree but they would learn a lot. Carson, God no, the guy is creepy and weird.

6* DAILY UTILITY

10 THINGS SOME POOR PEOPLE DO EVERY DAY

7*CARTOON

COMIC BOOK MEMES
Monkey Research Suggests Men Who Catcall Overcompensate For Their Small Balls

10* LAGNIAPPE

WHDH Bozo 1966, for Boston Nostalgists.
Wowie Kazowie! Mr. Lion is a talented artist. 
ALSO SEE:
Gaby,Fofó,Miliki y Fofito

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

 BLAME SATAN

The parallax technique is now laid almost bare. Looking at ACO, the subject openly despises Alex’s self-satisfaction and deceit, but privately delights in his ultimate victory against adversity. On the other hand, under the deft genius of TPV, the subject will surely admire Frady’s good intentions, but secretly want him to fail exactly because his success would at once necessitate the complete collapse of the safe, comforting, and stable system of social slavery and psychic subjugation. A system that positively relies on the widespread acceptance of an apparent paradox—that we are at once solely responsible for our own reality and yet utterly powerless to affect any change in that reality.

 
…This assertion begs the question: what Master? We propose that the answer is written All Over the walls of this tinhorn town, Mystery Babylon, like a signature. It can be found in the single image of a leering cartoon demon in the test montage from TPV, and on a water-tower in Full Metal Jacket that reads, in Vietnamese, “To continuously serve your master, Satan.” It is discovered encrypted in the paintings of William Blake, Da Vinci, and Dali, and in the poesy of Yeats, Jimmy Page, and Shakespeare. It rears its head quite clearly in the rock and roll classic “Sympathy for the Devil.” The same monotone motif rings out like a division bell in world-media throughout the streets and steeples of our times. It is practically redundant these days to even bother to prove this abundant and disturbing truth, yet few connect it to the reality in which they reside from day to day. And it doesn’t matter one whit whether or not this saturnine tormentor called “Satan” is an actual intelligence, or merely a plutocratic programming tool.

He keeps on ticking. Ticking like a charm.

*11A BOOKS READ AND REVIEWED
ALL-NEW X-MEN 6: THE ULTIMATE ADVENTURE. BENDIS. ***
ALL-NEW X-MEN 7: THE UTOPIANS. BENDIS. ***1/2
ARCHIE 1000 PAGE COMICS BLOWOUT. ***
ARCHIE 1000 PAGE COMICS JAMBOREE. **1/2
BATMAN EARTH ONE. VOLUME 2. ***1/2
BATMAN: HARLEY QUINN. ***
BLACK SCIENCE 3. REMENDER. ***1/2
CHILD SOLDIER. HUMPHRIES & CHIKWANINE. ***1/2
DEAD LETTERS 1. SEBELA & VISIONS. ***
EARTH 2. WORLD’S END 1. ***
FABLES 21. HAPPILY EVER AFTER. ****
THE GOLDEN COMPASS. PULLMAN/MELCHIOR. ****
JUSTICE LEAGUE OF AMERICA 1: WORLD’S MOST DANGEROUS. ***1/2
LADY KILLER. JONES & RICH. ***1/2
NO ANGEL. DOBYNS. ***1/2
NOAH. ARONOFSKY. ****
THE JOB. OSBORNE. ***
LOUISE BROOKS: DETECTIVE. GEARY. ***1/2
OUT ON THE WIRE. ABEL. ****1/2
SHE-HULK 2. DISORDERLY CONDUCT. ***1/2
SUPERMAN: THE MEN OF TOMORROW. ***
THOR 2. WHO HOLDS THE HAMMER? ***1/2
TOP 10. MOORE. ****1/2
ULTIMATE SPIDER-MAN 5. (2015). ***1/2
WHITE DEATH. MORRISON & ADLARD.

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
820. Intelligence can make you stupid. Or something. 

THE INFORMATION #860 OCTOBER 30, 2015

THE INFORMATION #860
OCTOBER 30, 2015
Copyright 2015 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com
Prayer is man’s greatest power!–W. Clement Stone

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

“The whole world round is limned with the grifters and the gilt-edged suckers, and then there’s the chaff which nobody much bothers with, and that’s most of us. But it ain’t me. However,” said Count Victor Justin, “as cynical as the grifter class can be, they hold dear certain little superstitions which keep them from being wholly indecent. I don’t mean like a rabbit’s foot or a lucky coin, though plenty of them have something like that. No, I mean that no grifter will ever go out of his way to insult men of religion, or The Church, or God. There’s no percentage in it. It’s simply not a revenue-enhancing proposition. I am dead certain that the very thought of the power of prayer has saved many a grifter from a sucker’s grave. I am hardly ever sick, and that’s because I don’t believe in germs. A man is anely ever as sick as he ‘lows himself tae be; that’s what the old Scotsman used to say. I think there’s more than a morsel of truth in that. The power of belief is a strong one, and it’s strong in everyone, grifter and sucker alike. What’s more; it’s common the world over. Who am I to cast doubt on it? Me–a grifter for whom the power of suggestion is my bread and butter.  

“I believe that God has a sense of humor. And I also believe that He’s laughing very hard at every one of us. Nature red in tooth and claw. What a joke. Of course it is. What better way to torment your creations than to make them just marginally more clever than wild beats–just enough to outwit them. What better way to poke your creatures with a stick than to make a sun that burns them, and winds that lash them, and rain and snow to pelt them? I’ve been around, Yobs, and I’m not too surprised by anything that I see. I am not surprised that men pray. What amazes me is that they don’t pray more. Oh, I’ve seen the power of prayer. We’re all sick little critters, you know, and confession is the Chinese laundry of the soul. And prayer operates as a sort of spiritual laudanum.” 

Count Victor Justin held forth, both fists pounding the bar for emphasis, as he gave forth with his own grifter’s prayer, in a tavern that smelled of stale beer and sweat and fusty smoke.
“Lord, I pray you that if’n you smite me, I am not smitten more than I can bear but, if it be Thine will, and Thou absolutely musteth, then Thou shouldst give me a comfortable lashing all the same, because if I don’t get one, and regular-like, I might get too high and mighty and forget who my friends are. Lord, make me remember to always endeavor to feed a hungry beggar, because one day very soon I might lose hold of my wits and become even as one of they. Lord, if it’s not too much trouble for you, let all my confidence schemes come to fruition, for, verily, I never set out to hurt anybody who can’t afford it. Lord, I would just as soon be your instrument of vengeance as not. Lord, please do not fiddle me or diddle me, or otherwise populate the wide circle of my yobs and abrams with police spies who will grass on me. From the Okrana, the Surete and the Bobbies, Dear Lord, deliver me. By the grace of Saint George, patron saint of those who deal in green goods. The dragon is the suckers, the lance is my wits, and may I always slay the suckers with my wit. Lord, importune the weaker sex to look upon me with favor when I am sore in need of the discreet services of this class. 
“May all my swindles be on the square. May I never dupe a sucker who goes up to his hotel room and blows his brains out with a derringer, antique or otherwise. They can lose their money but do not make them lose their mind. May I never be duped into holy macaroni by the unholy machinations of a scheming widder-woman; may I never plumb keel over from pisened vittles; may I never be caught on the wrong side of a razor, a pigsticker, or random gun play; may I never be so profoundly taken with the fascinations of the game that I neglect to see the danger signs ensuing on too much of a good thing. To wit; a too-agreeable sucker who just mought be a copper; a man who flashes his wad only most of it turns out to be tissue paper; a crying damsel in distress who turns out to be a steerer for a bully ponce; a gaming table which pays out generously to random winners who ain’t any too random at all. From all of these, Dear Good Lord, Pretty Lord, Fine Old Lordie, Deliver me. Let me be, not like like sparrows who pluck grains of wheat from steaming mounds of horseshit, but like the hog who roots from below the ground the priceless truffles for which the gourmands clamor. 
“Lord, you know that I have been tired. Many’s the time I’ve been tempted to use your name in vain. Many’s the time I’ve been tempted to leave off of church going and feeding the collection plate. Many’s the time I’ve even been tempted to put on a priestly collar and collect money to save the benighted souls of blue-gummed Senegambians in far-off Africa–just as an easy racket to tide me over between major scores. But I do not give in to these temptations because…because there’s a still small voice which says, ‘And what if it all turns out to be true and you are caught out in these major peccadillos?’ Better to forego the easy way out and not make any powerful new enemies. Grant this O Lord to Thee I pray.
“Like I said before; a lot of grifters are powerful superstitious; I’m not one of them; you don’t see me totin’ a stickpin in the shape of a horseshoe adorned with green emeralds ner wearing the same black silk cravat–just because once upon a time it proved serviceable, in the course of a lucky strike. I’m not superstitious–but I believe there’s some kind of feeling as wells up in a man with grifter sense when a venture turns out to be ill-omened. That’s all I ever really ask to have. Pray, Lord–deliver it. Amen.”          

1*SALUTATION

LOS SHAKERS
DEJAME IR
2*REFERENCE
THE TEN DRUNKEST PLACES IN MASSACHUSETTS

When you eat meat but hate the meat that you’re eating 
then you’ve surely got, GROUND ROUND
It’s so unnerving when they’re constantly serving
in an eating spot, GROUND ROUND
It may be called a chopped steak, a salisbury or beef patty
No matter what it’s called it’s always overcooked and fatty
What can you do?
Go up to your waiter there, and loudly pound on your table,
stand up on your chair, and shout:
GROUND ROUND, always you’re serving me,
GROUND ROUND, always you’re conning me, 
GROUND ROUND, why must it always be,
GROUND ROUND, Ground Round, ground round…

4*NOVELTY

SILLY CHRISTIAN ROCK ALBUM COVERS
PULP PROPAGANDA
ROY CRANE, GOVERNMENT EMPLOYEE
6* DAILY UTILITY
“DEGENERATE” ART
PATRIOT NEWS II
DEFENDING AMERICA THROUGH KNOWLEDGE
SELECTED EXCERPTS:
PATRIOT NEWS: Read the stories, the proof is overwhelming. Michelle Robinson is a transexual. He was chosen because Obama is a 100% homosexual, as Larry Sinclair, his ex-“lover” in Chicago proved in court in a lawsuit by Obama for slander. The court and judge ruled he was telling the truth, and Obama was lying.

PATRIOT NEWS NOTE: Notice the Pro-Nazi Poster on his wall, the Swiss CIA/Jesuit Red Cross/Bablyonian Pyramid on the back of his outdoor sweater, the twisted sexual paraphernalia, the close proximity to Aspen, Colorado (which is a Swiss CIA Organized Crime Front)and even Denver, Colorado (the Swiss CIA’s official headquarters since 2006), the way he holds his gun downwards as if from heavy brainwashing/practice of executing CIA Finders’ child victims, his obvious insanity and the Satanic Baphomet skull on his wall…not to mention the porn industry connection (and probably set-up by Bush and the CIA, who hated and said he wanted to beat the crap out of), the assassination attempts (marked by giant bullet holes in his windows), the Satanic predator iron vulture sculptures “guarding” his home, his book which claims he was wicked and doomed and his freaking out about the CIA trying to get him killed (which they did eventually do)

“Tiger” first played golf at age 3 on the Bob Hope (Mike Douglas) TV Show (BELOW). Bob Hope is a notorious MK-ULTRA programmer and pedophile CIA sexslave handler. Bob Hope is purported to be what is called a “handler”, something like the puppet master that pulls the strings. He is also reputed to have been a closet pedophile along with George Bush, and actually introduced a three year old Tiger Woods as a golfing prodigy along with his father on the Michael Douglas show back in the day.

10* LAGNIAPPE

‘Handsome’ Putin praised in bizarre Chinese propaganda video

Children invite “Uncle Putin” to visit their nursery and young women literally sing his praises, in a bizarre online propaganda video

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

PIT BULL BUMPER STICKER
They will take away my pit bull when they prize away its cold dead jaws from my half-severed arm.

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
819. THE NEW LIVES OF SUPERMAN

THE INFORMATION #859 OCTOBER 23, 2015

THE INFORMATION #859
OCTOBER 23, 2015
Copyright 2015 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

Women are made to be loved, not understood.–Oscar Wilde

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

“Watch out,” said Count Victor Justin. “Once you begin caving in to the demands of a woman, it never ends there, with just a couple of dresses. Which, after all, she needs. And you need your moll looking sharp. After all, what kind of reflection is it on you if she don’t? But then it gets warmer from there. First, the jewelry. Just a little jewelry, mind you. Earrings, bracelets, necklaces, and other such fripperies. Then: Fancy dinners at swell restaurants. And: ‘Maybe we should buy a horse and carriage.’ These things add up, you know. If it wasn’t for the doxies the grifter wouldn’t have to work so hard. Oh, I’m not saying that all women are p’ison. They have their uses. They’ll hide your swag and weapons for you. And some of them are pretty good at boosting and whoring when a grifter is on his uppers. But for the most part, dames will drag you down and keep you down, or, at the very least, they’ll keep you from being the big-time grifter you know you ought to be. But without a dame, you think, who am I trying to impress? Where’s the use of it? That’s the joke that the Creator plays upon us all. Women need us, but we also need them. Oy! Better maybe you should buy a dog, as they say in vaudeville.  

“All this talk of women might seem quite raw, but it’s the truth as far as I can tell, and I’ve been in the grifting game a long time. Money is a way of keeping score; and the bigger the score, the more she’ll demand of you in the way of little luxuries. Soon it escalates–from simple bangles and hoops to diamonds and furs.” 

“And there’s no getting rid of her. Just try–and first thing you know, she’ll be off to the gendarmes to rat you out, and quicker’n you can say Jack Robinson. And then you’re trapped. Sucker. Maybe you do marry her. Try to retire from the grifting life and go straight with a stake you’ve managed to squirrel away. Good luck. Once you’re in the know, it’s hard to live on the straight and narrow, and be a chump, and suffer all the ensuing tragedies you’re bound to suffer, at the hands of people who are younger and wiser, even though you were once that fellow.

“If only there was some way to manage the business. If only you could say something to her that would guarantee that you will never see ner hear from her again. Other than going to stir. Or croaking. If there’s some kind of magic incantation, I would sure like to hear of it. Most women of my acquaintance, once they got their hooks in you, that’s all she wrote. You can give her a whole long explanation about why you and her can’t be together–she won’t hear of it. Who knows–maybe that’s why there’s so many murders. How else to dispose of a lady who will stick to you like glue? 

“I sometimes think that if there were a way to get out of this life with my dignity intact, then I would take it. But it’s a hard row to hoe. You have to have enough money so you can maintain a certain standard of living, but not so much that people are drawn to the idea of trying to take it all away from you. And how can a grifter stash the ooftish after a big score? You can’t count on banks to keep your plunder safe. Real estate might be a good investment, but it’s no guarantee. Stocks and bonds? Most of the stockbrokers I ever took down were even bigger crooks than me–allus looking for a sure thing–like, something in the way of a crooked horse race. That’s why the wire works best on them.”

“Still, it’s kind of humiliating to realize that elevator operators and shoe shine boys are making more money off’n the stock market than you are. The temptation to speculate is mighty strong; but I never bit.  I was always afraid of putting a foot wrong. Maybe if I had, I would be wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice. More likely, I’d be stony cold broke. Like a horse racer. Or a Riverboat Gambler. Riverboats? Yaas, they were big, some 40 years ago. Now, the youngster here is asking, why should he be interested in stuff that happened 40 years ago. Well, Sonny, if you live to be my age, you will be very interested in remembering back to what things were like when you were a Yob. I still have relatives down south who, every year, send me pecans. Now, this is a nuisance, as they are hard to take from out of the shell. But there’s nothing like fresh Pecans. Maybe that’s the answer. Make a tidy little bundle, then retire down South. It’s paradise, for a Southerner. For a Northerner, it can be a living hell. They’re very suspicious of carpetbaggers, down in them parts. Even 40 years after the fact! And that’s no lie. If you ain’t some kind of kin to them, why, they ain’t got no use for you. That’s the dirty secret of the south, you know. Not race-mixin’, although there’s plenty of that. They even coined a fancy word for it, I believe. Instauration? I disremember. No, the dirty little secret is that everybody down there is practically related to everyone else. And they marry young down there, too. I knew a man who was his own grandfather! Don’t ask me how that works. No, the south is heaven for weather, and hell for people. Seems as though all the nicest people live in the most insalubrious climates. Maybe the perfect place to live would be in a mountain shack in West Virginia, in a place where nobody would ever bother you. But it would get mighty lonesome, after a spell. I hear tell that California is the place to live. I hear they got so many orange groves there that a man need never starve. But that’s sucker bait, for sure. 

“You think a newspaper reporter is cynical? Newsboys ain’t got nothin’ on grifters. I’ll tell the world!” 

1*SALUTATION

BIG YOUTH

DREAD IN A BABYLON

https://youtu.be/qtdVUHRIgwI

2*REFERENCE

CONTRA CONTRA OBAMA

http://www.forwardprogressives.com/debunking-almost-every-republican-lie-against-president-obama/

3*HUMOR

DUMB SCHOOL SIGNS

http://www.brainjet.com/random/9657/17-school-signs-that-will-have-you-worried-for-their-students#slide/0

4*NOVELTY

Pooch on hooch! Man blames dog for drunken driving rap  

http://www.nydailynews.com/news/crime/man-blames-dog-drunk-driving-rap-article-1.2393809

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

7 NEW BREEDS OF DOUCHEBAG

https://www.collegehumor.com/post/6886071/7-new-breeds-of-douchebag

SEE ALSO:

TOP TEN DOUCHEBAG FASHIONS

http://www.askmen.com/top_10/entertainment/top-10-douchebag-fashions.html

ALSO SEE:

STYLE EVOLUTION OF THE DOUCHEBAG

http://fourpins.com/style/style-evolution-of-the-douchebag/

6* DAILY UTILITY

how to form a new religion

http://www.wikihow.com/Form-a-New-Religion

7*CARTOON

ROBERT CRUMB HATES YOU

http://observer.com/2015/10/robert-crumb-hates-you/

8*PRESCRIPTION

MYTHS ABOUT PIT BULLS

http://www.dogsbite.org/dangerous-dogs-pit-bull-myths.php

9*RUMOR PATROL

SCIENTIFIC CONSENSUS: EARTH’S CLIMATE IS WARMING

http://climate.nasa.gov/scientific-consensus/

10* LAGNIAPPE
THE CRAMPS

GARBAGEMAN

https://youtu.be/0N2-jV189Zs

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

SOVIET ACCIDENT PREVENTION POSTERS

http://englishrussia.com/2011/01/15/look-out-soviet-bloody-posters/

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
818. Operation Bumblebee stings psychic medium Chip Coffey

http://web.randi.org/swift/operation-bumblebee-stings-psychic-medium-chip-coffey

THE INFORMATION #858 OCTOBER 16, 2015

THE INFORMATION #858
OCTOBER 16, 2015
Copyright 2015 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

Play interests me very much, but I am not in the position to sacrifice the necessary in the hope of winning the superfluous.–Alexander Pushkin

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

“Talking of gambling,” said Count Victor Justin–as he rolled what was probably the crookedest set of dice ever made against Pappy O’Day, to see who would buy the next drink. “Gambling ain’t the sport of kings. It’s the sport of fools.Why bother with it? Life is a gamble. That’s what I always say. There’s no such thing as luck. Good or bad. Either you got brains, and you know how to use ’em, or you don’t. It’s just that simple. I could show you a hundred ways to cheat at cards. It’s simple if you know how. But you better have twin derringers up your sleeve or somewhere handy, because if you get caught, you’re liable to be shot full of holes like a Swiss cheese.”

Count Victor Justin easily won every throw of the dice. But the joke was on him. Pappy didn’t have any money. Never had. But the Count took it all in his stride.  

“Yea, Bo, Life’s a gamble. Playing little games may be an instinct for some, but being alert and keeping your mind on the game of life is no small matter. You can be walking down the street and some Uglyface Bluto out of nowhere might decide he don’t like your phiz, and the next thing you know, there’s a tag on your toe and you’re chilling on a slab down at the county morgue. And your killer will be there, and he’ll dig your grave for you, and dance on it after hours.

“No, you never know what’s going to happen. Here’s a cute one. Why, I was on the train the other day, and the conductor says to me “Stop that smoking”. I says to him, “I ain’t smoking.” He says, “Well, you got your pipe in your mouth.” And I says to him, “Yeah, and I got my ass in my britches, too–but I ain’t shittin’.” I was lucky he didn’t throw me off the train. But he had a sense of humor. Not all conductors do. Plus, I had greased him earlier with a half-fare that went straight into his pocket. Haw! Ooftish has a way of gentling down the hard-shell cuss. 

“Did you ever notice that the people who want to get you in a friendly game of cards are the very same ones who always end up winning? And did you ever notice that the guy who is losing the contest always beefs about bad sportsmanship? As for gambling, me, I’m neither very good ner very bad at it. I just can’t get excited about it; any of it, is what. Because I never wager more than I can afford to lose. Sometimes I wonder–Why honor gambling debts? They are built on air. Of course, I always pay mine. I got a reputation to maintain. A man who won’t pay his gambling debts is probably ready willing and able to do a lot of other things that you won’t like. Like steal your wife. 

“Naturally, grifters like me, most of us don’t have wives. Unless we are singularly unfortunate. No, if we’re smart, but not too smart, what we have instead is, we have girls. Talk about a losing game. The best grifters of all have cut themselves loose, and are gay cats, and have no need of women, at least, not on a regular basis. The one-oh is the best act, in or out of vaudeville. Let’s face it–after all is said and done, what are they good for? They nag. They whine. They spend your all money. They always need your attention. So you might as well be a pimp. 

“Of course, you could always buy the little lady a doggie because she has a yen for a soft and furry thing that she can cuddle, and so she can indulge her maternal instincts. But that don’t always turn out like it should. You think, ‘O, she has the dog, and, by the Neddy Jingo, I’ll be free to do what I want, which is mostly to hang around in low dives with all my cronies, just like I’m doing now.’ Don’t get too comfortable, Snorky. You think she’ll be the one to walk the dog? You have this vision of her getting all that exercise and developing a set of gams to die for. Nothing can be further from the truth. If there’s a cloud in the sky, you’ll be the one to walk the dog, me fine Bucko. And it won’t be a Coonhound or a Bulldog or any other fine specimen of doghood. It’ll be a poodle or one of them other sissy dogs that you’d be ashamed to be seen with. All of your so-called friends will jeer at you. Your reputation on the street corner will plummet to zero. Come rain, come snow, you’ll be out there walking the pampered cur. You’ll be going to the butcher to buy special cuts of meat for the stinking mutt. And God forbid you should kick the damn dog, or even do so much as step on its paw. She’ll look at you like you just done a murder. Now, life ain’t so easy in your little love nest built for two when Mr. Doggie moves in. 

“But anything’s better than a kid. Oh, the dog won’t distract the empty-headed little Doxy for long. It’ll be ‘When are we going to get married, honey’ and ‘When are you going to make an honest woman of me, huh’ and “God damn it, I want a house with a picket fence where we can raise a family, you low-down rat.” Haw!  If you give her the blow-off, and tell her nix on that line of palaver, well, that’s where the escalation begins. ‘Boo hoo hoo. I’m only a bird in a gilded cage.’ And then she wants dresses, and hats. Pretty clothes so she has ‘something to wear.’ Why? What need does she have for clothes, in the love nest? None. Try telling that to her. Does she listen? Nix. Not a chance. No, she needs new glad-rags so she can swank around the boulevard.

“Bartender,” said Pappy O’Day, “How’s about the house buy another drink?

Tipsy Smith shrugged his shoulders, and poured a beer for each of them.  

1*SALUTATION

PAUL MCCARTNEY

TEMPORARY SECRETARY

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ehqKpPmVcK4&feature=youtu.be

2*REFERENCE

WE’LL HAVE A GAY OLD TIME

http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/HaveAGayOldTime

3*HUMOR

THE WORST STUFF EVER

http://theworststuffever.com/

4*NOVELTY

SPRING-HEELED JACK.

http://john-adcock.blogspot.ca/2015/10/spring-heeled-jack-in-popular-culture.html

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

Nihilistic Password Security Questions
http://www.mcsweeneys.net/articles/nihilistic-password-security-questions

6* DAILY UTILITY

IF THEY MADE ADS FOR THE WORST THINGS EVER

http://www.cracked.com/photoplasty_269_if-they-made-ads-worst-things-ever/

7*CARTOON

25 INAPPROPRIATE CHILDREN’S DRAWINGS

http://www.complex.com/style/2013/03/25-inappropriate-childrens-drawings/ 

8*PRESCRIPTION

BATTLESHIP POTEMKIN: THE ODESSA STEPS

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=laJ_1P-Py2k&feature=share

9*RUMOR PATROL

Creepy, Crazy, and Strange Japanese Toys

http://www.weirdasianews.com/2009/10/31/creepy-crazy-strange-japanese-toys/

10* LAGNIAPPE

SUICIDAL TENDENCIES

INSTITUTIONALIZED

https://youtu.be/LoF_a0-7xVQ

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

CATHOLIC LAFF PARADE

Q: What does the H. in Jesus H. Christ stand for?

A: Hell…because that’s where you’re going.

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.

  1. JEB BUSH HAS 99 PROBLEMS

Jeb Bush is the circus dog of the fat-cats. He has a seizure disorder of unknown ideology. He ought to be rolling in dung and flubbering his bloodless lips in some light and airy room at the funny farm.
http://www.miaminewtimes.com/news/jeb-bush-has-99-problems-seriously-here-they-are-6536986

In 1994 he compared those who practice sodomy (AKA homosexuals) to “polluters, pedophiles, pornographers, drunk drivers, and developers without proper permits.”

Prep school classmates say he was definitely a pot-smoking bully with bad grades.

His son got caught having sex in a car in a parking lot.

Right-wing talk-radio hosts don’t like him.

ALSO SEE:

FAT CHANCE OF BEING PRESIDENT

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-3049983/Fat-chance-president-Jeb-Bush-loses-30lbs-adopting-fashionable-caveman-diet-preparation-anticipated-White-House-run.html

SEE ALSO:

FIVE REASONS WHY REPUBLICANS WON’T NOMINATE JEB BUSH

http://spectator.org/articles/63075/five-reasons-why-republicans-won%E2%80%99t-nominate-jeb-bush

THE INFORMATION #857 OCTOBER 9, 2015

THE INFORMATION #857
OCTOBER 9, 2015
Copyright 2015 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

“Plundering and stealing, cheating and lying, laboring, fighting and loving; taking all we could and returning little, we went our careless and irresponsible ways, with laughter in our hearts and sneers on our lips – as anti-social as hyenas who howled at the changes in the weather.” –Jim Tully

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

“To me,” said Count Victor Justin, “the whole point of life is to make money as easily as you can, preferably without working any too hard, and the joy of life is in spending it all before somebody else gets at it. Consider the ant. Look at how diligently he works–only to get crushed. I’ll tell you something Yob–I  have nothing against hard work, just so long as I’m not the one who has to do it. Let somebody else do the hauling and lifting. I turn up my nose at it. I say that I’d rather starve and get to heaven that way then ever do a stitch of manual labor. They say that in this great country of ourn, nobody has to starve. Ain’t that the truth! I can live for a week from the proceeds of one good wallet drop. All it costs is a five-cent billfold and some shredded newspaper. The ability to swindle is a gift, the power to work an angle or a racket is a blessing, and the love of work means worldly success. Not just dressing fine and eating in fancy dumps, but also moving in exalted circles of society and gaining the respect and admiration of all your peers. Fishing for suckers is more fun than the other type of fishing–you don’t even have to get your feet wet. True–no disappointed fish ever got wise to himself and broke my nose for me. But mishaps of that nature are few and far between. 

“I’ve been lucky that way. The stars were in my favor all along. And I guess I was cut out for the grifting life. Early on, even when I was in school, I was all about figuring out the percentages. I ran away from home–well, really, it was more like I was pushed–and joined the carnival. Hot work, that. And dusty. Lots of standing on your feet all day. But swindling the suckers was a big game–like an all-night session of mumblety-peg. And when you’re a kid, you don’t mind having fun all day and well into the night. All suckers are the same, you know. After awhile you get so you can gauge their reaction to a losing toss within an ace. I don’t even know why people go to carnivals. They’re spectacles for the stupid and gullible. I suppose it beats staring at a mule’s ass. The carnival is OK, if you’ve lost your mind or you never had a mind to start with. But it’s heaven, compared to the circus. 

“By the Great Neddy Jingo, do I ever hate the circus. Circus people are even lower than carnies. No Carny goes out of his way to mistreat an animal, but in the circus that’s all they do. Oh, they’ll prate all day long about how the animals love performing. Of course they do–chimps love riding unicycles just the same way that boons love boxing bare-fisted in exhibition matches, or chopping cotton ’til their hands turn raw. 

“You couldn’t hire me to work in a circus again–not even as a paymaster. Not after what I seen. The circus is Hell. It’s the lowest circle of Hades. The circus music is infantile. The fly-blown candy apples and greasy funnel cakes are nauseating. The antics of the moronic and morbid clowns are geared to please only the dullest intellects. The miserable big cats live penned up in caged squalor when they were once used to roaming free. The filthy and flea-bitten elephants live in chained misery. They ship the pachyderms half-way round the world–for what? For yokels to gawp at while the tender pokes them with a pitchfork or hooks ’em with an ankus. And they chain ’em together in boxcars where they stand ankle-deep in their own shit. Don’t tell me that the circus is any kind of edifying spectacle. I’ve traveled with one; I’ve been behind the scenes; I know better. The circus is a seething cauldron of unrequited love and open rivalry. The Fat Lady is always in love with the Trapeze Artist while the brokenhearted Strong Man fumes; the midget always has a yen for the Lady Equestrienne who laughs at him and is making time with the Ringmaster. The clowns are crazy with drink, and half of them are on the dope. Don’t even get me started on the freaks. You might think they have it plush; but most of ’em ain’t good for much else than being stared at; and when they become a burden they are cut loose with no more compunction than you might use in drowning a sack of kittens. You could almost feel sorry for ’em; but a lot of the time their grouch bags are filled with lucre and many of ’em retire to Florida when they get too old. Pretty much everyone as works in a circus is a freak of one sort or another. That’s why it only comes to town but once a year. Who could stand having a circus going every day? That truly would be The Pit. 

“Me for the wide open spaces. Traveling around; seeing what I can see. You just got to know that you can put your heart and soul into your work, but if you don’t have a sense of perspective, you can lose your true purpose in life and also, sooner rather than later, you’ll lose your ever-loving mind. So many people think that their work is the be all and end all of their existence. That they’re only put on earth to work to line somebody’s pockets. I don’t like to fleece that sort of man. He’s already cheated himself of everything life can offer. It seems unfair to compound the insult. Don’t worry–I’ll do it. But there’s no real joy in doing it, as opposed to taking down the arrogant and the men of power and influence. If I do my job right, I’m long gone before they even know they’ve been euchred. 

“Man is mind. Of this I’m sure. I’m also pretty sure that it’s the only thing that separates us from the brutes. I can train a circus dog to do the fetching and carrying, thank you very much. But finding a man who is amenable to instruction and willing to learn is not as easy as you would think. Most men won’t work extra hard at the grifting game even when it’s very much in their interest to mind their ps and qs. But I love it–mostly because I happen to be good at it. Real good, Yob. 

“Care to roll the dice to see who buys another drink?”     

1*SALUTATION

YOU CANT LOSE-A ME CHOLLY

LEADBELLY

https://youtu.be/NSzzTEtdxfc

2*REFERENCE

STEATOPYGIC VS. CALLIPYGIAN

http://www.blacktalkradionetwork.com/2014/09/21/racism-in-the-dictionary-steatopygia-vs-callipygian/

3*HUMOR

HOW TO SPOT A DOUCHEBAG

https://madconfessionsofaman.wordpress.com/2011/05/29/how-to-spo-a-douche-bag/

DOUCHEBAGUETTES

https://madconfessionsofaman.wordpress.com/2011/06/05/douchebaguettes-they-are-everywhere/

http://www.thepablumpost.com/2012/01/urban-dictionary-brilliance-of-day_30.html

http://www.fwweekly.com/2015/06/01/miss-tipsy-douchebaguette/

4*NOVELTY

PLANKING FAD

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-3030983/The-ultra-competitive-exercise-fad-ruin-health-called-planking-suddenly-sweeping-gyms-Pilates-classes.html

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

Man Uses Raccoon To Start Breathalyzer Equipped Car; Raccoon Then Attacks Driver

http://detroit.cbslocal.com/2015/09/30/man-uses-raccoon-to-start-breathalyzer-equipped-car-raccoon-then-attacks-driver/

6* DAILY UTILITY

THE DANGERS OF MINDFULNESS

http://www.oregonlive.com/living/index.ssf/2015/09/the_dangers_of_mindfulness_ris.html

7*CARTOON

A HISTORY OF ARCHIE CHRISTIAN COMICS

http://generationexploitation.blogspot.com/2006/06/history-of-christian-archi_114951302719460209.html

SEE ALSO

The 12 Craziest Moments From Archie’s Christian Comics

http://comicsalliance.com/archie-christian-comics/

ALSO SEE

The Archie Experiment: Spire Christian Comics

http://80pagegiant.blogspot.com/2011/08/archie-experiment-spire-christian.html

8*PRESCRIPTION

HANSI, THE GIRL WHO LOVED THE SWASTIKA

http://flashbak.com/hansi-the-girl-who-loved-the-swastika-the-full-comic-10700/

9*RUMOR PATROL

LAID BY THE BEST

http://www.snopes.com/photos/risque/yellowpages.asp

10* LAGNIAPPE

LOU REED

http://www.theguardian.com/books/2015/oct/01/notes-from-the-velvet-underground-howard-sounes-dirty-blvd-aidan-levy-review-lou-reed-biography

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

PUNK ROCK IS BULLSHIT

http://www.seattleweekly.com/2013-03-06/music/punk-rock-is-bullshit/

*11A BOOKS REVIEWED

ANT-MAN. SECOND-CHANCE MAN. ***1/2

AQUAMAN 6. MAELSTROM. ***1/2

BLACK SCIENCE 1-2. REMENDER. ***

THE CARTOON INTRODUCTION TO PHILOSOPHY. PATTON & CANNON. ****

CMYK. ***

DAREDEVIL 1. DEVIL AT BAY. WAID. ****

DAREDEVIL 2. WAID. ***

DEADLY CLASS 1-2. REMENDER. ****

DROWNED CITY. BROWN. ***1/2

FICTION 100. 11 ED. PICKERING. ****1/2

FOREVER EVIL. ****

GHETTO BROTHER: WARRIOR TO PEACEMAKER. VOLOJ & AHLERING. ***1/2

GIRL IN DIOR. GOETZINGER. ****

HAWKEYE 4. RIO BRAVO. ***1/2

HELLBOY AND THE B.P.R.D. 1952. MIGNOLA. ***

HIP-HOP FAMILY TREE 3. PISKOR. ****1/2

THE HISTORY OF THE MEDIEVAL WORLD. BAUER. ****

(IN A SENSE) LOST AND FOUND. MURADOV. ****

IN SEARCH OF LOST TIME: SWANN’S WAY: A GRAPHIC NOVEL. PROUST, HEUET, GOLDHAMMER. *****

INJUSTICE: GODS AMONG US. YEAR 2. VOL 2. ****

IF YOU STEAL. JASON. ****

JUST SO HAPPENS. OBATA. ****

JUSTICE LEAGUE 1. ORIGIN. ***1/2

JUSTICE LEAGUE  2. THE VILLAIN’S JOURNEY. ***1/2

JUSTICE LEAGUE 3. THRONE OF ATLANTIS. ***1/2

JUSTICE LEAGUE 4. THE GRID. ***

JUSTICE LEAGUE 5. FOREVER HEROES. ***

LEAF. MA. ****

LOW. REMENDER. ***

LULU ANEW. DAVODEAU. ****

THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF CULT COMICS. ILYA. ***1/2

THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF UNDERCOVER COPS. COPPERWAITE. ***

MARVEL UNIVERSE ANT-MAN DIGEST. **1/2

THE NAMES. MILLIGAN. ****

MILES MORALES THE ULTIMATE SPIDER-MAN ULTIMATE COLLECTION 1. ***1/2

THE OUTSIDE CIRCLE. LABOUCANE-BENSON. **** 

PRISON ISLAND. FRAKES. ***1/2

SNOWDEN. RALL. ****

SPIDER-ISLAND. ***

STEVE JOBS: INSANELY GREAT. HARTLAND. ****

STRANGER AT THE PARTY. LAWRENSON. ****

UNCANNY AVENGERS 4: AVENGE THE EARTH. ***

UNCANNY X-FORCE 1. THE APOCALYPSE SOLUTION. ***

A TREASURY OF VICTORIAN MURDER COMPENDIUM 1. GEARY. ****

A TREASURY OF VICTORIAN MURDER COMPENDIUM 2. GEARY. ****1/2

UNCANNY X-FORCE

UNCANNY X-FORCE 2. DEATHLOK NATION. ***

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
816. Cosby’s Creepy Sex Wisdom

http://www.esquire.com/entertainment/tv/news/a38396/kenan-thompson-bill-cosby-creepy-sex-advice/

MODERN WISDOM NUMBER 204 OCTOBER 2015

MODERN WISDOM: AMERICA’S ONLY HUMOR MAGAZINE
NUMBER 204
OCTOBER 2015
Copyright 2015 Francis DiMenno
dimenno@gmail.com
http://www.dimenno.wordpress.com

  1. MODERN WISDOM PRESENTS: THE MODERN WISDOM DYSLEXICON

GRATUITIES. See Extortion.

HARLEQUINS. Never turn your back on a mean clown with a wooden sword.

IDEOLOGY: Melts in your mind, not in your mouth.

IDEOLOGY: Tomorrow’s fable.

IDEALISM. I wanted to be idealistic but I knew it was doomed to failure.

INFLATION. We’ll whip inflation even if we have to double our production of currency.

ITALIAN MONEY. Italian money is written in Braille so even blind people will know how worthless it is.

JAN AND DEAN. The Beach Boys for retards.

LIBERTARIANS. You…aww, you guys are fucking nuts.

LOBSTER. An overgrown cockroach with claws.

MARRIAGE: Often made in heaven and lived in hell

2, Noir Misfortune Cookies

  1. Satan has rejected your clumsy animal sacrifices.
    402. An alert Copper will spot your homemade dye job.
    403. Sacrificial Goat is now your Full-time Profession.
    404. Your bogus resume has gone straight into the circular file.
    405. Not even a shyster lawyer is anxious to defend you.
    406. The neighbors report that you are neglecting your dog.
    407. Twenty years of wake-and-bake have left you drooling.
    408. Your obsession with Ninjas will get you killed.
    409. What’s eating at your mind? Everyone knows it’s Murder.
    410. Only Mother cares, but watch out for her.
    411. God’s Rule: The Innocent Must Suffer.
    412. Critics deplore your recent work as “Tasteless”.
    413. Your house is constructed on a foundation of sand.
    414. Your excuses reek of premeditation.
    415. Everything is gone but your painful regrets.
    416. It’s the Human Condition–but you are barely even Human.
    417. Black Muslims don’t take kindly to mouthy Skinheads.
    418. The Motorcycle Gang knows you are wearing a wire.
    419. Dogs bark and shy away at your evil face.
    420. Hidden microphones record your jailhouse boasts.
    421. You lurk to overhear their slanders, but you never do.
    422. Your ancestors are all notorious axe murderers.
    423. You can’t even pretend you didn’t mastermind that job.
    424. The Law’s Conclusion: Three Generation of Imbeciles Are Enough.
    425. Forget It: They are tired of your idiotic lies.
    426. Desperation has saturated your ill-fitting clothes.
    427. You Poor Fool–of course you can be hypnotized.
    428. The FBI resents your gossip about the Director.
    429. Cruel men await the chance to do you harm.
    430. Paranoia is not your hobby, but a Way of Life.
    431. They’ll murder you solely for your share of the loot.
    432. Mister, Beware–He has walked 500 miles to kill you.
    433. Mama never loved you and she never will…now.
    434. That sophisticated prostitute will horn in on your racket.
    435. The “diet pills” have turned your brains to oatmeal.
    436. Ether-soaked rags will be found in your trunk.
    437. The darkness you fear most is in your soul.
    438. Sins of omission will prove your downfall.
    439. She will sweep you from her life like a broken toy.
    440. They will list your Cause of Death as “Arrogant Stupidity”.
    441. Racists hate you, and you’re not even Black.
    442. Stop your foolish boasting or they’ll slap you down.
    443. You will grub through restaurant discards like a starving dog.
    444. Your bourgeois classmates complacently condemn you.
    445. Your criminal companions taught you–but not well enough.
    446. Cops claim that cheap slum you peddle is hot merchandise.
    447. You will be nearly pecked to death by angry swans.
    448. “If Only” just won’t cut it, you whining Punk.
    449. You will finally step up, only to get beaten down.
    450. Self appointed “Reformers” are targeting your enterprises.
    451. The Sheriff knows you’re only masquerading as a Preacher.
    452. Nitro is nothing to monkey around with, Gimpy.
    453. “World’s Most Famous Carnival Geek”–nobody envies You!
    454. They do not get “The New Yorker” in prison.
    455. You play like a bookworm and read like an athlete.
    456. You will sell your medals for a slug of rotgut.
    457. You have just enough time to write your Will.
    458. You will finally learn to read and write…in Prison.
    459. No Bandleader wants or needs a junkie Percussionist.
    460. You will squander your lump sum pay-out in Vegas.
    461. The Big Man has no patience for Stupes like you.
    462. You swore you’d never go back. You’ll break that vow.
    463. She is nowhere near as sweet as Tupelo Honey.
    464. Jimmy Crack Corn–the Mob DOES care.
    465. You will become familiar with the smell of hot lead.
    466. The truth will certainly never set YOU free.
    467. They’ll get you in the end–literally.
    468. They know it was a frame-up, but they just don’t care.
    469. Your friendly pusher has tripled the price of your fix.
    470. Poor Fool: One question has been answered; dozens yet remain.
  2. 471. From Day One your lousy attitude has held you back.
  3. 472. Nothing can make it right, though money will be accepted.
    473. The marriage wasn’t legal–you inherit nothing.
    474. Pimp? Sucker, you’re not even a pimple on a pimp’s ass.
    475. Maybe another beating will penetrate your thick skull.
    476. Never let ’em see you sweat–too late for you, Fatty.
    477. New obstacles await, each more deadly than the last.
    478. You will sabotage society, one day at a time.
    479. You will fry, but for the murder you DIDN’T commit.
    480. You loved her. Didn’t you? Loved her…to death.
    481. The Big Man’s cold dead eyes promise dire consequences.
    482. Remember: It’s Lonely at the Top. And Deadly.
    483. The Consigliore strongly recommends your early death.
    484. Listen, Jailbird–You’ve got nothing coming to you.
    485. Dreams die hard. You will die even harder.
    486. Once your father dies, nobody will defend you.
    487. You’ll remain a stranger in this world…and the next.
    488. You will live–and die–by betting on the Ponies.
    489. A hard-luck two-timing Dame will suck you in.
    490. They will find you cutting out paper dolls in Stir.
    491. They will break every one of your itchy trigger fingers.
    492. She hated her Slob Husband; she’ll learn to hate You.
    493. Every one of your hunches will be spectacularly wrong.
    494. If you gotta tell ’em who you are, then you ain’t.
    495. Your “Doctor” thinks the world is 6,000 years old.
    496. Black Despair is not through with you just yet.
    497. You should have changed all your passwords–too late now.
    498. Nonexistent sirens will haunt your sleepless nights.
    499. First you’ll see Red and then you’ll see Black–Forever.
    500. It’s always Darkness, standing before the Don.
  1. THE THREE TRAMPS

Reader, I will be frank. I have often been accused of “thinking too much” by jealous academicians of every stripe. (Of course, they themselves, had been, undoubtedly, accused of much the same “crime”, most likely by men who themselves do not think at all.)

To this accusation I plead guilty. Guilty as charged.

But, if I am guilty, I plead I am guilty merely of an excess of logical vigor in pursuing my

arguments—a certain savage joie de vivre in strangling the arguments of the opposition in the bed where they lay.

If you have gotten this far in my tale, you are obviously a person of intelligence and discernment. I beg you to read on.

Before I proceed, let me lay out the facts as I understand them and explicate them one by one—with, it should go without saying, the impeccable logic which is the hallmark of my profession as well as the firmest instinct of my character.

The evening of Sunday, August 30, was unseasonably hot. Then it began to rain. At that time I was walking my dog in the park some three blocks—four­-tenths of a mile, to be precise—from my home. There were three tramps in the woods. On two earlier occasions, my hound had worried them from their warren. Or so I like to call it.

(You may call it a camp, or shantytown, or hobo “jungle” or other such vulgar term. In fact, you may call them homeless vagabonds or murderous brigands or—ugh–“hikers,”—or, for that matter, whatever you please. I shall continue throughout to refer to them as tramps. For does not the ineffably wise Confucius call upon us to “rectify the language?” )

I shall try to be brief. Here is what happened. On that rainy night these three tramps went their separate ways and attempted to break into three homes. One belonged to an elderly widow who lived two doors from the far side of the park. One belonged to a possessive and territorial brood of Italians three doors from the near side of the park. And one house belonged to me.

May I digress? It occurs to me that the genre known as “science fiction” is not in any way deserving of the term. True science, at least by my definition, seeks to create a way of seeing the world and corrects that world­v ision as new theories crowd out the old. Science fiction does not do this. Nor is “experimental” fiction deserving of the name, for it does not conduct its narrative experiments by any rigid methodology. Let us be frank. Science Fiction is merely boy’s fiction with a technological veneer. Experimental fiction might more properly be called abstract fiction, since it corresponds to that movement in art which eventually supplanted representational and even so­-called “impressionistic” forms—namely, abstract art. Of which, I have little to say. Right wing cranks may despise it, since (and because) it was never meant for such as they. But I find it endlessly fascinating, if often exasperating. Or perhaps because it is so often exasperating.

I mention these facts because the following narrative is, in fact, an attempt to incorporate both science and experimentation (but no, not abstraction) into my account of what happened on that rainy night that three tramps were chased from the park and one of them broke in through the cellar of a home and brutally murdered a helpless and defenseless old woman as she lay asleep—dreaming, no doubt, of her deceased husband and her neglectful kinfolk and the loudmouths and vulgarians who congregate in an endless procession in the park, and perhaps even of the nearby old age home which, if she had sensibly sold her home and entrusted her care instead to their staff of professionally trained attendants, and her safety to the security guards which prowl its dusty parking lot both day and night, she might yet be alive as I write this tale. Yet, if she were alive, I would not be writing this account.

For a tale pertaining to the unsuccessful attempts made by three tramps to break into suburban homes would hold little interest save to dullards. The tale requires murder as the sauce to make the plain fare a more savory one. But furthermore, it is an attempt at a logical reconstruction of events.

For this is a true story. Not “based on a true story”, as the credulous might say. Let me be as plain as I can be. This…is…a…true…story.

First, let us speak of the rain. In the New England of my birth, sudden summer cloudbursts were commonplace, as were torrential rains lasting for hours. More rare were rains of roughly one hour duration. But an exhaustive search (made by myself) of newspaper accounts covering the years 1990­-2000 prove that at least 15 such downpours occurred in this vicinity. That evening was one of them. Furthermore, on that evening, based on my observations, it rained for exactly 63 minutes, from 10:14 to 11:17pm.

Now let us speak of my walk. At 10:13 I had set out from my house and had reached the park perambulating at a brisk pace, accompanied by my hound, at 10:17. By that time the rain had begun. It is my wont to walk the dog for an hour. The veterinarian, Dr. Minimoto, noting that the dog was sluggish and overweight, had recommended three walks of twenty minutes duration, but I preferred four circuits of the park.

Each circuit of the park takes twelve minutes, and each walk to and from my house to and from the park takes roughly four minutes, for an estimated duration of 56 minutes, and an estimated total distance traveled of roughly 3.25 miles. At 10:25, nearing the perigee of circuit one, I heard a ruckus from the house of the Italians. I took no further note of this, thinking it was merely the racket from some unspeakably violent television program of the sort such people are fond of wallowing in. At 10:59, at the apogee of circuit three, I heard a loud banging noise from what I suspect was the house of the widow. On returning from my walk at approximately 11:08, I startled a shabbily dressed man in my back yard who looked as though he was attempting to break into my basement window. I unleashed my hound and he chased the malefactor across our modest yard.

We had inherited from the previous owner of our house a chainlink fence, of the brand name “Cyclone”, which the tramp duly leaped over to escape my hound, leaving behind a shard of cloth which stuck to a triangular point of the fence.

Now perhaps here I should mention the tramps. How do I know there were three? I do not, repeat, do not know that for sure. But somehow, the number three seems right. For I know there was at least one, for I saw his sleeping roll on the first occasion, late in April, when my dog had stumbled across it. On a subsequent occasion, late in June, I heard two loud voices. One was of Tramp One (for so I considered him), and the other was of Tramp Two (for so I now designate him). On a third occasion, early in July, I heard Tramp One talking to another individual, who I designate as Tramp Three.

Whether these three traveled as a unit, and took their evening’s rest as a part of the same triad, I cannot assert. But intuitive logic (which has largely been discredited but to which I still loyally adhere) says it is so.

Surely, no tramp would talk loudly in two different voices in a vain attempt at trapping an alert listener into being deceived that they were hearing two distinct individuals, let alone three. What tramp would be that astute? (I assert that no tramp would do such a thing, any more than I would attempt to palm off a shard of my own clothing as a rag left behind upon a cyclone fence by a fleeing tramp.It is only logical. )

To be sure, I have lost many potential academic appointments whenever the subject of logic has come up. For I have come up with what I believe is an important historiological advance in the study of history. And I have used as my example the logic of the Kennedy assassination. The key to this enigma is the key to all American History. I dare any truly scrupulous historian to deny it.

Yet, rather than an exclusive University endowing me with a chair in the discipline I designate as Logical Historiometrics, I have had, these past five years, to earn my crust teaching (part­time) a course in contemporary history to legions of slack­jawed boobs at a small community college of no repute.

But I am no mere credulous conspiracy theorist. I have, it is true, been a constant patron of the John F. Kennedy Library and Museum archives, practically since it opened its doors. The retired Boston ex­-cops who guard its doors know me by sight. And they like me. Because behind their gruff demeanors they must surely know that I am the friend of all policemen. Even though they try to trap you with their simplistic reductio ad absurdams and their childish good­-cop bad­-cop routines.

Well, I will not be a victim.

Let me assert right now that I am not a conspiracy theorist. I deal solely in facts.

(Of course, speaking of the Kennedy assassination, you are –I hope­­–aware that Oswald was a patsy. In much the same way as myself. But I am getting ahead of my story.)

Sadly, no evidence of the three tramps has been found to bolster my story. But as I understand it, regarding the events of the night of August 30, I must first speak of the possessive Italian family who occupies the house three doors down from the near side of the park. When I was in the habit of walking my hound in the day, as I strode purposely past their bungalow on the way to the park, one of them—let us designate her as The Matriarch—would observe me narrowly from one of the two front windows of the second floor.

One time, when my dog had an accident on their (admittedly) impeccably groomed lawn, the following exchange ensued:

M: Is that nice?

I: It wasn’t me—it was the dog!

M: Why do you let him do that?

I: Madam, it is in a dog’s nature! Is it not in the nature of a scorpion to sting?

With that, she slammed shut the window. I looked about for a tissue or plastic bag to scoop up the steaming dung, but to no avail. I briskly walked to the park to procure one, and upon my return, encountered her hairy, glowering son, arms folded across his chest, surveying me from the opened door of the first floor. Thankfully, he said nothing as I cleaned up the mess left by my importunate hound. I say thankfully, for he was wearing a sleeveless t­-shirt popularly known among the vulgar and slangy as a “wife­beater”. I am sure no productive inputs would have resulted with a dispute with this insufferable Bluto.

I speak next of the old widow who lived on the far side of the park. The constant refrain of this wretched hag was that the neighborhood had gone to the dogs. She meant this quite literally. On any given afternoon she would be seen to walk feebly out to her front yard, sun­blasted and disoriented, seat herself, then peer out at the passerby from the dubious comfort of a flimsy white plastic chair of a type popular among the needlessly thrifty or the actually impecunious. (It should be noted that I myself own such a chair, which I fished—I admit it proudly—gratis, from the sidewalk trash of a slightly more affluent neighborhood.)

The widow spent her days engaging all and sundry in the desultory sort of talk which is the boon and balm of the lonely and old in every locale. Isn’t it a shame, this empty­headed old woman would opine, that the Negroes moved in seven blocks down the road? Isn’t it a shame that people let their dogs leave messes in the park? Would I sign a petition to forbid people from using the park to walk their dogs? (No, Madam, I would not! The first amendment is one of the mainstays of my political philosophy. “Freedom of assembly” was evidently a privilege this crone had long forgotten, if she had ever been taught it in the first place, which I doubt.)

In short, this spiteful (and yet pitiable) old witch spent the balance of her feeble decline afflicting the young and vital with her plaints. Such, I suspect, will be the probable fate of all who refuse to engage in a life of the mind—until it is too late.

I will not speak in any detail of why lately I was wont to walk the hound at the extravagantly late hour of 10 o’clock, save to mention that my brain—occupied in the early evenings by what I conceive of as my unique studies–­­is still quite active at that hour, and I find a long walk soothes my spirit enough to enable my mind to slow down so that I might get to sleep at a decent hour. For my tossing and turning has recently been the bane of my wife’s existence.

I must now speak of my loving wife. She is almost twenty years younger than myself and I will not deny that I love her a great deal. I met her when she was a graduate student and I was an assistant professor just beginning my career at, of all places, an institution vulgarly known as a “business college”. This was shortly before what one might call my fixation upon the Kennedy assassination, when I still had a bright and promising career ahead of me. That she has had to help support me for nearly twenty years while I finished my course of—admittedly self-­imposed—studies has been a bane to her existence, but she has loyally stuck by me. (At least until now.)

Did I mention that she was an exchange student and that English is not her first language and that she was rather thick around the ankles? No matter. This data is irrelevant.

I hope you see that I have covered the background circumstances to the best of my ability. Let me now attempt to reconstruct what I think must have happened on that fateful rainy night. Read quickly, for I may need to call upon your assistance in chasing down and apprehending these three tramps. They are the only ones who can corroborate my story, and, for reasons which you shall see, it is important that I should be believed.

Of course, thanks to the recalcitrance of the police (with whom, hitherto, despite a minor contretemps or two, I have always gotten along famously with,)  these selfsame tramps might very well by now have hopped on a passing freight car, proceeded to the nearest port, and stowed away (perhaps on a “tramp” steamer!).

(The preceding sentence was an attempt at “gallows” humor—a type which (at least) hithertofore I have always found highly distasteful. Forgive me. It shan’t happen again.)

The vengeful tramps, soaked by rain, afraid of my dog (which had harassed them on previous occasions), and resentful of those with warm basements, sought to appropriate (as do the proletariat the world over) the pelf of the bourgeoisie. To achieve this end, they divided their forces. One lazy tramp sought in vain to penetrate the encampment of the Italians. Whether they drove him off or not this tight­-knit clan has refused to confirm. Another tramp proceeded to my home, with the results which I have already related.

What I have thus far failed to mention was that I duly called the police. The following day a rather porcine fellow arrived to “take my report”, as he put it. I gave him the benefit of all my observations, not omitting to mention the ruckus at the home of the Italians or the noise I heard from the widow’s cottage. He gave me his card and told me he would be “in touch”. Whether his rather perfunctory dismissal of my concerns was at that time a source of satisfaction to me I leave for you to guess.

The third tramp—ah. He succeeded in his aim, and, after having broken into the home of the widow, strangled her then fled. No money was taken. It would seem as though he walked out the front door after committing his foul deed.

No word of this murder was reported in the newspapers until the afternoon of Wednesday, September 2. It was at one pm that this selfsame detective appeared at my door telling me he wished to “ask me a few questions.” I repeated my story and he seemed contented. He asked me where I worked and told me he would “stay in touch.” Witness my surprise when, three hours later, a squad car pulled up to my door, two policemen emerged, and I was told I was to be escorted to headquarters to “clarify a few points.” Given the circumstances, only a cad would have declined their request, so I set off to the station with these two ruffians.

I have now been held in their filthy jail for ten hours. I believe they suspect me of complicity in the death of the widow.

Sad to say, I have recently spoken to my wife. It is likely that when I appear before the magistrate, an excessively high bail will be set. My wife has already mentioned that she will not mortgage her home on my behalf. (The house is in her name.) Nor, she says, can she—“she”, note, not “we”­­–afford the services of a bail bondsman.

So all I can do to occupy my time is to write this account and commit as much of it to memory as I can.

Let me ask you—how is it that the Italians, normally so territorial (as I have demonstrated), could have failed to detect an intruder? Is it out of some foolish adherence to the code of Omerta or merely some grudge which they hold against me, that they have failed to confirm my account?

And how is it that (if indeed I am guilty, rather than one of the tramps) no neighbor has come forward to definitively identify me as the culprit?

And why was there no blood on my clothing? Why did I leave no DNA evidence at the scene?

Could I have murdered the woman at 10:59 and made it back to my house nine minutes later—a walk which normally takes at least ELEVEN minutes? Let us assume (as no doubt the detective did) that I ran. Could I have murdered the woman that quickly? Would I not be out of breath when calling the police to report my encounter with the intruder? And what about the telltale scrap left upon my fence? Why has no so­-called detective exhaustively examined it under his microscope?

I conclude that the detectives simply want to solve this case, and care not whether I did it or not.

Otherwise, how could they accuse a man such as myself of this murder? Quo vadis? What was my motive? Cui bono? Are there really “enough holes in my story to drive a truck through,” as one blue­-clad vulgarian facetiously quipped? Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

If I AM guilty, WHY would I call the police? Why?

In my defense I can only continue to assert that such a conclusion is simply not…logical.

  1. THE ANYTOWN “FOUR HUNDRED”
    By “Peanuts” Butler & Arentino Capriccio
    Johnny Aphid
    Mabel Ashleaf
    Quaker Aspen
    Rhoda Azelea
    Spring Azure
    Reuben Baneberry
    Indigo Baptista
    Bay Barnacle
    ‘Gooseneck’ Barnacle
    Hack Barrymore
    Raymond Bat
    Willow Bebb
    Rocky Beeplant
    Service Beery
    Lloyd Bekkfkower
    Perry Bellflower
    Cicily Bellwort
    Barbara Berlot
    Bigeyed Bigg
    Mabel Bigleaf
    Hedge Bindweed
    ‘Smoothie’ Birch
    Wade Bird
    Lotus Birdfoot
    Phoebe Black
    Dolly Blackfish
    Medea Blackfoot
    Bettina Blue
    Melissa Blue
    Arizona Blueeyes
    Phoebe Bobtail
    Sebastian Boccacchio
    Catalina Bogan
    ‘Muskie’ Boggs
    Bernie Brant
    Brewer Brewer
    Celia Brittlebrush
    Daisy Brittlestar
    Scotty Broome
    ‘Booby’ Brown
    ‘Elvis’ Brown
    Lacey Brown
    Sy Buckamore
    Violet Bugloss
    Indigo Bunting
    Lazuli Bunting
    Lark Bunting
    ‘Red’ Cabuse
    Hazel California
    Lily Calla
    Diego Canadensis
    Althea Canvasback
    Gregory Catclaw
    Red Cedar
    Charles Chainfruit
    Salvatore Char
    Buckhorn Cholla
    Teddy Cholla
    Tui Chub
    Charles Chukar
    Sally Chum
    Rosa Chupa
    Justin Chuparosa
    Patience Cinderrake
    Dick Cissel
    ‘Happy’ Clover
    Ling Cod
    Peter Coltsfoot
    ‘Ratty’ Coneflower
    Inga Coot
    Inspector Peer Coot
    Myna Commoner
    T.W.A. Corbie
    D.B. Cormorant
    Pell Cormorant
    Sandy Crane
    Myrtle Crape
    Jack Cravalle
    ‘Whitey’ Crossbill
    ‘Granny’ Crowe
    Ravenna Crowe
    Ad Cunner
    Percy Cunner
    ‘Curly’ Curlew
    Jacob Day
    Pinky Debtford
    Crispus Dock
    Simon Dogwatch
    Cilla Dogwinkle
    Donald Dormouse
    Inga Dove
    Zena Dove
    Allie Dovekie
    Aiken Drumm
    Archie Drumm
    Harley Duck
    Rhoda Dulse
    John Dumpling
    Cally Dunlin
    Dunn Dunlin
    Phoebe East
    Eck Echo
    Newton Eft
    Catherine Egret
    ‘Specs’ Eider
    Tawny Emporer
    Spruce Engelmann
    Nancy Etticoat
    Candace Fairyturn
    ‘Stashe’ Falcoln
    Calvin Fanpalm
    Dell Farmer
    Alex Feltleaf
    Golda Finch
    Saffron Finch
    Micha Finnegan
    Douglas Firman
    Kitty Fisher
    Daisy Fleabane
    Melody Flowers
    Alden Flycatcher
    Ashley Flycatcher
    Dock Foster
    Meg Frigatebird
    Diana Fritillary
    Regis Fritillary
    Vera Fuchs
    Ann Gadwall
    Maura Gannet
    Ana Garganey
    Gemma Gemma
    Mike German
    Adrian Ghostcrab
    B.G. Gnatcatcher
    Kitty Gnatcatcher
    Ellen Godwit
    Bay Goldeneye
    Earl Goldenrod
    Lance Goldenrod
    Chen Goose
    Violet Goshawk
    Wesley Grabe
    ‘Dapple’ Gray
    Katherine Bird Gray
    ‘Goody’ Goodnurse
    Olden Graychurch
    Laura Greasewood
    Earl Grebe
    Rider Greenheron
    Kelp Greenling
    ‘Grandfa’ Grig
    Gregory Griggs
    ‘Pop’ Grosso
    ‘Hoot’ Grouse
    ‘Shorty’ Grouse
    Shad Grunt
    Baccus Guillemot
    Porgie Haden
    Coral Hairstreak
    Gay Hairstreak
    Camille Harebell
    Marsh Harrier
    Sunny Harvester
    Bluto Hawk
    Granola Head
    ‘Snorky’ Headcock
    Barry Hedgehog
    Crispus Hellbender
    Sue Hemlock
    Lou Heron
    Scrabble Hill
    Ann Hinga
    Erna Hirundo
    Skip Hobomok
    Japonica Honeysuckle
    ‘Poppy’ Horn
    ‘Hop’ Hornbeam
    Rufus Hummingbird
    Chichi Ibis
    Crystal Iceplant
    Perry Jaeger
    Jennifer Jenkins
    Josephus Joba
    Porgy Jolthead
    Hoodie Junco
    Sugar Kelp
    Americus Kestral
    B.L. Kittiwake
    Gray Kingbird
    Ruby Kinglet
    Spotty Knapweed
    Bella Labella
    ‘Snapper’ Lane
    Rose Bay Lapland
    ‘Horny’ Lark
    Carolina C. Lavender
    R.C. Leche
    Monte Letus
    Detective L. Limpet
    Aaron Limpkin
    Robert Link
    Woody Littlesatyr
    Lucy Locket
    Foreman Longman 
    Lapland Longspur
    Perry Lupine
    Salvatore Langsam
    Mary Mack
    ‘Man-Mountain’ Mahogany
    Artie Majori
    Ananais Mallard
    Anna Mallard
    Molly Malone
    Chesty Mannikin
    Doug Maple
    Larry Marble
    Jack Margate
    Gar Marplot
    Coty Mayweed
    Marsha Merrygold
    Honey Mesquite
    ‘Wing’ Metalmark
    Arabella Miller
    Vincent Mintery
    Molly Mite
    Lysander Moneywort
    Twofonda Mooney
    Marsh Moorhen
    Susan Moriar
    Elsie Morley
    Ike Morningglory
    ‘Mother’ Mullein
    ‘Muskie’ Muskellunge
    Brass Mustard
    Henry Nettle
    Corey Nighthawk
    Dulcinea Nightshade
    Eugene Nopence
    Jacha Nori
    Clark Nutcracker
    ‘Piggy’ Nuthatch
    Hazel Nutt
    Tanner Oak
    Lily O’Day
    Alice Oldsquaw
    Bryan O’Lynn
    John Onehammer
    Falk Orangetip
    Scott Oriole
    Red Osier
    Pandion Osprey
    Teacher Ovenbird
    Bayard Owl
    Daisy Oxeye
    Harold Parry
    May Partridgeberry
    William Payote
    Margarita Pearl
    ‘Skipper’ Peck 
    ‘Pie’ Perch
    Paul Perot
    Ford Piano
    Lamb Pigweed
    Esau Pike
    Lou Pine
    Jay Pinyon
    Chickasaw Plumm
    Vladimir Podd
    Walter Pollack
    Blossom Popcorn
    Umberto B. Prairiechicken
    Butler Prima
    Willow Ptarmigan
    Fluffy Pussytoes
    Calvin Quayle
    Chris Rabbitbrush
    Oregon Race
    ‘Clapper’ Rail
    Virginia Rail
    Range Ratany
    ‘Affidavit’ Red, Esq.
    Felix Red
    Elder Redberry
    Tristram Redcurrent
    Spry Rednape
    Amy Redstart
    Manley Redwood
    ‘Swordy’ Richlove
    Widow Rockfish
    Rocky Rockweed
    Robert Rowley
    Candace Saltbush
    Tammy Saltcedar
    Sandy Sanderling
    Bart Sandpiper
    ‘Salty’ Sandpiper
    Silver Sauger
    Early Sax
    Janus Schoolmaster
    Blackie Scoter
    ‘Ho-Dad’ Scoter
    Melanie Scoter
    Rose Screwbean
    Claudius Sculpin
    Solomon Seel
    Hickory Shad
    Bobbie Shaftoe
    Hickory Shagbark
    Leonard Shark, R.N.
    Christy Shearwater
    Fulmar Shearwater
    ‘Sooty’ Shearwater
    Archie Sheepshead
    Rose Shiner
    Yarrow Shinleaf
    Ginnie Shoemaker
    Gadwell Shoveller
    Dion Skipper
    Gary Silktassel
    Ellie Silverberry
    Golda Sinkfoil
    Pine Siskin
    Callie Sister
    Thaddeus Smoketree
    Helen Sneezeweed
    Hugh Soaptree
    Carolina Sora
    Brian Sourgum
    Sonny Sowthistle
    Harrison Sparrow
    Savannah Sparrow
    Veronica Speedwell
    Redbeard Sponge
    Varius Sphyrpicus
    Ronnie Spurge
    Vi Squashberry
    Blood Starr
    Uncle Steelhead
    Manny Stilt
    Diana Stingnettle
    ‘Sterno’ Stinkpot
    Hardy Stoneroller
    Bill Storkbill
    Castro Stormpetrel
    Mabel Sugar
    Dainty Sulphur
    Brandy Sundrop
    Helena Sunflower
    Mary Sunshine
    Topher Sunstar
    Barney Swallow
    Clifford Swallow
    Anise Swallowtail
    ‘Pal’ Swallowtail
    Briton Swain
    Lum Swann
    Tundra Swann
    Magnolia Sweetbay
    Rose Sweetbrier
    Myra Sweetgale
    ‘Tex’ Swifttail
    Daisy Tahoka
    Lars Tamarack
    Scarlett Tanager
    Summer Tanager
    Dipsy Teasel
    Anna Teel
    Cinnamon Teel
    Rube Thimbleberry
    Murray Thinbill
    Herman Thrush
    Lance Tickseed
    Thomas Tinker
    Thomas Tittlemouse
    Josh Tree
    Ellie Trogon
    Gil Trout
    Lily Trout
    Percheron Trout
    Daniel Tucker
    Thomas Tucker
    ‘Greasy’ Tumbleweed
    Aster Turbinellis
    Ruddy Turnstone
    Oliver Twisteo
    Dolly Varden
    ‘Creepy’ Verbena
    Urbina Vervain
    Redmond Vireo
    E. Vitonelli
    Wesley Wakerobin
    Chuck Walla
    Dusky Walleye
    Magnolia Warbler
    Palmer Warbler
    Brownie Warmouth
    Manfred Waterjelly
    Louis Waterthrush
    Myrtle Wax
    Bo Waxwing
    Chenille Weed
    Clement Weed
    Bucky Whelk
    Marlon White
    Charles William Widdow
    ‘Buckwheat’ Wilder
    Candace Wilder
    Tim Willet
    Anemone Wood
    ‘Peewee’ Wood
    Harry Woodpecker
    Daisy Wooley
    Mother Wort
    Carol Wren
    Manny Xanita
    Ringo Yellowleg
    Olga Yronwood
    Mo Yucca
    Dave Zebra