MODERN WISDOM NUMBER 208 FEBRUARY 2016

MODERN WISDOM: AMERICA’S ONLY HUMOR MAGAZINE

NUMBER 208
FEBRUARY 2016
Copyright 2016 Francis DiMenno
dimenno@gmail.com
http://www.dimenno.wordpress.com

1. GUNS

I maintain that guns are not the problem. The problem is actually guns in the hands of homicidal maniacs who hear voices saying “Kill kill kill for the love of killing kill for the love of Kali look out black helicopter black helicopter oh Dear Jesus truly these are the end times don’t worry dear Messiah is coming they will take my gun away when they pry it from my cold dead fist I’m not crazy you’re the one who’s crazy, read my file let it flow red river.”

NOIR MISFORTUNE COOKIES

701. The world doesn’t stop for an investigation. But yours does.

702. Your friends are like one big family–the Manson family.

  1. 703. The innocent must also suffer, starting with you.
    704. Problem? Simply ask yourself–What Would Satan Do?
    705. You are not a “boulevardier” but merely a filthy-minded creep.
    706. Your High School guidance counselor was a junkie, like you.
    707. Everyone can hear you scream; nobody gives a damn.
    708. Spanish is the loving tongue; yours is the lying tongue.
    709. Curb your paranoia or something terrible will happen.
    710. Soon the FBI will subpoena your library records.
    711. You are condemned to ceaselessly lament the unchangeable past.
    712. You are the reincarnation of a filthy Egyptian slave.
    713. You will waste your remaining existence tilting at windmills.
    714. You’re a disease for which the police have found a cure.
    715. Your schizophrenia proves Two can live as cheaply as One.
    716. Their appeals to reason are merely a prelude to thuggery.
    717. Everything you do falls under the heading ‘Stupid Alcoholic Tricks’.
    718. You’re God’s little joke–and he has billions of them.
    719. You are not only literally, but figuratively, a Garbage Man.
    720. Your life has been a slaughterhouse of moral integrity.
    721. Now that you mention it, No, You Haven’t Suffered Enough.
    722. You’ve nothing to write home about–because you’re Nothing.
    723. The black helicopters ARE following you–just for fun.
    724. When they call you ‘Sir’, what they really mean is ‘Fatso’.
    725. Your life: You Broke It; Now You Pay For It.
    726. They can see right through your insincere politeness.
    727. You have nothing on your mind–what’s left of it.
    728. God DOES make trash, and you’re the living proof.
    729. You are a slave to errors you will never escape.
    730. They will discuss your humiliation until the end of time.
    731. Your strong pimp hand will soon be paralyzed.
    732. You will step up and be beat down for all eternity.
    733. Growing opium poppies on your property was a big mistake.
    734. Don’t bother saving for retirement–you won’t live that long.
    735. You showed your secret hideout to the wrong “friends”.
    736. That innocent-looking hotel bellboy is a baby-faced detective.
    737. You’ll finally finish that ship in the bottle–in jail.
    738. You’ll fight molestation charges until you begin to doubt yourself.
    739. That jewelry you stole from Grandma is mostly paste.
    740. They will discover human remains near your vacation home.
    741. You just couldn’t turn down that little snort of heroin.
    742. Your new prison pen pal, “Cindy,” is a man.
    743. Those strange flashing lights are not UFOs, but policemen.
    744. They hate you for being Jewish, even though you’re not.
    745. You’ll have your first vacation in five years–in jail.
    746. Your boss will search your desk and find planted narcotics.
    747. That swampland you sold for pennies will gush oil.
    748. Your new gun moll belongs to a sinister cult.
    749. Local children terrorize your son–but he’s 30 years old.
    750. Your spurned secretary is spreading evil rumors about you.
    751. The Big Boss is not amused by your candid jokes.
    752. Police know you’re the last one who saw the missing girl.
    753. Your stolen car alarm was worth far more than your car.
    754. Your neighbor shoots at life-size targets which resemble you.
    755. The Feds will investigate your so-called “modeling agency”.
    756. Anonymous emails accuse you of hideous crimes.
    757. You’ll beg them for your life, then you’ll wish you hadn’t.
    758. People will find your broken face offensive.
    759. You found out new photocopiers are rigged to detect counterfeiting.
    760. They’ll arrest you for breaking into your own home.
    761. That gun your neighbor’s child is pointing is no toy.
    762. Your pension plan–dusty cases of empty soda bottles.
    763. Your neighbor’s meth lab is killing all the songbirds.
    764. You have the heart of a small boy–the police arrest you.
    765. That dark tavern you frequent isn’t nearly dark enough.
    766. You hated leaving her arms, so you cut them off.
    767. Investigative reporters will rummage through your garbage.
    768. One of your personalities will rat out all the other ones.
    769. Clever Hobos will stumble across your cache of hidden loot.
    770. You shouldn’t have drunkenly pissed on that policeman.
    771. That hitchhiker you’ll stop for is a giggling maniac.
    772. You shouldn’t have listened to that barking dog’s lies.
    773. The insulted carnival freaks are plotting a ghastly revenge.
    774. Everybody in the neighborhood has got it in for you.
    775. You are compelled to announce your grandiose plans to passerby.
    776. The neighborhood kiddies call you “Uncle Weirdo.”
    777. Your estranged wife will post your tax returns on the internet.
    778. You’ll get into a gun battle with a man named ‘Deadeye’.
    779. Your wife will learn about your other family in Bermuda.
    780. They’ll never believe your lookalike committed all the crimes.
    781. Your brilliant idea is beginning to yield diminishing returns.
    782. Even hipsters will jeer at your faded leather jacket.
    783. Your hairless child’s school was built on contaminated soil.
    784. You will fail the drug test–too many poppy-seed rolls.
    785. New sword cane? You will stab your own foot.
    786. Your drunken antics offend a spiteful county judge.
    787. Your youngest daughter’s new job? “Erotic massage”.
    788. Your ex-wife bribes your kids to lie to the police.
    789. Health inspectors close down your child’s lemonade stand.
    790. Your kids learn the facts of life from drunken hobos.
    791. Extortion by ethnic gangs will eat up all your profits.
    792. That new identity you adopted will soon be exposed.
    793. Forget going to the cops–you’re already in way too deep.
    794. Milestone! Soon you will be wanted in all 50 states.
    795. Your teenage son is going to need two high-priced lawyers.
    796. Your stolen demo tape’s a hit–no credit for you.
    797. You’ll wake up in a bathtub with a missing kidney.
    798. Your new girlfriend is the wrong side of barely legal.
    799. The police offered you a deal; the D.A. won’t buy it.
    800. Your bravado with the loan shark will soon prove fatal.
  1. I FEEL SO MUCH BETTER WITH A CLEAR HEAD I’M SURE THAT MAYBE SOMEDAY YOU’LL SEE WHAT I MEAN

Ever since I stopped drinking–lessee, it was four years, three months, and…six days ago, I’ve had so much more energy and–waiter!  can you bring me another cup of coffee?–get up and go;  in fact sometimes my wife used to say maybe I ought to get back on the sauce again, because ever since I quit for good I’ve become “unsufferable” she said (I think what she meant was “INsufferable”) and that I “never stopped talking” but you know what I say? I say behind every player there’s a hundred haters and I’ll tell you again that I never felt better in my life but now here’s the sad part, all my sad ole drunken pals say I’m no “fun” anymore, and say all I ever want to talk about is how they’re fucking up their liver and their brain cells but I swear to God I never mentioned it more than once or twice a week because it was my DUTY and besides, they weren’t really my friends anyway, they just loved the funny drunk but that wasn’t me, that was the alcohol. HEY, WHERE’S THAT COFFEE!

Sheesh, you just can’t get any good service anymore these days and HEY! WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO DO TO GET SOME SERVICE AROUND HERE?

Finally! Hey, thanks, I know you’re busy, I appreciate it, I really do. (But we’re all busy, aren’t we? God damn lazy….)

Hyper? Me? Well, maybe, just a wee little bit, but… can’t yuh see?–that’s the OLD me, and that…that’s because about three, three-and-a-half years ago for the very first time since I STARTED drinking I’m back in touch with my true feelings again, I mean most people don’t have the COURAGE to feel their own pain they have to mask it behind something or other but I say it takes a real man to face up to EXCUSE ME THIS COFFEE’S TOO HOT I NEED TWO CREAMS AND THREE SUGARS AND SNAP IT UP WILL YOU?

Thanks, I really do appreciate it.

No, I don’t miss it, not much, I mean I’m not exactly a brain surgeon and I haven’t really studied it very much but clinical trials have shown an increase in the binding sites for dizocilpine in neurons chronically exposed to alcohol. In other words, in layman’s terms, it’s a vicious cycle! And I’ve gotten OFF that train!

You know, it’s really great to wake up in the morning and not have to worry about making it through an entire day with a hangover or where I’m going to get my next drink or the vomit on my shirt, oh now I’m exaggerating a little I was never that bad, except maybe about the vomit part, and I have no problem with social drinkers although studies have shown that even so-called social drinkers who in my opinion are well on their way to becoming full-blown lushes experience brain shrinkage which is why I think so many of those people who say to me, you know, you really should start drinking again or at least not talk so much about it all this while clinking the ice in their cool cool glasses of white wine on a hot summer day and the way the water sort of sweats down the glass? You know? Brain damage. that’s what makes them talk like that, brain damage, pure and simple. More specifically, shrinkage of cortical gray matter, meaning the alcohol has made them unable to tell just how ridiculous they sound to a clear headed individual like HEY, WHERE’S THAT WAITER, I NEED ANOTHER REFILL HERE!

Actually, I, sometimes I feel like saying to them, Hey, if it was heroin or something you wouldn’t be talking like that, like, “You were so much fun back when you were STRUNG OUT ON HEROIN and scrounging in a filthy alley ready to cut somebody’s throat just to get the money for an wonderful fix.” Would you? I mean, why do you think they call it inTOXICation, it’s because it’s toxic, and no, I don’t need to smoke a reefer and mellow up, or out, or whatever, what I tell ’em is listen, what I need to do and what I suggest you do is YO, CHIEF! I’M GROWING A BEARD WAITING FOR THAT COFFEE HERE is feel your own pain. And grow the fuck UP!

What the fuck is that waiter DOING back there? Huffing a dong?

Hey–the Greeks had a word for it. Sapere Aude. “Don’t be a sap.”

But then again…how smart could THEY have been? I mean, I hear they drank an awful lot of wine.

FINALLY! Thanks. Shall we go? Can we have the check please? Thanks. No, I got it. I have lots of money these days. Hey–did you know that booze actually SHRINKS grey matter? Yeah! They  used a 1.5 Tesla GE Signa machine to take MRI brain scans!  I’ve got pictures!

Yeah, me too. Guess we’d both get back to work. Gotta pay that alimony! 

HEY! Nice seein’ ya! We’ll have to do this again sometime…REAL SOON!

  1. THE SEMIOTICS OF FRIENDLY’S
    Friendly’s is the opposite of a sacred space. 

    In its cuisine Friendly’s is like unto a truck stop diner for people who can no longer drive a truck owing to the heebie jeebies, the whim-whams, the screaming habdabs, and/or the inside meemies.

    It is a venue for gluttony almost as sad and creepy as a haunted Howard Johnson’s. Like Hojo’s, and Arby’s, it’s a place that I suspect may well have been purpose-built for people whose youthful idealism was shattered by a tragic love affair and/or some horrendous career setback.

    Perhaps at one time, during the Pleistocene era, it was, in fact, staffed by helpful and cheery waitstaff who shuffled and grinned as they placed the cherry atop the blushing maiden’s hot fudge sundae.

    My theory is that nowadays its superannuated and reechy patrons, recalling those halcyon days, may well continue to patronize the venue under the mistaken apprehension that such gladsome conditions yet prevail.

    However, the staff in Friendly’s is uniformly hostile.

    Not that I blame them.

    What if you worked in a place called Friendly’s and were forced to smile?

    How would you feel?

    I dearly love the law of unintended consequences.

  2. MORE FUN THAN A BARREL OF MONKEYS

“One monkey arouses a great deal of amusement. Two more than double the interest and amusement. If one were to release a barrel full of monkeys, we must suppose that their antics would become hilariously comical.”–Sadie Chezenko

Following the reasoniong of Ms.Chezenko, does not an infinitude of monkeys (given the infinite barrel of the cosmos) imply, then, an infinitude of fun?

So much fun as to become, not hilariously comical, but hideously tragic?

What do captive monkeys have to be happy about anyway? Forced to ride unicycles and smoke cigars while wearing humiliating costumes, and treated, at best, as second-class citizens, by wise men and deep thinkers alike their antics are regarded, not as occasions for jocosity, but as monitory. They are seen, not as gleefully free-wheeling individualists, but as manic-depressive proto-cavemen addicted to banana-flavored pellets and enormously fond of playing handball with their own shit.

A chimp in a circus is like a beatnik at a Nobel prize ceremony. Something is not…quite…right.

I would much rather see a monkey at a Nobel Prize ceremony…and a beatnik in a circus ring.

6. IT WAS A BAD NEIGHBORHOOD

How bad? You see as you cross the border a sketchy concrete bunker bodega with Manga-style graffiti spray-painted on three sides. Behold the barred windows in the front. And the WIC ACCEPTED signs are on prominent display in the flyblown window.

Up the street are torn-up tenement-style houses with broken windows in which the occupants have hung frayed bathtowels on curtain rods in lieu of draperies. Many of these facades feature visible bullet holes. Mattresses are left outside these domiciles and stay there for weeks on end. All the cars parked in front are about 17 years old and held together by bondo and luck. And yet, somehow, many of their owners can afford brand new chrome 22 inch wheels.

You’re driving down the street and the residents cross in front of your car super-slow, on a diagonal bias. They either glare at you or pretend you don’t exist. You will hope for the latter.

When you go to pick up a take-out order, it’s through a bullet-proof plexiglas wall. It’s an Asian restaurant, but french fries are on the menu owing to popular demand. There are many other Asian restaurants that of the All You Can Eat. Note: Never eat in these places, but, if by ill fortune you find you must, never ever eat what they call “Sushi.”  

Thirsty? you’ll have no trouble quenching your thirst. However, you might want to hold your nose. For handwritten signs in all the taverns say: “Rest Rooms for Customer Use Only”. Therefore, people take shits in the alleyway behind the bar. In the parking lot, if you look hard enough, you might find several spent 9mm shell casings. There are also little vials with residues of white powder scattered about.

These little vials, originally sold with a tiny rose inside, are purchased at the local convenience store. On the window of said establishment is a sign: “No hundred dollar bills accepted.” A fat woman sans bra sits on the curb in front of the store, fanning herself with a menu from the Asian take-out joint. 

Meanwhile, ragged children rattle tin cans at the intersection and solicit coins, but for what purpose it is never divulged.

Just down the street, auto parts litter the cracked and weed-strewn parking lot of the local superette, called something like “Price Choppr” or “Food Center”. Plastic shopping bags forlornly hang like ghostly apparitions in the highest branches of the weary overgrown trees. Other mercantile establishments in the timeworn plaza include: a murky drug store, an establishment specializing in the sale of pre-paid cell phones, a discount mattress place, a pawn shop, a check-cashing establishment, a bail bondsman operating out of a storefront, a Rent-A-Center, and an extremely prosperous and heavily fortified structure called something like “Liqr Warehouse”.

If, when you get back into your car, you are foolish enough to slow down to 15 miles per hour and ask some people who are randomly milling about the street how to get back to the freeway they may very well try to haul you out of the car. So don’t do it.

And don’t even get me started on the projects….

  1. PENFORT STREET

It’s three o’clock in the morning, and there’s a baby standing on the corner. 

Don’t worry; it’s a big baby. And it’s a well-lighted street. Corner of Penfort and East.

It’s what the realtors once called “a friendly neighborhood”. Now it’s guard-gated. Residents-only in rows of grim red-brick blocks on rocky dirt and brown scrub grass.

The guard shack black necktie white-shirt ofay is propped on his wooden stool, stomps on his desk.Rattling snores. Dreamland.  

Smoke-widow purple car oozes on by the dozey cracker, scrapes past the crunked-in ankle-high guard rail.

Twin-cam. Front-wheel drive with rear-spoilers; flashing rims. Sugah at the wheel. Big man. Takes up half an elevator. Just knocked over a two-bit bodega, solo. Leaper sweats. Uppers grinding on granite jaw lowers. Those inside meemies. Needs him a drink.

Sugah drinks and fingers and snaps his good luck red wrist string. Drinks. Again. Harder. Needs. Music. Loud. Sugah…got a mean glow on. He cranks the soundtrack.

I’LL CUT A FOOL

Sugah be cool now. Cameras on the lamp-posts.

I’ll cut a fool

Crawling up Penfort Street. Dog moon.

I’ll cut a fool

Wired rozzers prowl on nearby Mount Pleasant. Garbage cans brattle. Tomcats scamper. Scary XXXL rats. Back off, moggies, muy pronto.

The baby’s mother is on the corner telling Sugah she CAN’T get in the car; she’s wearing an ankle monitor. Sugah laughs, says he’ll pay extra. Flashes his show backroll. Tells her to read the number on the money.

I’ll cut a fool

Attracted by a greasy smoldering light, the baby has wandered up Penfort Street and around to the trail back of the row of three-story projects.

Some enterprising small boys have fanned out down from the high dirt trail and are firing the grassy hill. Flames dovetail. Baby drops his teething ring.

I’ll cut a fool

I’ll cut a fool

I’ll cut a fool

And his bitch

Some sixth scene sense kicks in. Sugar guns it and splits.

Sure enough, see: blue lights. Pin-eyed rozzers rump up to the baby mom. And listen: Wailing fire engines. Brushfires burn. Somewhere a hoarse bum hollars stop.

  1. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I was raised on purple prose. My stupid old dad barely farted out word one, but drunken Grandpaw interminably wheezed and yawped like Major fucking Hoople, combining boozy pronunciatos with a cocksure casserole of asseverations and negations. There came a point where I’m sure that even he didn’t know what in hell he was talking about.

I swear to God, the man must have been weaned on a Thesaurus. Alackaday, such anomalous behavior frequently skips a generation, and so I too was accursed with the euphuistic urge to utilize six syllables where simply one would do.

I couldn’t merely refer to “shit”; I had to comment that the aforementioned effluvia constituted “brown monuments to a healthy appetite.”

Nor could I simply boast to my credulous compadres vis a vis my sexual prowess; instead, I would maintain against all logic that intellectuals such as myself exert a peculiar fascination which enables us to create an environment more conducive to pleasurable coitus.

Consequently, I have spent many a long and dark hour between midnight and the dawn essaying to eradicate all trace of sophistic internal bloviation from what should have been my still silent inner voice–in vain.

When but a tot, I displayed all the worst symptoms of a meretricious rhetorician to such a degree that the family matriarchs were appalled–“Jesu Christu! With that mouth of his, he’ll come to no good end!”

O tempora! O mores! Were they but capable of reading here what I cannot help but to regard as my mea culpa, I think they would be wholly affirmed in their portentous plaints. 

  1. AM I VERBOSE?

Am I verbose? Too verbose? Too too verbose? Like, do I talk too much? Remember that quote by Hamlet (or Amleth, as he is more correctly called)? Oh, only now I forgot. It had something to do with “I could an I would…” O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space!

In the 1950s, television shows were rated with a “Mr. Magoo” cartoon as a benchmark. A show rated higher than the animated short had a “High Magoo”. Incidentally, those shorts were a UPA product. Not Disney or Warner’s or Hanna Barbara (founded, icidentally by members of the OSS).

I am more boring than Mr. Magoo.

Sam Goldwyn’s criterion for a bad movie: “Does it make my ass squirm?”

I tend to make people’s ass squirm. Even when they’re standing up.

Every schoolboy, of course, is familiar with the immortal lines:

“Learned Magitian, skild in hidden Artes, 
As well in prior as posterior parts, 
I see thou kennist the secrets of all sorts, 
Of sharpe siringues and salacious sports.” 

But less familiar is the concluding couplet:

Venerall Bubous, Tubers Vicerous,
And Iannes De fisticanckers venomous.

I am, I fear, that fisticanckers venomous.

Perhaps the American philosopher Joe Jones should have the last word:

You talk too much, you worry me to death. You talk too much, you even worry my pet….

  1. STONER HUMOR

Watching humor intended for people who are stoned is like watching a fornicating ball of garter snakes.

Initially, fascinating in a horrible way.

Then, disgusting.

Ultimately, unbearable.

Problem:
1) Too much Bolivian marching powder. 
2) Way too much kind herb.

Admittedly, stoner humor is funnier than:
A glass eating carnival geek in the terminal throes of alcoholic delirium.

But not as funny as:
A Lightning Rod Made of Petrified Shit.  

We speak of stoner humor in the same way that we might fondly ruffle the hair of our idiot nephew. However, we would hardly trust him with the keys to the yacht. 

Some say it’s funny.

Question: Funny as in ugly and trite, or funny as in blinded by the stench of its own sweet brand of flatulence?

Marijuana is narcissism tinder. Cocaine stokes the fire.

Sample monologue:

Uh wow look–an orange!

Dude! That is hilarious! I-it’s the same color as it’s NAME, maan!

Uh wow HEY! Hot Pockets! Dude! That is hilarious! Hot Pockets are INTRINSICALLY funny! You know what else is funny?

BLACKFACE!

Unfortunately, 99 times out of 100, the stoner comic ends up as a quasi-autistic Tom o’ Bedlam who hugs himself while sporadically chanting nah yeah uh the je huh uh huh le from an idiot’s syllabary of gobbledygook, viz:

I was in stand-up…pfft…it was a tough gig, man…pfft…the man in the arena, bashing his head in…pfft…that’s the way to go…pfft…success is another word for sell-out…pfft…pass that joint…huh? What? No more reefer? Fuck this shit! I know you got more! Where is it? Where is it? Where is it? Where is it? Where is it? Where is it? Where is it? Where is it? Where is it? Where is it? Where is it? Where is it? Where is it? Where is it? Where is it? Where is it? Where is it? Where is it? Where is it? Where is it? Where is it? Where is it? Where is it? Where is it? Where is it? Where is it? Where is it?

How I do despise this brand of mush-mouthed dazed-pothead style of showboating. It’s not over our heads; it’s beneath our notice. 

Flibbertigibbet I pray: do not ceaselessly weave your cocksure comic incantations though a fug of cannabis and blather. We do not  benefit from your addled verbal pyrotechnics. They ultimately amount to a damp squib.

  1. DEAD LAUGHTER

    What’s horrifying about laugh tracks is that, until about maybe 30 years ago, they were pretty much all the same–based on laughter captured by primitive recording technology, reproduced by a rudimentary sampler, and manipulated via a soundboard. You just know that toward the end, many of the people whose laughter was being so manipulated were LONG DEAD. So what, in essence, we were listening to was the laughter of GHOSTS. If you really think about it, most of the animals you see in old movies are also long dead. Somehow, this bothers me more than the thought of being haunted by the superannuated hoots and chortles of boneyard fodder. 

  1. THE HIERARCHY OF EVIL

BASELINE: JIMMY BUFFET

JIMMY PAGE
CHARLES MANSON
WALT DISNEY
THE CHURCH OF SATAN
ALEISTER CROWLEY
AYN RAND
ADOLF EICHMANN

LUCIFER
DIANETICS

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​THE INFORMATION #874 FEBRUARY 5, 2016

​THE INFORMATION #874

FEBRUARY 5, 2016
Copyright 2016 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

My mother was the most beautiful woman I ever saw. All I am I owe to my mother. I attribute all my success in life to the moral, intellectual and physical education I received from her.–George Washington

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TEN: PART FIFTY-SIX: KINGDOM COME
Count Victor Justin held court at the Seven Stars, though, strangely, he seemed to be talking less to Pappy O’Day, who didn’t even seem to be paying attention any more, and more to me. Though why he wanted to pontificate in front of a thirteen year old is a solid mystery. Maybe he just had some things he needed to get off his chest. The Count seemed troubled. He was beginning, in these short winter days and long cold nights, to look remarkably seedy. His neat suit was frayed at the elbows, his boutonniere was wilted, and no longer did he wear his fabled derby. Even the white hair on the top of his head was beginning to grow in wild. 

“In spite of what you may think, I don’t hate women. I’m all for women. If they like you, they’ll let you. If they love you, they’ll help. I’m all for women, even though they’re all a bunch of faithless whores. All except for one.” 

“Mater, Mammy, Mama, Mamma Mia–call her what you will, but your Mother is always going to be your best friend. You’re part of her, and she’s a part of you, for always. Face it–Mammy is the only living being on earth who will always forgive you–the only creature on God’s green earth who gives a damn, or is worth a damn, even though sometimes even she has her doubts–as I have mine. I know it was that way with my own dear Mee-Maw. When I think of how ignorant I was as a youngster, and how I caused her pain–it was almost enough to make me want to reform. But I didn’t. Of course.Because even when I was bad, she still seemed to like me. And that made all the difference. 

“Mother is a guilt machine. Better to not tell her about any of your many enterprises, old or new–she’ll only worry. Mother wants only what’s best for you. But let’s face it–she may be an angel, but she’s mostly an ignorant old woman–not well-versed in the ways of the world–much less in the habits of menfolk in their natural milieux–thoroughly credulous–in other words, when it comes to her son, she is a dupe. Sonny Boy can do no wrong. Sonny Boy doesn’t even have a life of his own, as long as she’s concerned. Sonny Boy is always just Dan-Dan-Dandy. Whatever Sonny Boy Wants, Sonny Boy gets. Baby cries; mama buys. 

“Every mother is Doctor Frankenstein–and every father is the angry villagers. 

“And where does Good Old Dad fit into this picture? He mostly doesn’t figure. He is like a lost God–aloof and mostly unseen. Standing alone on a tall cliff. Wind whipping his hair. Craggy profile lit by the setting sun. Once a man has a boy-child, his race is pretty much run. Who needs another old man, cluttering up the landscape? The world has a duty to the future only; not shuffling duffers from the dead and dusty past. Old and cold–truer words were never spoken. Tradition is trash–it’s only what gets in the way. 

“Now, if a man is a jackass, he will be actively conned into the whole nest-building racket. His legacy. Build a house for his son, all that claptrap. I don’t give a fart for none of that. It reminds me of a busy squirrel, running up and down a tree with an autumn leaf in his mouth, the better to feather his nest. And what for? The first strong wind to blow will reduce it to rack and ruin. I say, let the four winds blow.

“Besides, a man who has children is in a mighty tough spot–especially if he cares about the opinion of the world, as every decent man is trained to do. Lucky for me that I had all my most decent impulses beaten out of me–at a young and impressionable age. I ain’t dumb no more! Prison is the best thing that ever happened to me. I met a great crew of like-minded felons–I mean fellows–and we quickly went to work completing my education as a grifter. “Don’t pay nothing for nothing” is the first thing I learned. There are ways to avoid paying for just about anything. Mother would have a fit if she knew; but, then again, I am her son, and I can do no wrong. 

“When circumstances land you in the midst of a bunch of crooks, the only thing to do for it is to rely upon the criminal morality. You might think you’re too good to associate with common criminals, but life will hand you a long ass-kicking, and you’ll change your tune quite soon enough, Yob. 

“Honor among thieves–not so’s you’d notice, but there are certain protocols among the wised-up citizenry that any rapidly aging stripling would do well to remember. 

“First and foremost, it practically goes without saying that you must never peach on another man. Your story is always going to be that you saw nothing, and know even less. Less than nothing–mathematically impossible, but a practical fact here in the practical world of by-your-leave and without specified limits. Because nothing is lower than a rat. 

“Second thing you’ve got to know is that you must always repay a favor. No man has to have to, but you have to. Always. Nothing is free. There is no such thing as the goodness of one’s heart–not even among the holiest of the civilian population, much less among those of us who are with it and for it.

“Another thing you learn in the jailhouse is that you got nothing coming. Everything you get in life is gotten with your own sweat and muscle, whether you use your own or you’re slick enough to hire someone else to do the job for you. It all goes back to doing a man a favor. All things come to those who wait? Bull! Nothing comes to those who wait. Prison is a remarkable example of that. What if you serve twenty years, with two years off for good behavior. All you got is two years of extra freedom, which ain’t free; and most likely you’re a broken-down galoot. You can’t just serve your time; you’ve got to make your time serve you. Make friends. Influential pals who can interest a high-priced shyster lawyer into getting you sprung, or maybe even arrange for a pardon from the Governor. These are the kinds of friends who are far better than a father to a grifter like me. Maybe your father would like to help you; but he’s got his own fish to fry. Besides, if he’s the kind of softy who would lend you a helping hand, then what good is he? It sets a bad example, is what. Bairns need to learn by experience; otherwise, they grow up to be weak fish and sob sisters.

“No; the kinds of pals you meet in the clink are the kinds of eminently respectable citizens who will serve you far better than dear old Mammy, who, on her best day, might be good for a double sawbuck at most. Cold calculus, mayhap–but ask yourself–don’t it have the ring of truth?”

1*SALUTATION

AMY SCHUMER: JOKE THIEF?

http://www.buzzfeed.com/elliewoodward/people-think-amy-schumer-stole-jokes?utm_term=.jfA92wNaAy#.snDBO60R73

2*REFERENCE

INFOGRAPHIC: Analyzing Shakespeare’s Characters

http://electricliterature.com/infographic-analyzing-shakespeares-characters/

ALSO SEE:

The world’s greatest literature reveals multifractals and cascades of consciousness

http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2016/01/160121110913.htm

3*HUMOR

15 AWFUL EXAMPLES OF CHRISTIAN PROPAGANDA

http://www.pleated-jeans.com/2010/05/20/15-awful-examples-of-christian-propagand/

4*NOVELTY

SAMPULATOR

http://sampulator.com/

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

​DON’T BE A SUCKER

1947 ANTI-FASCIST FILM

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=23X14HS4gLk

ALSO SEE:

THE ATOMIC CAFE

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Hm1nRF4Pqc&feature=youtu.be
6* DAILY UTILITY

The 10 most toxic items at Dollar Stores

http://www.sfgate.com/life/article/The-10-most-toxic-items-at-Dollar-Stores-6772250.php

ALSO SEE:

DOLLAR STORE TOOTHPASTE

http://www.snopes.com/inboxer/household/toothpaste.asp

7*CARTOON

TEEN-AGE DOPE SLAVES

seductionofdainnocent.blogspot.com/2011/10/teen-age-dope-slaves-part-1.html
seductionofdainnocent.blogspot.com/2011/10/teen-age-dope-slaves-part-2.html
seductionofdainnocent.blogspot.com/2011/10/teen-age-dope-slaves-part-3.html
seductionofdainnocent.blogspot.com/2011/10/teen-age-dope-slaves-conclusion.html

​​8*PRESCRIPTION

​​DOZIER SCHOOL FOR BOYS​​

http://www.motherjones.com/politics/2014/02/returning-to-dozier-florida-school-for-boys

9*RUMOR PATROL

EXORCIST BANNED/UNRELEASED TRAILER

https://youtu.be/6XuB8DJ0AI8
10* LAGNIAPPE

From “Scalped” to “Thief of Thieves”: The most engrossing crime comics in history

http://www.salon.com/2014/08/03/from_scalped_to_thief_of_thieves_the_most_engrossing_crime_comics_in_history/

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

NEIL DIAMOND

THE POT SMOKER’S SONG

http://dangerousminds.net/comments/the_pot_smokers_song_neil_diamond

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.

833.​ Collapse of marine ecosystems now imminent

http://www.naturalnews.com/052761_marine_ecosystems_ecological_collapse_water_contamination.html

​THE INFORMATION #873 ​ JANUARY 29, 2016

​THE INFORMATION #873

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

Women, can’t live with them, can’t live without them.–Erasmus

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

​One night, Count Victor Justin strode into the Seven Stars and got more lushed-up than was his habit.

Something was apparently preying on his mind, because his speech was more tangled and disorganized than usual. After providing Pappy O’Day with a dose of his usual poison, he began to musingly murmur, almost as if thinking out loud, though his comments proved to be far more pointed than any mere soliloquy.

“‘Ooman is a peculiar beastie–mighty peculiar. Did you ever spy on her–look upon her doings when she think no one is around to spot her? I can guarantee you that within fifteen seconds, the vain little thing will begin primping herself in a mirror, or, for that matter, any bright and shiny surface.  Women are monsters of vanity, and all their actions, howsoever delightful, are directed to that end. See how the little darlings preen? You see it in the wild quite a bit. A crow will strut even in the gutter, and always likes to fly around making a noise. And yet, a crow is good for nothing.

“A woman, at least, is good for one thing.  

“You can always depend upon a woman to pick out and carefully select her mate. And to drop him cold when he no longer serves her purpose. Let’s face facts–men don’t need women. But women need men. Any man will do. We’re all infinitely replaceable, as far as women are concerned. Women are practical that way. All this talk about ‘love’. Let me tell you, Yob: It’s only a crazy man who counts on the fidelity of a woman. Proof being that women need to be courted. You can’t just go at ’em and say you want them, unless you’re talking to a Brum. 

“Where was I?

“O, women are crazy anyhows. Why? Don’t axe me to explain. Who told you that I was an alienist? I’m a grifter, pure and simple. But my theory is this: Women are hard to please. Because all women want a perfect world, and they won’t brook no backsass when you tell ’em ‘taint possible. Oh, a women is mighty cute in her high-pitched, squeaky-voiced wrath! Reminds me of a child, she does. And they always hate it when you answer them back.

“Why must you track dirt onto the floor?”

“That’s what a broom’s for.”

“Why must you track mud into the house?”

“That’s what a mop is for.”

“Why can’t a have a darling grandfather clock like other people?”

“We ain’t like other people. besides, the sun’s right outside the window–there’s your clock.”

“Why can’t we have a maid?”

“Because I’m a grifter, and a grinning Senegambian wench would blab our darkest secrets all over town.”

“Why can’t we have a house?”

“It’s not wise for a grifter to remain rooted to one spot for too long.”

“Why can’t we have a baby?”

“A babby is the last thing we need, what with my having to travel–and you, having bats in your belfry.”

“Oh, Boo Hoo Hoo!”

“Boo Hoo Hoo indeed. Boo Hoo Hoo is their response to everything–the unanswerable argument. They always get what they want by crying–just like a child. Women are a lot like petted dogs. You neglect a lapdog at your peril. When you come home, you’ll see that he’s gotten in the garbage and strewn it across the floor and shredded all the paper. That’s his way of telling you you’re a bad master. Women are much the same. They’re like machinery–if you don’t lubricate ’em properly, they start to squeal. 

“They’re also an awful lot like the Negro. Both are addicted to gaudy displays of fripperies. Stupid looking hats and ugly shoes are their mainstays. Only with women, it’s also the infernal buttons and bows. And corsets. Gad, what a monstrosity a corset is, with all them buckles, Yet women have this slave mentality that enables her to adapt. Same goes for brassieres. 

“Another way the woman is like the Negro: Both are perpetually trying to draw attention to themselves. It wouldn’t be surprising to see one of ’em, bold as daylight, trying to steer a velocipede down a narrow cobblestone street, or shrieking their lungs out from the basket of a hot-air balloon. 

“And there’s another way the woman and the Negro are the same. Both have a finely honed sense of the inappropriate and will cause a scene at the drop of hat. When women feel neglected, they will contrive an argument, just to get you to pay attention to them. And the smaller the offense, the bigger the resulting brouhaha. O, I’ve been places–and I’ve heard the hooty owl, I have. 

“And, like the Negro, or a dog, sometimes you got to beat a woman with a slippery elm club, just to get their attention and to show them their place. Speakin’ of our four-legged friends, they’ll go ga-ga for a lap dog–disgusting is the word for how they do it. Kissing them on the mouth and all. Showing them the affection that properly belongs to the man. And, of course, it’s always the man who has to walk the beast. Imagine how he feels, walking down the street with a sissy-dog in tow, with all the neighborhood urchins letting out guffaws and the cop on the beat trying and failing to hide a snicker. 

“Another trouble with a woman is that you always have to be patting her on the back, or again she’ll make with the Boo Hoo Hoo. And, furthermore, once she gets her hooks into you, then that’s all she wrote. Like most weaklings, women have an inordinate sense of their own importance. Feelings, it’s always about feelings with them. Feelings which, to be perfectly frank, I would be personally very happy to do without. 

​”I firmly believe that women shouldn’t go to school. They already have enough of an advantage over men, without giving them the wherewithal to read and write and cipher to the rule of three. ​Too much book-learnin ruins a man’s shootin’ eye, and makes a woman crazy. I firmly believe that.”

He paused to order another drink, then concluded.

“Wife is a mystery like no mother”​

1*SALUTATION

​THE CLASH

CLAMPDOWN (LIVE 1980)

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

2*REFERENCE

​THE SMART SET MAGAZINE

http://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/008881616

3*HUMOR

​FAIRY TALE ORIGINS

http://www.bbc.com/news/uk-35358487

4*NOVELTY

​Higher Dimensional Vs. Lower Dimensional Drugs

http://disinfo.com/2016/01/higher-dimensional-vs-lower-dimensional-drugs/

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

​PLEASE SHUT UP: WHY SELF-PROMOTION AS AN AUTHOR DOESN’T WORK

http://www.whimsydark.com/blog/2015/4/13/please-shut-up-why-self-promotion-as-an-author-doesnt-work

6* DAILY UTILITY

​THE STRANGE LIFE OF Q-TIPS

https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/wonk/wp/2016/01/20/we-have-a-q-tips-problem/?postshare=9281453313337668&tid=ss_fb

7*CARTOON

​”FREEDOM KIDS” AT TRUMP RALLY

http://www.motherjones.com/mojo/2016/01/freedom-girls-donald-trump-rally

8*PRESCRIPTION

​TEN HIGH-PAYING DIRTY JOBS

http://money.howstuffworks.com/10-high-paying-dirty-job.htm/printable

9*RUMOR PATROL

​Jeb Bush’s Donors Are Giving Him Money Out of Pity

http://www.vanityfair.com/news/2016/01/jeb-bush-donors-leaving

10* LAGNIAPPE

​PHILIP GLASS

SYMPHONY NUMBER FOUR

‘HEROES”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3TZsW99Vw_U&list=PLTUlTwlsdlFTGaOSuJfZGw82ySkas60me

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

“Has the world known a greater horror than what it witnessed on Tuesday when Sarah Palin endorsed Donald Trump for president of the United States? I don’t mean physical horror, like murders, genocide or sexual violence. I mean lingering existential dread, the kind of sick feeling that burns the inside of your stomach like you just drank a pint glass full of battery acid. We looked directly into the eternal abyss and were left forever changed by it.”​ –Dave Schilling, in The Guardian ​

​​RANDOM SARAH PALIN QUOTE GENERATOR

http://godammit.com/palin/

​ALSO SEE:

​AUTOMATIC SARAH PALIN SPEECH GENERATOR

http://liberalbias.com/auto-palin/

​CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
832.​ LIFE/DEATH

“Leaflet prepared for the Allies; “Life / Death”. “Life / Death”. Leaflet number AI-150-10-44-F. The “AI” indicates this leaflet is from Propaganda Abschnitts Offizer Italien, for use on the Allies fighting their way up the boot of Italy in 1944-1945. A nude woman (in a parody of Life magazine) gets the soldier’s attention, and on the back is a Skull / Deaths-Head in a British helmet; giving the soldiers something a) to live for (sex) while b) showing them what to expect (death). One of the most popular leaflet series, for obvious reasons.”

https://germanpostalhistory.com/php/searchviewpage.php?country_spec=Topical.Transportation.Rocket&pageitems=300&pagenum=0&orderby=5&invstatus=SO&

THE INFORMATION #872 JANUARY 22, 2016

THE INFORMATION #872
JANUARY 22, 2016
Copyright 2016 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

If you want something said, ask a man; if you want something done, ask a woman.–Margaret Thatcher

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

After a few days respite, Count Victor Justin returned to his old stomping grounds, in fine fettle, if somewhat the worse for wear. As outside the winter winds blew and as he sat inside the Seven Stars Saloon, ordering round after round and growing progressively more foozled, his talk turned to the ways and wiles of the fairer sex, and then and there he revealed some very interesting information. “I find that nine times out of ten, and them’s good odds, that Womenfolk, if folk they be,  are only in it for the main chance. Once they’ve managed to snag a Yellof, it’s Katy Bar the Door, because that’s all she wrote. Men are capable of being truly attached to a Brum, because men are stupid that way. They confuse feeling good for an era of good feelings. That is far from the case. Women unsheathe their claws just as soon as the trap snaps closed on the hapless Yob’s foot. I should know; I’ve been married several times to several little ladies, sometimes all at the same time. It’s easy to kid them along. Just say “I Love You,” followed by “Marry Me.” ‘Like a choim, it woiks.’ But who’s kidding who? They snag you with a soft voice and a honeyed glance; sometimes the wenches even have the nerve to sing to you. But, all too soon, she’ll have you dancing to her tune like a chicken on a hot plate. Oh! Shiver me timbers! Next, she’ll be feeding you worms. ‘For better or for worse.’ Far worse. ‘Not richer in money, but richer in love.’ Haw!  
 
“There are certain progressive types as say that women should get the vote and should be able to smoke cigarettes and order a drink in a low saloon, just like a man, and although I have never turned down a look at a shapely ankle, I say such ideas are heretical nonsense. Not that the world will end, or anything like that.
 
“But do we really want a Tottie with her tainted Bumbo mooching about, ruining all our favorite haunts with her dainty nonsense and the smell of fish?? I’ll be the one to say what nobody else is willing to say: Women are a certified pain to be around.  I can see nothing good about allowing women to vote. What will become of us if we are forced to follow her edicts de jure as well as de facto? Children will be raised upon a throne, at the expense of menfolk. More schools will be built, to supply the needs of many more babies which will be born if women are allowed their own head of steam. The unthinkable might even happen, and within our lifetime–a woman President; something guaranteed to overturn the natural laws of God, His Own Self. Not that I put much stock in the mumbled prevarications of so-called Men of God. But change is never a comfortable proposition, and men will have to get used to doing a great many things differently if women are allowed full equality with the menfolk. Harlots and nice cherries alike will more fully harness what is already their natural advantage–the bottomless pit–and exploit and comfoozle men even further, if only we give them the power. 
 
“Human nature being what it is, there are certain poor ninnies and burly sissy-men who would welcome this state of affairs; they hanker after being dictated to by a hard-charging she-male; I don’t long to be in that number. Certain fainthearted chuckleheads are already in physical fear of their womenfolk. Now, imagine if we give such manly creatures the vote. Mark my words–they will commence to wearing slacks and derby hats, and smoking big cigars, and working in firehouses. Next thing you know, they’ll even want to drive automobiles and chew tobacco. We’ll have women priests in the churches, and truly that will be the the church of the end of time. We’ll have women police in the streets, and maybe even women soldiers with runs in their stockings. There will be lady barbers who take over the men’s barber shop and introduce all sorts of fripperies, like curling irons and perfumey-water. There will be women strongmen lifting pink barbells and bending powder-blue steel rods into the shape of hearts. Women will make whores of MEN! There will be women chefs and women newspaper editors, woman bartenders, and, God help us, even Lady grifters taking part in the old shell game. Women gangsters will terrorize the street with lady-sized pistols, and women robbers with dainty handkerchiefs over their mouths will rob banks on payroll day. Lady jailbirds will hatch escape schemes and take lady prison guards hostage. O, Bedlam! Ladies will grow beards and mustaches, and stay up late at nights savoring fine old brandy and reading The Police Gazette. O, murder! Picture an ape sitting in a train station, reading The Wall Street Journal! Ladies will go in for high finance, and invest in stocks and bonds–costume jewelry, cosmetics and shoe manufacturers will skyrocket in value, and prices will fluctuate according to the “time of month”. Shrewd investors will note the phases of the moon and the movement of the tides, and invest accordingly. Put women in charge of all the money, and the next thing you know, they’ll spend it all on useless gew-gaws like frilly curtains and newfangled electric stoves. 
“Why? Because women are frivolous; like children. Their whole orientation is toward children and their playthings. toys. They have diminutive brains, and single-minded mentalities. Put them in charge of manly affairs, and you’ll end up with an unholy mess. 99 times out of 100, a woman is far better off being either an old man’s darling or a young man’s slave. I say that so-called Ladies ought to be grateful for any attention we bestow upon them, short of whipping. It sounds brutal; but I am a manly man, and such frankness is to be expected of me. O, I am not one of those people who take the distilled wisdom of the ages and misuse it in a misplaced effort to be regarded as controversial. But let’s face facts. Women have always been subservient, because that’s the way they were meant to be. The Bible says it; but it’s also written in the book of common sense. There ought to be a law. Women have to stay at home.  
“Mainly because looking after bairns is no proper work for a real man. Our role is to go out there and stick our dingus into anything that gives.” 
1*SALUTATION
SPIKE JONES
HAPPY NEW YEAR
 
2*REFERENCE
WHO CONTROLS AMERICA?
15 THINGS ECONOMICS BOOKS DON’T TELL YOU
WHAT WOULD IT TAKE TO FLIP STATES IN THE 2016 ELECTION?
GROCERY STORE SAVINGS
7*CARTOON
8*PRESCRIPTION

Haters and Losers: A Gallery of 2015’s Most Wild-Eyed Donald Trump Fanatics

DEVIL MUSIC: A HISTORY OF THE OCCULT IN ROCK AND ROLL
http://disinfo.com/2016/01/devil-music-a-history-of-the-occult-in-rock-roll/

10* LAGNIAPPE

DAVID BOWIE
HUNKY DORY
ALSO SEE:
FAREWELL DAVID BOWIE: HIS 100 GREATEST SONGS
SEE ALSO:
BOWIE ON BOWIE
BY JIM SULLIVAN

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

JOE E. ROSS: THE KING OF SLOBS
http://blog.wfmu.org/freeform/2011/01/king-of-slobs.html

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
831. Being Less Crazy Than Donald Trump Does Not Make Marco Rubio ‘Moderate’

THE INFORMATION #871 JANUARY 15, 2016

THE INFORMATION #871
JANUARY 15, 2016
Copyright 2016 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com
 
It’s an incredible con job when you think about it, to believe something now in exchange for something after death. Even corporations with their reward systems don’t try to make it posthumous.–Gloria Steinem

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

“Happy New Year,” mused Count Victor Justin. “Ever ask yourself what’s so happy about it? I’m sure if you looked deep into your heart, you’d find that the answer is ‘Nothing’. It’s cold and dark and snow and ice is everywhere. Bums are freezing, horses are dying in their traces, birds are plummeting from the sky, there’s rats in the barn, and just try and get a doctor to come to your house. No,” he said, ruminating, “No happiness here.” he snorted. “But I’ll bet you think that maybe I ought to quit smackin’ me gums and get to the point.”
 
“The older I get,” said Count Victor Justin, “the more I seem to realize that people in the mass are actually little more than a bunch of superstitious cave-dwellers. They think they’ll consistently win money at horse racing and the stock market by gambling against professionals who make it their business to profit from the gullibility of ‘The Peepul’. The number of Yobs who think they can beat the professionals at their own game is overwhelming. Good thing, too; it’s what keeps us in business. I’ve had suckers we thoroughly fleeced of every penny once actually come back and say that they were very sorry that the gimmick didn’t work out for us the first time, and could they try again? There’s a name for such invulnerable stupidity, but I have yet to contrive it. Vapidity doesn’t quite convey the sheer bullheadedness involved; doltishness implies a certain helplessness which just isn’t present in the make-up of these hard-charging dupes; cracked would seem to cover it, only there’s always a certain amount of misplaced shrewdness in even the looniest sucker. What makes people so crazy to drop money on a ‘sure thing’? When there’s no such thing? And yet, there’s always some chump who is ready to swallow whole even the most preposterous cock-and-bull story. Why? I blame the whole emphasis on mammon. That’s all you hear people talking about–on the horse-drawn trolley; in the smoking car of the train; in the parlors and hotel waiting rooms and doctors’ offices–money. Bla Bla bla return on investment. Bla bla bla bonds. Bla bla bla he took a beating in the market. Bla bla bla futures. Money. How to get it; what a misfortune it is to lose it; who’s got it and who ain’t; how to get hold of some quickly; how to get rich quick. To make matters worse, we assume that any reputable-looking gent has got the ochre to stand a loss. That’s not always strictly the case, as I have discovered to my palpable regret. Sometimes we play a short con on a chump who hasn’t got two dimes to rub together. That’s the kind of yellof we always cut loose, because the day is too short to waste on fleecing paupers. Unlike some of our banking and retail establishments, which seem to delight in taking money from the poor in the form of outrageous ‘fees’. Me, I’d sooner find a fly in my soup than flim-flam a mark who ain’t got no yaller boys. As you know, I am not a godly man–but there has to be a limit to the bad which one can do. I don’t rob soldiers, or steal money from mailboxes; nor do I go out of the way to swindle the blind. No; my best targets are people who are both ignorant and vain. Strangely enough, if they are Godless men they are skeptical, and hard to convince, though since they think they know better than everybody else, the agnostics can be got to eventually. And if they happen to be extraordinarily devout, they are also difficult to cheat. They fix onto God as their pilot, and won’t hear of any dishonest flummery. Them’s the ones who pose the real challenge to a grifter’s ingenuity. You’ve got to work those yahoos extra hard; but once you get them, they’ll stick to you come hell or water high. 
 
“Usually, the way you snare the Holy Joes is by pretending to be just as humble and unassuming as they are when it comes to religious matters. Put aside the lucky horseshoe tie-pin and show off a silver cross; discreetly mention your good work for “The Missions” and interject the name of the Lord into every possible crevice of the conversation. Even when mopping your brow with a starched handkerchief. And you’ve got to be clean. Even to the point of stinking like soap. Yardley’s is good for that purpose. That stuff will have you reeking to high heaven if you apply it with sufficient vigor. I noticed that old George the Pullman Porter on the 20th Century Limited uses nothing else but. He fairly reeks of it. You can smell him coming from the other end of a rail car. You think being a grifter is all beer and skittles? No Yob; and I’ve found that it pays off to notice things like that.   
 
“‘Do not tempt the Lord thy God.’ Haw! If God were even capable of being tempted, I’m sure that first and foremost he’d be tempted to smite all those people who invoke his name so loudly and with such fervor, such as that there Reverend Cross, who I notice hasn’t been coming around so much after the Bully of Blowtown threatened him with a spanking. Forget politics; forget who’s in charge; forget even God; verily, the prospect of a good arse-kicking clarifies the mind in a most wonderous fashion.


“Aye–and, speaking of temptation, I don’t plan to quit any of my bad habits for the New Year. By the blood of creeping Christ, my bad habits are the only thing that are keeping me alive. You young folks might do well to remember that an old man doesn’t have too many consolations, and that what’s fun for the young is a necessity for the old. What is this foolishness of considering the New Year as any kind of a new start? A good old cup of kindness will do for me. I revel in it. Why not? The frothiness of a cold beer; the mellowness of some good red wine, and the jolt of a jigger of raw whiskey–and all is right with the world. Peace–peace and quiet is what we long for–none of this flutter fuzz and flabberdegaz.

“After all–what is death? Especially around here…where they’ll rob you for a wooden nickel and murderize you for a lousy silver dime.” 
 
1*SALUTATION
XTC 
BEATING OF HEARTS
 
2*REFERENCE
ALL STORIES ARE THE SAME
 
ALSO SEE:
AARNE-THOMPSON CLASSIFICATION SYSTEMS
 
THE 37 BASIC PLOTS
 
WHY STORY-STRUCTURE FORMULAS DON’T WORK
THE GREATEST FAKE RELIGION OF ALL TIME

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

21 Annoying Facebook Status Updates That Need to STOP

FUN IN BALLOON LAND (1965)
SCOTT SHAW
THE BEDROCK CHRONICLES: THE EVOLUTION OF THE FLINTSTONES

Code Words For “Sexually Active” In Classic Films

 
ALSO SEE:

Code Words For “Gay” In Classic Films

http://the-toast.net/2015/05/22/code-words-for-gay-in-classic-films/

10* LAGNIAPPE

Daddy Dewdrop
Chick-A-Boom (Don’t Ya Jes’ Love It)


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

500-Pound Pig Rumored to Eat Humans Evicted

Reminds me of the Trump candidacy.
http://patch.com/michigan/royaloak/s/f2kmo/500-pound-pig-rumored-to-eat-humans-evicted

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
830. THE FIVE CRAZIEST PEOPLE ON THE INTERNET