THE INFORMATION #900 AUGUST 5, 2016

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

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE

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

6* DAILY UTILITY

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

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

859. AMATEUR MEMOIRS

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

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MODERN WISDOM NUMBER 214 AUGUST 2016

MODERN WISDOM: AMERICA’S ONLY HUMOR MAGAZINE

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

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

Hitler: World’s most famous vegetarian.

Jesus: Messiah with the purtiest mouth.

Seven: Most charismatic number.

Velcro: Most functional fastener in the universe.

E = Mc2: Sexiest equation.

Icebergs: Most obvuious threat to the Merchant marine.

Ben Gay: Most unfortunately named topical ointment.

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

April: Cruelest month.

Nonsensical Hyperboles: most meaningless form of rhetoric.

 

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

Godfather–can I sit?

Can I speak?

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

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

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

It’s a terrible thing, a terrible thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They are animals.

Animals.

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

And so this is the favor I ask of you.

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

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

Forgive my levity, Godfather.

I wish you many happy returns of the day.

 
3. LETTER TO AN INCOMPETENT SECRETARY


Dear Fucky McFuck:

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

Very sincerely,

 
 
4. NAMES FOR COUNTY & WESTERN BANDS

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

 
5. MORE NAMES FOR COUNTRY AND WESTERN BANDS

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

 
6. THE TIRED MAN


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


According to them, it went down roughly like this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ever find that skel?” said beefy Mattingly.

“Which one?” said skinny O’Shea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Freshen her up?” he said to the kid.

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

The Bartender thought a moment, then replied.

“No.”

He made a serious frown.

“NO.”

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

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

THE INFORMATION #899 JULY 29, 2016

THE INFORMATION #899

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

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

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE

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

MANSPREADING

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
NUTRITION BS AT THE RNC

 

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

858. MIND KONTROL TOP 75

SHANTY TRAMP, “Ass In Pocket”

FIVE CENT TZAR, “The Very Special Episode”

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

LADY OF PAIN, “J’Adore”

JEHOVAH VACUUM CLEANER, “Dance Floor Shiny Under Junkies”

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

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

REVEREND DEVILLE, “Stinkfinga”

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

PRESIDENT CORNBALL & HIS ADMINISTRATION, “Conspiracy Dogs”

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

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

MR. BLOWJANGLES, “Sign of the Breast”

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

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

PITBULL DEFENDERS, “We Make ‘Em Die “

SMASH UGLY, “Midget Down”

JOEY HEROIN, “Mr. Heroin Nerves”

FIRM BUT FAIR, “Satan’s Cheerleader”

ROBOT SPYMASTER, “Normal Sadness”

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

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

THIS MAJESTIKAL ROOF, “With An LSD Girlfriend”

BLIND BEHEMOTH, “Ha Ha You Are a Slave”

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

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

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

GOLD TOOTH FATTY, “Busy With Those Reefers”

THE BLOOD SURFERS, “Mr. Atomic Fireball”

TOOTHBREAKER, “Let Me Look Through Your Purse”

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

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

THE CARNY ELITE, “Daddy’s Scratchy Face”

SOME DICKHEAD ACADEMIC, “The Lineaments of Gratified Desire”

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

BOLSHEVIK EXPROPRIATORS CLUB, “Tender Effusions of Laxative Woodcocks”

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

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

183 DIFFERENT BOZOS, “The Freeway Is Our Ashtray”

CELEBRITY KILLERS, “Our Religion Is Love”

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

THE THIRSTY GIANTS, “(Theme From) Godsmell”

BULLETPROOF WITCH, “Acid Dog”

DAGGER STAB LEGEND, “Zip-a-Dee-Dada”

THE ALCOHOLIC BEARS, “Let Unconquerable Gladness Dwell”

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

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

WHISTLING FACE SYNDROME, “A Rage to Die”

SCREAMING MONKEY HEAD, “Pimp and Circumstance”

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

DSM-IV, “The Colour of God”

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

I GOT A HARD, “Tubular Smells”

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

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

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

THE FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTHS—“The Reason”

TRIPPY DINOSAUR–“The Fairy and the Zephyr”

THE SUNSHINE HIPSTERS—“Fun is Fun”

THE WHITE BEARDS—“Mr. Captain”

GENTLE BEN–“I Love Unicorns”

THE MARTYRS–“Life is Gray”

THE 8-TEENS–“It’s All About Me”

THE SATANIC ROCKETS–“Napalm Conspiracy”

THE SPRINGTIMES–“Ride the Chopper”

THE SONIC BOOM—“Ready to Rock”

THE WAY COOL—“One Two”

THE FAMILY GARAGE–“Um…”

THE PRETEND–“Money for Rope”

MOLDY FIG & THE JAZZ REVIVAL –“Desusifunido”

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

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

THE BLACK BEARDS—“Making Cowboy Love”

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

PERPETUAL RAIN–“Funny Ha Ha Ha”

THE INFORMATION #898 JULY 22, 2016

THE INFORMATION #898

JULY 22, 2016
Copyright 2016 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

 
Ah, the patter of little feet around the house. –W. C. Fields
WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE

BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TEN: PART EIGHTY: KINGDOM COME
Count Victor Justin stood in the Seven Stars Saloon and nursed a schooner of flat reeb. He never came out and gave all the details, but the gist of the story was that he was thwarted in his ambition to swindle a midget out of his gold, because he went on a remarkable extended rant about midgets in general and Colonel Germ in particular. 
 
“Most intelligent people,” he said, “aren’t repulsed by midgets. They see them as they actually are–little people who have stopped growing. They probably don’t despise the midget for being small, and having a squeaky voice, and babbling like a small child, and stealing bright and shiny objects and hoarding them in some sort of filthy midget hidey-hole. They aren’t angered by the fact that midgets think they’re pretty smart, and they’re always trying to put one over on normal sized people because they’re tiny and can squeeze past you in a line, faster than lightning, without being noticed–they THINK. They probably don’t resent the fact that midgets are as crafty as squirrels treasuring up a hoarded nut. Most people aren’t completely convinced that all midgets are criminals who smoke smelly, over-sized cigars and plot amazingly detailed robbery schemes in the rooms of pestilential flophouses. You know the kind of room I mean–with a cracked mirror hanging from a nail, and a rickety nightstand next to the unmade bed, and the plaster peeling from the walls. I don’t believe that most intelligent people are convinced that midgets like to sit in their repulsive lairs, whiling away the hours by playing card games and drinking too much whiskey, which is bad for them precisely because they are so small. I think that mature people who have thought the matter through reject the whole idea that all midgets are united in a kind of sneaky cabal to extort normal-sized people into doing their bidding. I mean, we all know of harmless midgets who are just as innocent as the day is long. They are a wee credit to their kind. Some midgets have a lively intelligence; they work had at doing whatever it is that midgets do to earn a living, like operating elevators and the like; and they’re very articulate, especially regarding their hopes and dreams, which usually revolve around elevator shoes, and finding a normal sized mate so they aren’t forced to pass the curse of midgetdom down to their progeny. 
 
“I will grudgingly admit it: There actually are some good midgets out there in the big bad world. They are not the ones who have anything to fear from the likes of me. It’s the lazy carny midgets who exploit their small stature in order to steal a march on the other freaks–they’re the ones who fill me with resentment and loathing. Midgets like that Colonel Germ, over at the Red and Black Carnival on Mistake Island. Now, I’m sure all the sob sisters would be coming out in force right about now, boo-hoo-hooing about how the little guy never stood a chance; how it was impossible for him to grow up right because his parents sold him to James A. Bailey when he was but a wee lad; about how the poor little mite never got a proper education, and so grifting the suckers at a carnival was the only occupation he ever learned. But twisted circus freaks like that Colonel Germ are the enemy of normal midgets, because they give responsible, hard-working midgets a bad name. Think of all the midgets who have good jobs and are able to get ahead and afford a little cottage where everything is midget-sized and maybe even a pony to ride around on. People who are thoughtful and wise have probably concluded that not all midgets are grabby little insects with stumpy sausage-shaped fingers who like to pick pockets and are never on time for appointments and who laugh at the law because jail cells can’t hold them, as they tend to squeeze between the bars. 
 
“But–I’m going to admit it–I’m one of those people who find midgets annoying. Their pernicious, high-pitched laughter among themselves when they think nobody normal is around. They way they all can see in the dark, like cats–an attribute they have which most people don’t find out about until it’s too late. About how they can always tell when a woman is having her time of month, because of their absurd thigh-level view of reality, and also the fact that they have an advanced sense of smell. And what about the accusation that they conspire with circus chimps to commit bizarre and furtive murders? The jury is still out on that one, though it wouldn’t surprise me in the least. 
 
“OK, I’ll admit it–there are probably plenty of sensitive, poetry-loving midgets. They may even be a midget or two who has distinguished himself in the arts and sciences. Toulouse-Lautrec for instance. Steinmetz, for another example. But, technically, of course, Steinmetz was actually a dwarf. Why did he have to grow that beard? Why? And those nose-pinching cheaters? He looked like a Prussian spy, which is probably what he was.
 
“I’m actually rather frightened of midgets. Some think the little peewees are cute. Not me. Every time I see one, I get this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I want to bat it away. They’re not like humans to me–they’re like annoying insects I would like to crush between my thumb and forefinger. Nowadays, I can hardly breathe when I see one on the street–that’s how much they spook me. You may mock me for my fear of midgets, but I assure you that it’s well-founded. I still bear the scars of my encounter with Colonel Germ. I had figured out an elaborate scheme to deprive him of his gold, but then I got drunk and decided instead to simply strong-arm him out of his grouch bag. That was my worst mistake. The midge had a grip like iron. I tried to fling him across the room, but he just hung on like a bulldog. And he actually bit my fingers, just like an overfed rat. That was dirty pool. I yelled at him. ‘Fight fair, midget–fight fair!’ But that only seemed to make him madder. He was a tenacious midget, like all midgets are. Lots of upper arm strength. Don’t know why. You never see them engaged in hard work. Digging ditches and the like. They tend to shirk such chores. They’re sneaky that way. ‘But I’m a MIDGET’ they moan, whenever you ask them to lend a hand. Oh, but they can get pretty snappish when you exclude them on the basis of their height. They’ll get on their high horse, so to speak. ‘Just because I happen to be short…’ they’ll say–which is the understatement of the century. Y’see–they want to have it both ways, just like the Suffragettes, and all the high yallers, too, if the truth be known. 
 
“When you have an eye for spotting a midget-man–that’s when you begin to see them everywhere. I have observed them for years–and I know their devious ways. I know where they congregate. Most notably, in the front row of the nickelodeon. They keep up a stream of constant chatter way up in front, so if you’re normal-sized you can’t even concentrate on the picture. And then, after they’ve had their fun ruining the show for everyone else, they go home. They live in their own section of the city–their own little hideous midget enclave, called Little Town. But don’t bother asking anyone where exactly that is–they’ll keep mum. Even the cops and the hansom cab drivers probably don’t know where it is–but I do. Many’s the time I have contemplated taking a flaming brand and setting their rickety wooden houses on fire, and enjoying the spectacle of seeing shrieking midgets fleeing into the streets. But, of course, I’m civilized, and civilized people don’t do things like that. Most of the time.
 
“I have noticed that midgets tend to avoid pet stores. They are probably afraid they will be put in a cage and offered for sale. They probably remember the caged Pygmies that were exhibited at the World’s Fair. You know, one time the midge’s had their own World’s Fair. It was called ‘The World’s Unfair’.  Haw! That’s a joke. Or…is it?
 
“Let’s face it–midgets are just freaks. And they’re not even the normal sort of freak, because they hold themselves above the others, so to speak. I don’t know why, because midgets are really good at only one thing–being short. It’s not like you can go to any sort of midget university to learn how to be a sawed-off runt. 
 
“So–now you know the truth. I lost a fight to a midget. What does that make me? Some kind of morphodite? I hope not.
 
“One time, just for a joke, Smash Conklin spotted a midget and threw him at me. I ducked. And he midget crashed down onto the sawdust floor and started to weep, rather copiously. I was surprised. I didn’t know midgets had refined feelings like that. 
 
“Forgive me for my vehemence. But it’s good for me to blow off steam. I’ve been carrying the midget around on my back for far too long. They are God’s little joke on the rest of the world. And there, but for fortune…I know. If I were a midget, you’d have to help me ascend the platform of trolley cars, and provide me with a step-stool when I wanted to use the urinal. I think…I think I’d rather die. And I’m very sure that all the midgets–the ones who know their place–all the good midgets–I’m sure they would agree with me.”
 

1*SALUTATION
MAGAZINE
PHILADELPHIA
2*REFERENCE
QUORA: WHAT ARE SOME THINGS THE OUTSIDE WORLD WOULD BE SHOCKED TO LEARN ABOUT THE USA?
ALSO SEE:
AMERICANA
3*HUMOR
 
4*NOVELTY

WILMOTH HOUDINI AND HIS ROYAL CALYPSO ORCHESTRA

HOT DOGS MADE THEIR NAME
5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
EVERYTHING WE LOVE TO EAT IS A SCAM
ALSO SEE:
DANGEROUS DIGESTION
BY E. MELANIE DUPUIS

6* DAILY UTILITY
CASUAL RACIST BINGO
 
ALSO SEE:
THE BINGO PROJECT
 
SEE ALSO:
HOW TO HANDLE A RACIST
 
ALSO SEE:
MOST RACIST AREAS OF UNITED STATES
 
7*CARTOON
BASKETBALL JONES
 
ALSO SEE:
THE MAGIC OF OZ
“The worst cartoon ever.”
8*PRESCRIPTION
CONTRONYMS
 
9*RUMOR PATROL
OHIO RIVER MOST POLLUTED BODY OF WATER
10* LAGNIAPPE
STREAM FIFTEEN HOURS OF THE JOHN PEEL SESSIONS
11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
50 best post-punk albums
 
CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.

857. FOX NEWS IS BASICALLY SOFTCORE PORN FOR OLD MEN

THE INFORMATION #897 JULY 15, 2016

THE INFORMATION #897
JULY 15, 2016
Copyright 2016 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com
 
The salesman knows nothing of what he is selling save that he is charging a great deal too much for it. –Oscar Wilde

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE

BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TEN: PART SEVENTY-NINE: KINGDOM COME
“I don’t know when the damned idea first struck me,” said Count Justin Victor, “to swindle the midget who was the show-runner at the Red and Black Carnival. I knew he carried close to 10 big ones in his grouch bag which he had hung around his neck. And I was in a dry spell, so I was determined to get my hands on that pile, come hell or water high. Colonel Germ was his name. I guess that actually was his alias. Who knows what his real name was. Best to never ask. Carny folk don’t give out the gen unless they’ve known you for twenty years or more, and often not even then. 
 
“You would think that the hardest thing in the world would be to swindle a swindler. But I’m telling you that eleven times out of twelve, it’s a cake walk. Cazarny folk are all with it and for it, but, like most people, they are actually putty in the hands of a smooth salesman.
 
“There is a certain magic to be seen in the way a salesman weaves his spell. ‘Bug ’em ’til they buy or die’–that’s their motto. Even if you walk into their dump with no money and not intending to buy anything, a good salesman sees you as a sucker and can nearly always send you home to raid the cookie jar for your hoarded pelf. They are especially good at mesmerizing womenfolk, I have noticed. A natty dresser with a slick line of patter will always make the lady-folk swoon. I can’t account for it, but I have seen it happen a dozen times. 
 
“Why, I’ve seen a strong salesmen in action who was so good that he was actually disappointed to close the sale too soon! He actually wanted the customer to wriggle on the hook a little more before reeling them in! Because, lets face it: Most people–I’d say just about all people save for a select few–they don’t know what they want. They need to be told. And if you think you can’t be sold, you’re very likely to be the biggest fish of all. 
 
“The drummer nearly always has a hard row to hoe. He’s the yob who has to go from door to door and sweet-talk the tin-horn chiselers, one by one, or else there’s hell to pay at the front office. Some of those old grocers in their general stores are mean-minded individuals, the lot of them. They squeeze their own customers for every last half cent, so why wouldn’t they squeeze the salesman, too? Turns out you have to bribe the old geezers just to get them to take a look at your line, never mind buy. Getting those old pinch-pennies to part with so much as a nickel is an epic journey in itself. It’s many a poor drummer who has cause to lament the fact that he wasn’t born rich. It seems that when you’re a drummer, half your money is spent on clothes. Especially shoes. Nobody wants to buy from a yellof who looks like he’s been through the mill. No–you must look as though you’ve just stepped out of a band box, if you want to make it in the selling game. Especially your shoes. Many of shine boy at the railroad depot has profited from this fact. 
 
“Selling to farmers is even worse. And the farmer’s wife! Nine times out of ten she’s a pinch-faced hag who will hold on to a dollar until the eagle screams. Small wonder that the traveling salesman takes it out in trade, usually with the farmer’s daughter. It’s a young man’s game, for a surety. Particularly when you have to outrun an angry farmer. Because there are some things you just can’t talk your way out of, and deflowering a farm maiden is one of them. But no drummer worth his salt has ever had to agree to a shotgun wedding.
 
“Anyway, the life of a drummer was never the life for me. Inside sales is the place to be. It’s a lead-pipe cinch by comparison. It’s where any potential grifter worth his salt can learn his trade when he’s still as green as a pea. The basics are these: You got to get them to swallow their dreams. And then you have them by the short and curlies. My friends, I have never known it to fail. You’ve got to talk to them like a Dutch Uncle. Persuade them. Say to them, ‘Think of how happy you’ll be when you walk down the street in your new frock coat and all the girlies practically faint dead away–they notice these things my friend–and all the men wonder where you acquired such a handsome garment.’ You just tell them a cute little story, see? It’s just as simple as that. You just pound away with all these starry-eyed notions and similar and you pound away good and hard; for I have given you cause to apprehend that the mass of men are sheep–have I not?–and they will follow the old ram to perdition in nearly every single case. Just look at the success of the comic strips in the funny papers. People are morons and easily amused. Tell them a funny joke, and they will think you are a fine fellow and will want to help you out. 
 
“I tell you that selling any proposition at all can sometimes be that simple: Fill their noggins with some benign horse-apples and you’ll have them in the palm of your hand in no time.
 
“I’m not saying that the life of a salesman is always so easy. Oh, no. Far from it. Not even inside sales. Getting tightwads to part with their dough is no picnic lunch with Toulouse-Lautrec. But, least-ways, if they have wandered into your store, they must be in some kind of a mood to buy. Nobody goes into a whorehouse fixing to look but not touch. And so it is with customers. If you can persuade them to get the feel of the item in their hands, they’re more than half yours. 
 
“After all: Monkey see, monkey do.” 
1*SALUTATION
RED INGLE’S UNNATURAL SEVEN
SERUTAN YOB
ALSO SEE:
CIGAREETS AND WHUSKY AND WILD, WILD WOMMEN
SEVENTY MENTAL REASONS

2*REFERENCE

DIRTY INDUSTRY SECRETS ON QUORA

“Have you ever seen homeless people sleeping on railways platforms? Have you ever wondered why are they so brash and assertive of their right to sleep there? It is because each and every homeless person who sleeps on the platform has actually claimed that space by paying the policeman on duty. Go to any big railways station in the dark of the night and you can see this yourself.”

3*HUMOR

PAT PAULSEN
“THE FOLKSINGER”
 
ALSO SEE:

“All the problems we face in the United States today can be traced to an unenlightened immigration policy on the part of the American Indian.”
“Why should we tell kidnappers, murderers, and embezzlers their rights? If they don’t know their rights, they shouldn’t be in the business.”
“A good many people feel that our present draft laws are unjust. These people are called soldiers.”

“Marijuana should be licensed and kept out of the hands of teenagers. It’s too good for them.”
Presidential campaign slogan: “I’ve upped my standards. Now, up yours.”
Presidential campaign slogan: “If elected, I will win.”

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

AMERICANS IN THEIR 50S ADDICTED TO OPIATES
http://singerislandtreatment.com/blog/americans-in-their-50s-account-for-36-of-people-addicted-to-opiates/

6* DAILY UTILITY

CHARLES ATLAS SHRUGGED
 
7*CARTOON
8*PRESCRIPTION
SCARY KFC COMMERCIAL
 
9*RUMOR PATROL
DESIGNATED SPINNER ON WHEEL OF FORTUNE
 
10* LAGNIAPPE
SYLVESTER STALLONE
‘DRINKENSTEIN”
11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
MOST INFLUENTIAL COMICS ARTISTS OF ALL TIME
 
CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.

856. SAM KINISON ON MANSON