MODERN WISDOM ​​NUMBER 221 MARCH 2017

MODERN WISDOM: AMERICA’S ONLY HUMOR MAGAZINE

NUMBER 221
MARCH 2017
Copyright 2017 Francis DiMenno
dimenno@gmail.com
http://www.dimenno.wordpress.com
 
1. 

BAD IDEAS FOR TELEVISION SHOWS


THE MIGHTY THORAZINE
MEASURE MY TURTLE HEAD
THE NEW ADVENTURES OF IMPORTANT WHITE MAN
LET’S TORCH A HOBO
OLD MAN CAN’T
THE GRANDIOSE POORMOUTH SHOW
CHIMP-BAITING WITH WOLVES
THE LEGEND OF STABBITY MCSTAB
PROJECT MALLRAT

SLEEPY-EYED JOHN!

THE SQUATTY POTTY HOUR
THE FAT OLD WHITE COP AND THE SKINNY YOUNG BLACK COP
BRO AND MO
WORLD’S MOST INHUMANE RECIPES
PIMP MY GRANDMOTHER
HOBO CHANG BA
FELCH!
THE GARBAGE PEOPLE
COPS: CLICK IT OR TICKET
CATHARSIS THE CAT AND HERMENEUTICS THE MOUSE
THE AGONY OF THE FEET
LINCOLN’S DICK
Blowfly Buffet
The Brainless Bunch
Punching For Yen
Hippiehead and Snacky
Christmas Every Day
That’s What I’m Talking About
The Philosophy of Seth McFarlane
Stalin’s Funniest Home Videos
Law and Order: SUV
Crumbs From the Midget’s High Chair
Shithouse Mouse
Eat The Wife
Chowhounds On Parade
My Old Man’s A Fatso!
Only God Loves Ugly Babies
Mommy Drinks Because You Cry
The Importance of Concrete Statistics
Liposuction Junction
Cease to Exist!
Knights in Satan’s Service
The Wonder Years, Starring The Manson Family
Cooking with Black Pepper Cowboy Bone
Drop a Load and You’ll Be Sitting On Top of the World

 
2.

HITCHING A RIDE

You don’t see many hitchhikers these days.

There was one old Italian guy who would bum a ride from me at the Stop
and Shop. Haven’t seen him lately.

What with our enhanced security environment, I think the golden era
of hitch-hiking is probably as dead as vaudeville, or hoppin’ freights
by riding the rods.

I pretty much stopped hitchhiking in the late 80s.

I noticed that even in the early 80s, it had lost some of its charm.

The 70s were a much better time to hitch-hike. Especially if you had long hair.

On many interstates it has probably always been illegal. I’ve gotten
kicked off the New York thruways in White Plains and Buffalo. Never
even tried the Jersey Turnpike. Never had any problems in Virginia,
Pennsylvania, or Massachusetts. In fact, in the Summer of ’78, in
Cambridge MA, I would often stand at the 1-90 onramp on Monday morning
around 9am and be able to get to NYC by 5pm.

Truck drivers were usually cool.

But, sometimes, ole Benny was at the wheel….

My most bizarre hitchhiking experience?

In the Summer of 1983 I was hitching from Erie PA to Cambridge

MA and got picked up in State Line PA by a mother and her small baby, whom she had me hold.


The baby thought I was its mom and kept trying to suck on my nipple.

 
3.

SPY MOVIES

We often find on re-examining works cherished by us in our more
innocent days that we are responding, not only to the inferiority of
the work, but our scorn at our own innocence.

That’s why it’s a balancing act to objectively assess such things.

In our scorn for our own past sentimental attachments, we must not go too far the other way and fail to continue to see the good aspects of what attracted us in the first place.

That said, most of the spy movies and television programming we loved as kids were rubbish. Absolute rubbish. And propagandistic rubbish at that. As such, they are perhaps no better or no worse than other such rubbish. Maybe a slight cut above most rubbish in terms of how effectively it’s pulled off–for instance, the most successful spy films, such as the James Bond series. Those movies are like a machine for belief; an ideologues delight; a cold warrior’s wet dream. Not surprising, since the author of the books was involved himself in British intelligence….


4.

POLICEMEN AND WEAPONS

Cops (usually) don’t actually LIKE to shoot people.

But they know full well that after shooting a felon, they do not
always automatically drop. It can take woofed-up crims a good TWO FULL MINUTES to fall.

And the acceptable perimeter for a man waving a knife is a full 21
feet. Because a guy with a knife can be on you in seconds, even after he’s been shot.

I’m not saying that those who decry police brutality may not sometimes have a point.

But combat shootin’ is different than plinkin’ cans down at the ol’
firin’ range.

And if they policemen sometimes seem to over-react, maybe it’s because they don’t want their fellow cops to get killed.

 

 

5.

THE TRAGIC MAGIC OF DISNEY

Too much of Disney animation is facile crap.

Anything made before Three Caballeros and after the Little Mermaid
gets a pass. But between WWII and ca. 1989, Disney was coasting,
animation-wise.

That the Disney empire is the nexus of evil seems so obvious to
me and many others that you don’t have to be the equivalent of a
33-degree Mason to have sussed that out.

Consider:

1) Their distortion of every myth that has ever dared us to be great.
(Their version of Tom Sawyer billed him as “The Original Bad Boy”.)

2) The pathetic fallacy runs rife through their every depiction of the
natural world.

3)And, finally, their rumored intelligence connections. See the following
rant:

….the entire Illuminati threw their weight behind promoting Walt
Disney. Ronald Reagan and Walt Disney were good friends and both cut
from the same die in many ways. Both men were high ranking
Freemasons…both were paid FBI informants, and both were involved
heavily in the abuse of mind-controlled slaves….
Reagan served as the emcee for the opening day of Disneyland on July
17, 1990. He returned with Illuminati TV host Art Linkletter for the
35th anniversary.

http://www.thewatcherfiles.com/bloodlines/disney.htm

[Note: there is a whole substrate of conspiracy literature
in which women claim to have been the mind-controlled
slaves of the likes of Bob Hope, Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Junior,
and “Boxcar Willie–pedophile.” See “Uncle Ronnie’s Sex Slaves”
by Robert Sterling in  Apocalypse Culture II, ed. Adam Parfrey.]

 
6. 

GOLDMAN ON LENNON


Yeah, he makes all sorts of unfounded allegations.

That Lennon went to Thailand, and maybe it was as a “sex tourist”.
That Lennon killed Stu Sutcliffe with kicks to the head.
That Yoko ratted out Paul for the pot that the Japanese customs boys found.

Goldman pretty much hated rock and roll.

That’s why it’s kind of important to read him.

I just read a glowing biography of Clinton and his first term in
office by a fellow named Nigel Hamilton. It’s the usual fare–the
school of historical writing ala “on the one hand…on the other
hand”. This style is judicious from the point of view of a historian,
but a lot gets lost. For instance, Hamilton doesn’t even mention that
Nader was running in 1996.

In contrast to such a tip-toe approach to contemporary history we have
people like Goldman, a dude who was so angry that he died in the
mid-Atlantic of an apoplectic fit when they refused to upgrade him to
first class.

In a world where everything is oh-so-lukewarm, certain troublemakers
like to scald their readers. The refreshing thing about
anti-hagiographers like Albert Goldman is that they aren’t afraid to
dish out their witches’ brew boiling hot.
http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=940DEED8153AF932A0575BC0A96E948260

 

7.

 THE BLACK PANTHER COLORING BOOK, BROUGHT TO YOU BY COINTELPRO
Regarding Hoover, it is possible that no better proof of Lord Acton’s
maxim regarding absolute power exists–at least, in our polity.

That said, the man still commanded intense loyalty among his
subordinates (and still commands it among many who are still living).

There is a vast sub-literature of Hoover demonography; my favorite is
perhaps James Ellroy’s THE COLD SIX THOUSAND, his fictionalized
account of the aftermath of the Kennedy assassination, in which Hoover
plays a pivotal role.

Hoover had a bee in his bonnet about uppity blacks of any stripe. He
was slow to address the Klan-he only did so, I seem to recall, on the
insistence of the A.G., RFK; at all other times he was very quick to
jump with both feet first on Black Nationalist of any kind. Was he
serving the ends of the Zeitgeist? Indubitably.

I don’t want to get into a big philosophic debate about the rightness
or wrongness of government infiltration of radical groups. And
armchair generalship and 20/20 hindsight are vices familiar to
historian wannabes.

However: in re: the present consensus among those who have written
knowledgeably about Hoover and about the civil rights era (Curt Gentry
and Taylor Branch are two names that spring immediately to mind)?

It seems to pretty clearly favor the following judgments:

Hoover did not necessarily overestimate the threat of the Black Panthers.

He did shamelessly persecute MLK.

The FBI may have had a hand in the death of Malcolm X.

Hoover did overestimate the threat of the CCCP-USA.

Hoover underestimated the influence of the Mob. (And that’s a whole
‘nother kettle of fish….)

Hoover underestimated the threat of the Klan, and similar white
nationalist groups such as the White Citizen’s Council (aka ‘The
Suburban Klan’).

[Please note I do not endorse the unsavory agenda of the people
posting the information below.]

 

http://www.whatreallyhappened.com/RANCHO/POLITICS/COINTELPRO/coloring.html

8. 

TOXIC PEOPLE

When you run into toxic people, ignoring them will only make them push you further to see just how far they can go. Better to say to them, right out front, “I hear you talking, but it’s not like you’re talking to me. It’s like you’re talking to yourself. When you decide that you actually want to talk to me, then by all means let me know. I’m more than happy to listen to what you have to say to me.”

9.

CONTRA TELEVISION


Keeping my television in the closet of my spare room and never taking it out
except in the event of some dire emergency (which has yet to happen) means
I can save $100 a month because I don’t need to pay for bundled cable from
Verizon, plus I never have the urge to eat at McDonald’s, Dunkin Donuts, or any of the other money traps that can chip away a
t my
discretionary income. I probably save close to $2,000 a year by not watching
the thing.


Plus, I have hours and hours of precious free time each and every day to
do the things that truly interest me.
 

Just sayin’.
P.S. I know–that’s Communism.


10. READERS CONTRIBUTE THEIR BAD IDEAS FOR TV SHOWS


60 minarets
Full Spouse
Poem Improvement
VH1’s I Love 5 Seconds Ago
Obama’s Family
Fantasy Gazebo
Love Tug
Flowing Manes
Who Wants To Marry Some Fat Piece Of Shit?
Mops
America’s Most Wan Ted
What’s Been Happening Lately?
Win Ben Stein’s Mummy
This Week In Advertising
Dancing With The (remaining) Cars–omelette

Are You Stronger Than a Rapist?-iwillstealyoursoul

M*O*S*H
The Cockney Geico Lizard Show
Mad About Jews
Gay Watch
Beverly, MA 01915
Nanny 4-2-0
Disparate Housewives
Fantasy Archepelago
CSI Methuen
SpongeBob No-Pants
Shrubs
My So-Called Lice
Freaks and Greeks
Don’t Taze Me, Bro!–Soup

America’s Most Infirm Invalids
Who Wants to be a Civil Servant?
Everybody Hates AIDS
Will and Grace and Geraldo
The Fat Slob and Hot, Bitchy Wife Sitcom
That Late 90s/Early 2000s Show
Baby’s First Time
Bonkers for Yonkers
Novac and Ashcroft At the Movies
The Counting Pennies Show
Elizabeth Berkley Reads the Classics
My Grandma is Better at Smoking Than Yours
The Shane McGowan Morning Show
Inside Gingivitis
America’s Funniest Home Invasions
Hawaii 5-0: Denver
Around the World in 80 Gays
Pee: The Series
Here’s Bloomberg!
Have You Seen My Car Keys?
Return of Old Man Can’t–elk

Found
Traitors
The Bionic Tranny
Dancing with the Former Child Stars
America’s MOST Fartest Model
Crabs of Love
The Banal Life
Hillary
Fast & The Furious: The Series
The Sarah Connor Colonoscopies
Battlestar Metallica–the antichris

Name That Stool
The Mission Hillbillies.
Gag Me and Mace Me
Crappy Days
Pimp My Outhouse
B.J. the Bear–Imidaho

oprah on ice
rowan & martin’s fist-in
green chancres
gomer’s piles
felching w/the stars
mannix depressive
magnum P.U.
bottom chef
balls to the waltons
don kirchner’s rock collection
american midol
maim that tune
golden shower girls
mary tyler morbid
partridge family feud
the facts of lice
t.w.a.t.
petticoat junkies
hogan knows lassie
the maude squad
sodomy street
larry the unstable guy
being bobby brown on $40 a day
ninny 911
make room for gerbils
flip this pancake
pimp my desperate housewife
win ben stein’s monkey
bowling for crumbs
mayberry DOA
i’ve got a secretion–coughlin

From Hitler’s View
Jimmy the Bitchin’ Koala
Birds ‘n’ Worms
Ditch-diggers
Lets SIT!
Track That Package (With FedEx)
Lavatory
Competitive Carpet Installing
Watch it Rot
Bastard Town
Morning commute–Dr. Moose

sex and the mountains–cant go wrong with tha shocker

Titicut Follies: The Series
Fugly Betty
Info 411
America’s Got Gunt
Min Headroom–hook operator

MY TWO MOMS AND THE SPERM DONOR
WIN THIS DUCK
BIN LADEN’S ISLAND
PAULY SHORE AND THE WEASEL JUG BAND XMAS SPECIAL
WHEEL OF OPRAH–Thunder Horse

SQUID OR NO SQUID
GEORGE TAKAI
TWO STEPS BEYOND
FULL BLOWN MAIDS
SCRAM OR STAY
POOKY PARS JOOKY OH MY
FRIENDS AND ENEMAS
MIAMI OY MY FEET ARE KILLING ME
YO,CAN I AX YOU SUMPIN?
DIALING FOR WORK
SEXY BOY FUN QUIZ–sputnik

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THE INFORMATION #930 MARCH 3, 2017

THE INFORMATION #930
MARCH 3, 2017
Copyright 2017 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
 

Honesty is the best policy–when there is money in it.–Mark Twain

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER ELEVEN: PART THIRTEEN: DAYS OF WRATH
“Yob,” said Count Victor Justin,  “if you’re the kind of Greenie who gets all his romantic notions about the criminal underworld from the pages of pulp magazines, then you are being badly misled.  Most crooks are pretty dumb, and pretty cowardly, too. If they weren’t dumb, they’d have figured out some way to get their ooftish by honest means, and if they weren’t cowardly, they would join the Army or the Navy and manage to scrape together a bankroll that way. Of course, some crooks did once go in for soldiering–and they learned an awful lot about guns in the process–but they were usually the weak-willed types, gamblers and such, who squandered their bankrolls or somehow managed to get court martialed or even cashiered as a disciplinary problem. The problem with not being selective about who you take in as a soldier is that what are you going to do with these mental and moral defectives once they get out or are thrown out of the army? Chances are, they never learned a useful trade, and so unless they go into business as policemen, they have very little incentive, it seems, to stay out of jail, where, just like the Army or Navy, you can get three square meals a day and a warm place to sleep. Well–not always warm. And almost never very comfortable. So-called decent folks don’t want criminals to have nothing. O, how their blood boils when they learn that a lean old con has somehow contrived to wrangle himself a warm shirt, or an extra blanket! I know some barbarian tribes who treat their wrongdoers with more common courtesy and compassion than they treat them hereabouts, or in England or Canada. What, do they think that compassion is wasted on the malefactor? In certain cases, I would say yes. But those are rare. I’ll tell you something Yob–it is far easier to fall afoul of the law than you might think, and, but for fortune, I myself might have been an old lag with a 25 year sentence to serve. But I never went in for any of the rough stuff, and I certainly never committed mail fraud, nor robbed any banks, though I certainly learned a lot of techniques of that sort when I was bunged up in prison on a bum rap. I was on my uppers, and fell in with a Yellof who had a racket selling Persian rugs door to door. I’d rather not go into the details, but some customers complained that the rugs weren’t as genuine as they were purported to be, and I got thirty days for selling without a business licence, which was just a low down way for the town officials–I won’t say who– to squeeze even more money out of the poor and the down and out.  Never fear–someday they’ll get theirs. Every dog has his day.  
 
“When you get sent to prison, while you’re there you get to hob-nob with a bunch of eminent Loochers with a great deal of time on their hands. They are Yobs who are prone to mischief even in their best moments, and prison brings out the worst in them. It was in prison that I learned of a new way of robbing banks. Back in the olden days, a desperado would go crashing in without even the first notion of what the setup was–he would trust to blind fate to see him through–him, and his confederates, if he had any. But when I was in the pen I heard of a new way to conduct the business–just like a military operation. First off, you have to case the joint very carefully, just as though you were doing a second-storey job. You get the layout of the place and follow the movements of the principal players, and then you write it all down and draw a map and plan the operation right down to the minute. And you need to have four people to do the job right. You have the lead robber, who walks point, and ambles up to the teller’s cage and shows his gun. You have his partner, who has a shot gun, and fires once into the ceiling so the people will get down on the floor. He’s the one who covers the bank guard, if there happens to be one. You have the getaway car driver, who needs only two qualities–mechanical aptitude and nerves of iron. Plus, an ability to read a map and find all the backroads and plot the best way to get out of town in a hurry.  And finally, you have the lookout. It’s either the easiest job, or the hardest. He stands outside the bank and if there’s no trouble, he’ll stand by the door and look official and tell people that the bank is closed due to a gas leak or something. But if a lawman or some other snoop notices something amiss and walks over to investigate, then it’s the lookout’s job to take that nebby-nose out of the picture. You don’t want to have to shoot a civilian, or especially a lawman, because it always brings down the heat, but sometimes that’s what it amounts to. You have to pick the lookout carefully. He has to be a man who knows his business, and can react quickly in a jam. An ex-soldier is best. A man who is handy with a gun, but who also can whomp up a line of smooth patter. A bad professional is better than a good amateur–that’s what all the jailbirds say.
 
“Anyway, Yob, I wouldn’t recommend going in for being a bank robber. Most of them end up in the County Morgue–a nasty place. You want to know what their motto is?  ‘Remains to be seen.’ Have you ever been there? Well, do yourself a favor, and pass the opportunity by. The morgue smells like rotten hamburger, and dead rats, and formaldehyde, and stale tobacco–because all the lawmen and medicos smoke foul-smelling cigars to inoculate themselves against the stink. But even the cheapest El Ropo won’t mask the disparate aromas which emanate off of the well-croaked.  You can count on it. And the smell gets into your skin and forms a thin greasy layer that you have to scrub yourself red and raw with a stiff brush to thoroughly expunge. It is no place to have a picnic lunch with your sweetie–and that’s a dead cert. If you’ll pardon the expression.” 
 
1*SALUTATION
AMANAZ
GREEN APPLE
5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
6* DAILY UTILITY
11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
THE FIFTY BEST ROCK BANDS RIGHT NOW
CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
914. THE SAD STATE OF ROCK

a.msn.com/r/2/AAmTShU?m=en-us

 
915. IF SUPERMAN SPANKED LOIS LANE
 

THE INFORMATION #929 FEBRUARY 24, 2017

THE INFORMATION #929
FEBRUARY 24, 2017
Copyright 2017 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
 

As yet, the Negroes themselves do not fully appreciate these old slave songs. –James Weldon Johnson

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER ELEVEN: PART TWELVE: DAYS OF WRATH
 

“Outside of that nasty diminutive pygmy Little Joe the Grifter, nothing irks me more,” said Count Victor Justin, “than them Goddamned superannuated fossils who gripe about the manners of the modern-day.  Don’t they realize that their time is past? That the world has passed them by? Modern men can no longer bend themselves to the foolish will of the horse-drawn dotard! It’s an era of gasoline, and flying ships, and heavy machinery! 

“And they always stand around the iron stove in the general store and ding a cuspidor while they fulminate about how the modern-day Negro is insolent, and doesn’t know his place. Now, as I’ve told you before, Yob, you’ll find no man to be a better friend of the Negro than I. The problem with the sleepy-eyed codgers who spitefully complain all the live-long day about the Negro is that  they still haven’t gotten the queer notion in their heads that the slavery days are over. They are too bound up in their nostalgia for the plantation south to realize that now that the Negro is free, he makes a better servant than ever before, since he can’t blame ‘Massa’ for his servitude no more, but only his own self.
 
“Have you ever heard this song? ‘Look out dar, now! We’s a gwine to shoot! Look out dar, don’t you understand? Babylon is fallen! Babylon is fallen! An’ we’s agwine to occupy de land!’ 
“Guess it didn’t quite turn out that way, though. What with chain gangs, sharecropping, house servants and all the rest.
 
“However, my sympathy for the colored man does not mean that I hanker after hearing him playing that vulgar ragtime piano, or that newfangled abomination called ‘Jass’. No, for me, the ancient spirituals and other church singing are what the Negro does best. For my money, there’s no song to top the likes of  ‘Master Going to Sell us Tomorrow’ and  ‘Zekiel Saw the Wheel,’ and ‘Wish’s in Heaven Settin’ Down’ and ‘Dey Crucified my Lord.’ ‘An’ He Never Said a Mumblin’ Word!’–that’s the good stuff! Next comes the comedy songs of the good old minstrel show, like the ones I used to see at St. James’ Hall, in Piccadilly.  ‘The Coon From the Moon,’ and ‘Silver Chimes at Midnight’ and how’s about, ‘Oh, Dem Golden Slippers?’  ‘What a great camp meetin’ there will be that day, when we ride up in the chariot in the morn’!’ Hilarious!  
“It is only when the Negro essays to slavishly copy the white man that he is shown to worst advantage. Tell me–where is the Ubangi Shakespeare, or the Zulu Dante Alighieri?  But otherwise, within his own sphere, I will admit that he is indomitable. 
 
“Young women are a lot like Negroes, as I think I’ve mentioned before. Obsessed with shoes, and gold, and glitter, and brightly colored clothing. Fond of dancing and promenading and other public displays. Silly flummery daubs and flibbertydigets without a serious thought in their heads. They only think about today, with nary a thought for the morrow. I would just as soon trust my toothless old dog to advise me on matters of consequence. 
 
“Don’t get me wrong–I will be the first to admit that women make mighty fine ornamental additions to a household, and that’s for sure. They are soft to the touch and mighty easy on the eyes, and I would trust them to soothe a crying baby or brew a cup of tea. But I wouldn’t listen to a word they had to say about politics or other matters of consequence, for these are realms with which they have next to no practical experience, and, furthermore, a man of affairs has no time to pay heed to the airy-fairy notions of ninny-hammers, nitwits, stable boys, watermelon jockeys, zooks, saps, goofs, imbeciles, nincompoops, or any other members of the tribe known as the non compos mentis. 
 
“True, when you speak of Negroes, there is also the matter of smell. There’s no getting around the fact that the Negro exudes a thick, almost musky aroma, which, splash himself though he might with pints of stinkum and other cheap perfume, he can in virtually no way efface. 
 
“This is not to say that other tribes do not also give off their own distinctive scent. The German always smells strongly of stale beer and cheap tobacco. And the men are even worse. Same goes for all your Slavs. Ditto the Limey, only they tend to smell like filthy shag and fried potatoes. The Irishman usually reeks of whiskey and Mackerel. The German Jew smells of Salmon and the Russian Jew smells of Herring. Your Italians always smell of garlic, as do your Greeks and your Spanish. The French smell like rotten cheese and absinthe, and Mexicans smell like beans, and corn, and mescal. The Chinese generally reek of fish and rice, when they don’t smell of opium. The Arab stinks of chick peas and hasheesh. Walk down any street in Blowtown after a warm spring rain, and the lingering smells from that international congregation of slum dwellers will all combine with the stench of horseapples and dead cats to add up to a veritable miasma. 
 
“Let me give you a bit of venereal advice while you’re still young enough to take advantage of it: namely, that women have a much better sense of smell than men. And that you’ll never offend by smelling like soap and freshly washed linen, even if your low-born pals chaff you with being a sissy. Young men are not always the most reliable guides regarding how to win the heart of lady fair. Chances are that a woman who is willing to overlook a putrescent stench is either desperate, or sick in the head, and probably both. Of course, it goes without saying that you should steer well clear of a girl who doesn’t know how to make herself smell like a petunia, or whatever perfumey water happens to be in vogue at present. These are the kind of women who don’t care a rap for anything under the sun, and they are sure to drag you down into the stygian depths along with them. This is not mere snobbery, but merely sound common sense. A woman who is in her right senses would very likely forego food rather than soap. Women are like cats–if they are of sound mind, they are always trying to keep themselves clean. Only a mangy alley cat will overlook the niceties of good grooming. The same goes for men. It’s one thing to sport a three days growth when you’ve been camping in the deep woods, but if you show up for work with some sloppy stray chin-whiskers, you’re probably never destined to be the boss’s fair-haired boy. Even the better classes of the criminal underworld like to dress sharp and look trig. If you don’t, then you’re marked down as a loocher and you get squeezed out of all the big-paying jobs. You heard it here, first, Yob.” 
 
1*SALUTATION
5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
6* DAILY UTILITY
JIM BACKUS
THE DIRTY OLD MAN
7*CARTOON

RACIST VALENTINE’S DAY CARDS

8*PRESCRIPTION

Rumor the German shepherd wins best in show at Westminster

9*RUMOR PATROL
HARD-DRINKING EX-PRESIDENTS
 
10* LAGNIAPPE
11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
PAINFULLY TRUTHFUL BUMPER STICKERS
 
I’M A BIG MAN…TO MY DOG
SADLY, MY CHILD IS ONLY AVERAGE
BEER DRINKERS ARE FAT
CONSERVATIVES ARE FRIGHTENED MORONS
LIBERALS ARE SQUABBLING MISFITS
DIVERSITY IS MONOLITHIC
NO LIVES MATTER
ASK ME ABOUT MY INCONSEQUENTIAL CAREER
CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
911. THE DEEP STATE

www.chicagotribune.com/news/sns-wp-deepstate-comment-b09503f0-f394-11e6-a9b0-ecee7ce475fc-20170215-story.html

912. I’M SMART

913. I’M TOUGH

THE INFORMATION #928 FEBRUARY 17, 2017

THE INFORMATION #928
FEBRUARY 17, 2017
Copyright 2017 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
 
The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is an attribute of the strong.–Mahatma Gandhi
WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER ELEVEN: PART ELEVEN: DAYS OF WRATH
“Whenever I think of that filthy midget Little Joe the Grifter,” said Count Victor Justin, “then quite naturally I think about the fact that he was the first in his family to graduate from the ninth grade. This was a source of inordinate pride to him, and all his chums, and all the Yellofs in the old neighborhood, treated him as though he were some kind of Joe Harvard Princeton Yale, instead of being what he really was–a sawed off, jumped up shrimp with a bowl haircut and a lousy attitude. My advice to you Yob, as you travel down life’s highway, is to don’t ever form an alliance with someone just because you feel sorry for them and maybe want to help them out. That is not the strategy of a winner, and furthermore, in 99 cases out of  100 it just don’t pan out. If a person is a pariah, there’s usually a very good reason for that. Don’t go thinking you can rescue him–or, God help you, her–because that sort of thing just never works. And chances are, even if you are able to extricate them from a  fix, they won’t be grateful–they’ll be resentful, you see, because you will have shown yourself to be the bigger man. Literally, in my case.
 
“Yob, you can pretty much judge a man by the quality of woman he manages to attract to be by his side. Men know this as an operating principle, and women know it too, by mere instinct alone. And I should tell you right now that Little Joe the Grifter seemed to have a hard time attracting a suitable mate, even in spite of his impressive educational credentials, but when he did finally start squiring a Zook about the town, she was a real horror. She wasn’t that bad-looking, considering she was a Plain Jane with mousey hair. But her temperament was of the very worst. Every time she opened her flabby maw, it was to whine about some slight, either real or imagined. Her cake-hole, and doubtless her cunny too, resembled the soft, flaccid toothless mouth of a superannuated barking hound. I never once heard her give forth with a single word of praise for the singularly unaccomplished Grifter. No, with her, it was always something petty and spiteful and mean. I guess she thought she was pretty special–like maybe her shit smelled like vanilla puddin’. To be sure, he had no end of shortcomings for her to be blubbering on about. If it were the Puritan days, you can be sure they would have sentenced her to the ducking stool, as a common scold. Alas, we are civilized, and we no longer hold with the good old adage:  ‘A woman, a dog and a hickory tree, the more you beat ’em, the better they be.’ 
 
“Now, don’t get me wrong, Yob. Of course, nowadays no gentleman would ever hit a woman, and that’s the way it ought to be. But still–if you could have heard the singular lack of respect with which she treated the poor sad sack of shit, you might have found yourself reaching for a slippery elm club just as a matter of general principle. No person should be allowed to talk to another the way she talked to him. It was clear that Little Joe had had little experience with wimmen, and didn’t know how to handle ’em. Come to think of it, he also had a hard time getting along with most men, unless they were his special cronies he had known since the short pants days. He had a real knack–a knack for making people vicious. I suppose I took him in hand as a sort of challenge to myself–to see if I could make a grifter out of him. He had all the ingredients to be a successful grifter, after all–he didn’t care about anybody but himself, and, furthermore, in spite of an utter lack of any accomplishments–as far as I can tell, he never worked a day in his life–he acted like he was the guy who hung the moon. 
 
“And–he needed constant reassurance! He was as vain as any ham actor. He was just like an old bitch gone long in the tooth who rouges up like a whore in an attempt to perpetuate a pitiful masquerade of long-vanished youth. When he went to a tavern, he would never pay for a round, and yet, like some fop, he would seek to dominate the conversation with his loud boastful brags about the hosses he rid and the women he fucked and the suckers he took and the scores he settled. Not only that, but he would never have what everybody else was having–no, for him, it had to be the stuff on the top shelf that costs three times as much. Even drunks full of fellow-feeling found him obnoxious! What does that tell you? The most disgusting thing he did was, when he was walking down the street, he would press one grimy finger to his nostril and blow his nose onto the street, then repeat the process with the other nostril. Down South we used to call that a ‘farmer’s handkerchief.’
 
“He treated the whole world like it was there just so he could do whatever he wanted to. And, as far as I can tell, nobody ever called him on it. You’ll find that to be an operative attitude among members of the criminal underclass. Nothing is ever their fault. They’re always being done in by bad luck, or jealous rivals. No, it’s never their own stupidity that results in them landing in stir. It’s always a jealous woman, or a bent cop, or an incompetent fat mouth.
 
“So it’s no wonder that the little woman was always hectorin’ him about chewing with his mouth closed, and not fartin’ in polite company, and sayin’ ‘excuse me’ after a belch, and not making a fool of himself when they were out together at dinner parties and such. 
 
“Pretty soon, she gave up on him, I guess. Because she wasn’t seen around no more. Maybe he kilt her, but I doubt it. He didn’t have the nerve. Anyway, it wasn’t too long after that that he left town for good. He’s now taken up residence in some backwater hick town in New Jersey, where he can be what he was always destined to be–a little fish in a little pond.”
 
1*SALUTATION
K-MART IN STORE MUSIC XMAS 1974
2*REFERENCE
DAN RATHER: DETROIT SCHOOLS: A NATIONAL DISGRACE
 
ALSO SEE:
THE EFFECTS OF POVERTY ON INTELLIGENCE
3*HUMOR
4*NOVELTY
Cheeto shaped like slain gorilla Harambe sells for $99,900 on eBay
6* DAILY UTILITY
WHAT, MILK IS SUDDENLY BAD FOR YOU?
7*CARTOON
FRANKENHEIMER’S “SECONDS”: ORGY SCENE
An under-regarded masterpiece starring Rock Hudson, but with dark subject matter and in black and white, which is no wonder why it stiffed, in spite of the ten minute orgy scene, which I have thoughtfully cued up for you, here:
8*PRESCRIPTION
10 HOURS OF AMBIENT NOISE FROM AN ICEBREAKER IN THE FROZEN ARCTIC
 
9*RUMOR PATROL
MUNCHKINS MOLESTED DOROTHY
“They thought they could get away with anything because they were so small,” wrote Luft, who died in 2005.
 
ALSO SEE:
THE DRUNKEN MUNCHKINS 
10* LAGNIAPPE
HOW TO MAKE FRIED CHICKEN
11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.

910. DUGINISM

THE INFORMATION #927 FEBRUARY 10, 2017

THE INFORMATION #927
FEBRUARY 10, 2017
Copyright 2017 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
 

The government is a joke. It’s a cardboard cutout that hides where the real machinery is.

–Frank Zappa
WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER ELEVEN: PART TEN: DAYS OF WRATH
“Little Joe the grifter is just like most members of the lower orders, ” said Count Victor Justin, warming to his theme. “You can give a gutter bum some polish, but you can hardly ever remove the smell of the gutter. And you can’t take them anywhere because they’ve trapped themselves inside the damned fool notion that they’ve got to be true to their ‘heritage’. So they’ll behave in all sorts of ways which sensible people scorn. They’ll drink too much. In fact, they will drink to stupefaction, all the while loudly proclaiming that they’re perfectly sober. They’ll express their opinions about any damned thing at all in a loud and grating voice. The principle things they’ll discuss are sporting competitions, politics, horses, and women. Which they value in roughly the same order. How tiresome they are! They have absolutely no sense of propriety–none at all. If they see you walking on the other side of the street they will loudly yell your name to attract your attention. And tell me–what man of affairs would want to be seen with such a person? Of course, if you fail to reciprocate their vulgar addresses, they will think that you are ‘high-hatting’ them and will attempt to make trouble for you, in their own oafish way. By telling the rest of the louts and layabouts and loochers, ‘Gosh–I thought he was a reg’lar Gee, but I guess he’s become snooty and stuck-up since he’s left the old neighborhood.’ No! He’s merely learned to carry himself with the pride of bearing which you so conspicuously lack, because you grew up in a garbage dump and simply don’t know any better! From a very early age you’ve been accustomed to strong drink, and repeated blows to the cranium, and hats that are too tight for your head, and so it’s a small wonder that you’re utterly incapable of holding so much as an original idea or notion in your rotting skull, let alone thinking in a straight and logical line! These people are so dumb that they join hands with their class enemies and applaud when these self-same earth shakers carry out their mission of afflicting the afflicted and comforting the comfortable. You can always make lots of ooftish in this way–by selling broken toys to sick children. 
 
“Don’t get me wrong–I don’t fall down and worship any Progressive bullshit overlord who comes along and claims to be my Savior. But my commonsensical self-same distrust of goo-goos and mugwumps does not mean I can’t smell phony business among the plutocracy when I see it. As far as some of these rich people are concerned, the poor might just as well curl up and die, and stop breathing all the precious air. But–not so fast, fuckers! The lower orders are breeding grounds for degeneracy and vice precisely because those are the very same conditions that prevail in the upper decks. Don’t kid yourself that the Plutocrats live their lives like plaster saints. No–I’ll tell you right here and now–and you should listen to me, because even though there’s no percentage in wising up a sucker, I am your friend and I am also the voice of hard experience–the rich, why, they fancy a drunken ruckus as much as any dirty scab or filthy beggar or starving Hobo. Difference being, they got the specie to cover over their dirty little habits. Good, though, ain’t it?’ ‘Money does not stink.’ Remember that, Yob, if you remember nothing else. 
 
“Now, every now and again, you’ll find some sort of social worker–poverty pests, I calls ’em–who will raise up a great hue and cry about how if conditions were to be changed from the very foundations, the poor would no longer be poor but would rather become productive members of society, and they’d all be clean as a hound’s tooth and honest to boot, and they’d be drinking Ice Cream Sodies on the Sabbath after getting down on their prayer dukes and praising the Lordie at the Church Social–instead of sleeping off a mean drunk in a filthy hovel and waking up with a world-class katzenjammer.  
 
“Haw! I should snicker! If I could talk to just one of these mollycoddles, d’ye know what I’d tell her? I’d scrooch up to her and say, I’d say, ‘Look, Sister, why don’t you get wise to yourself? Do you want to see another world? Then first and foremost, you had better come to terms with the one you’re in. Let’s face it–“The poor shall always be with us.” Your own Jesus said it. Some people are just born to be shat on. In Ancient Egypt they’d be slaves, and live on a diet of bread and beer. In Ancient Greece they’d be slaves, and live on a diet of olives and resin wine. And in Ancient Rome they’d be slaves, and they’d live on rusks and the lees of the master’s cup, and they wouldn’t even be enterprising enough to buy their own freedom. And in the old South, they’d live on hoe-cakes and pork cracklin’s and take an occasional nip of the massa’s good corn likker and would no doubt try to be runaways–and then Pateroller would get ’em, and they’d be whipped–forty lashes.’ 
 
“The problem with having this slave mentality is that you feel entitled to steal from everybody. You lie to everyone for no reason other than to get one over on them. You never let the smallest insult or slighting remark pass you by, but rather you hold it in your heart like a burning brand and you take revenge upon whoever passed it whenever and however you can. The trouble with thinking like a slave is that you eat and drink to excess on every occasion when you have the opportunity. You’re either hyper-cautious and look both ways before you say or do anything, or else you’re extremely reckless and get yourself into all sorts of sorry fixes because you just don’t think. Having never thought for yourself before, you’ve never developed the habit and you are incapable of doing it. You haul away whatever isn’t nailed down in the expectation that it might profit you. And the chances are very good, someone will haul you off–and you’ll get shot. Good, though, ain’t it?” 
 
1*SALUTATION
THE PHANTOM
LOVE ME
ALSO SEE:
BILL MONROE
WAYFARING STRANGER
2*REFERENCE
JURY DUTY: HOW THE INTERNET BECAME A TOOL FOR JUDGMENT RATHER THAN DIALOGUE
3*HUMOR
THE TEN MOST UNINTENTIONALLY FUNNY MOVIES OF ALL TIME
4*NOVELTY
HAIRCUT NUMBERS
 
ALSO SEE:
HOW TO TELL YOUR BARBER EXACTLY WHAT YOU WANT
5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
NEW DC COMIC REINVENTS SNAGGLEPUSS AS ‘GAY SOUTHERN GOTHIC PLAYWRIGHT’
http://www.cbr.com/new-dc-comic-reinvents-snagglepuss-as-gay-southern-gothic-playwright/

6* DAILY UTILITY

10 Investigative Reporting Outlets to Follow

8*PRESCRIPTION

New York Times Is Killing Its Comics Best-seller Lists, and the Comics World Isn’t Pleased

 
 
 
9*RUMOR PATROL
SHIRLEY TEMPLE AND THE DISTURBING HISTORY OF BABY BURLESK
 
10* LAGNIAPPE
GREEN MAGNET SCHOOL
THROB
 
ALSO SEE:
WINDSHIELD
 
 
11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA

BUTTERSCOTT
Buttersville Records
The Somewhat Disappointing Contractually Obligated Followup™

Instead of talking about this latest offering from the inimitable trio comprising the 21st century Butterscott, why don’t I instead inform you that the tradition of humor, at least in early rock, is strong. From the Lieber and Stoller songs written for the Coasters to “Chantilly Lace” and “Stranded in the Jungle”… No, wait. Maybe I had better talk about the record in depth, something which is sure to suck all the fun out of it. Warning: Spoilers ahead! OK. So. This latest offering begins with a cover of “Little Bit O’ Soul,” but the band calls it “My Favorite Friend” and it has a Bay City Rollers-style chant. “Female Trouble” is an amazingly twisted foray into rap, and station identification jingles. “Frumpi Grumpi” sees the trio concocting yet another 60’s dance craze. “Do the Nothing” is a sardonic descent into early 80’s synth rock and trance music. “Glorioski” is a debased doo-wop song, replete with authentic strings. “Not a Bad Idea” is a ’20s-era hokum spectacular, crammed with hilarious jokes. (Why they repeat the song later on is a mystery for the ages. Maybe they lost track or something.) “Kangaroovy” is a prime example of bubblegum psychedelia. “Undercover Jesus” is actually a profound statement disguised as a blasphemous Philadelphia Soul pastiche.  “All My Fault” is an astute impersonation of an angry punk rocker. “The Technological Love Song” uses click tracks and vocorder to completely take the piss out of–well, techno(logy). “Sage Advice From the Islands” takes the lessons of “Get An Ugly Girl To Marry You” to a predictably risible extreme. “Star wars for X-MeSS” tears apart the franchise for good and all – because somebody had to do it. “The Dynamite Eating Goat” made me laugh out loud, but that’s just the kind of guy I am. This is followed by a cover of “Diamond Girl,” only they call it “Choc Van Shake.” “When the Dustbunnies Blew Away” is a song which the Peanut Butter Conspiracy should have covered. Just sayin’. “Dime a Dozen Daddy” skewers the ominous pretentions of goth – or is it spaghetti western soundtracks?  You decide! “Showtune” does a great deal to wash away the sour taste of the, duh, show tune genre out of one’s mouth. But it’s not as catchy as “In the Good Old Summertime” as sung by the Jurgis Rudkis Choir. (“There seems to be something hypnotic about this, with its endlessly recurring dominant. It has put a stupor upon every one who hears it, as well as upon the men who are playing it. No one can get away from it, or even think of getting away from it; it is three o’clock in the morning, and they have danced out all their joy, and danced out all their strength, and all the strength that unlimited drink can lend them – and still there is no one among them who has the power to think of stopping.”) (Note: According to Kenneth Anger, “Rosebud” was actually Marion Davies’ clitoris, which is the real reason why William Randolph Hearst was so miffed at Orson Welles.) The band then covers “Woman From Tokyo,” only they call it “New Song.” And they use it to explain “the purpose of new songs in rock ’n’ roll shows.” What a cynical bunch! There’s also a cover of “For No One” with vocals by my good friend Walter Sickert. No French horn, though – bummer. This is funnier than Beach Boys Party and Jan & Dean meet Batman, and almost on a par with The Who Sell Out and The Turtles Present the Battle of the Bands. Like most good satire, it informs the future about the inane preoccupations of the past and present. I’ve spent worse hours. Well done, my good and faithful servants! 

http://thenoise-boston.com/2017/02/book-review-16/

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
905. The intolerance of the left: Trump’s win as seen from Walt Disney’s hometown
 
906. The President’s Grand Strategic Train Wreck
http://foreignpolicy.com/2017/01/31/trumps-grand-strategic-train-wreck/
 
 
909. STEVE BANNON & CRONY CAPITALISM