he might have taken him out to the stable to weigh horses for a race,
and might drink a glass of whiskey with him there. Well, if Andrew
Jackson can be president, anybody can!”
–c. in Robert Vincent Remini, The Life of Andrew Jackson
Q:Do monkeys bite?
A: Yes, monkeys will bite.
Stereotypes are generalizations and, as such, are valid, but
ultimately have limited universal applicability.
Maybe stereotypes, rumors, folklore, et al., are just a form of the
party game “Chinese Whispers” or “telephone” on a mass scale.
Stereotypes seem to be promulgated and kept into circulation by people
with blinders fashioned inextricably upon a crucial portion of their
sensory apparatus. Setting purely cultural preferences aside, there
seems to be no scientific basis for stereotypes based upon any
race-based differences. But trying to say in our current
image-obsessed culture is like trying to shout down Cotton Mather
while he hangs people accused of being witches.
“Anti-Semitism is the socialism of fools.” –August Bebel
The Science of Stereotyping
Ewen: Defining people according to simplified categories dates back to
antiquity, and is probably an intrinsic part of human cultures.
Traditional myths, rituals and dramas routinely employed identifiable
types, but they usually symbolized different aspects of humanity
With the rise of democratic ideas, traditional ideas about the
God-given differences that justified social hierarchy fell into
disfavor. By the late 18th century, the “Divine Right of Kings” or the
idea of “Papal Infallibility” were being challenged by the ideas of
“natural rights,” “popular sovereignty” and human “inequality.” While
traditional hierarchies fought back, new caste systems arose in the
shadow of democracy. These used “scientific” tools as an argument for
social difference, as a line of defense designed to maintain social
and economic inequities. A scientific stamp of approval now certified
dividing humanity into simple, unequal categories according to race,
gender and economic status. In the 19th and 20th centuries, this
tendency accelerated and many of these simple categories became the
basic vocabulary of popular culture.
ARE ASIANS BAD DRIVERS?
6) Brother Power, The Geek
7) Ultra the Multi-Alien
8) The Black Racer
9) The Space Canine Patrol Agents
10) The Legion of Super Pets
By Hank Jim
Well, you see, there was this here Dago, Prince Something-or-Other,
and he was stone cold broke. I mean, the greaseball was just plain
flat out busted. His wallet was flat as a pancake.He didn’t have two
shillings to rub together. Well, he’s landed in London, and he’s
gotten himself fixed up to marry this here pretty little American gal
named Maggie, whose Pop is some kind of big shot in pork bellies and
fancy paintings. But then the filthy little Wop meets some dame he
used to feed the old baloney sausage to, named Charlotte, and they
decide to buy a wedding present for poor little Maggie. This old Jew
wants to sell them this this here solid gold bowl, though if it was
me, I’d rather buy her a a Tuba or some other kind of stuff. Something
useful, you know? Well the stuffy Dago Prince, he thinks the Jew is
trying to pull a fast one, and that there’s something phony about the
so-called antique, so he won’t buy the gew-gaw.
Well, anyhoo, Prince Whatshisface marries the gal, and she figures, as
newlyweds sometimes do, that her old Paw is gotten lonesome without
her, so what does she do? She fixes him up with the Charlotte gal,
only what she don’t know is, her own hubby used to bump ankles with
the little minx. Well, ole Paw marries the Charlotte gal, only
wouldn’t you know it, the sneaky Eye-tie manages to go agin all that
is decent and white and hop into bed with the sweetheart instead of
payin’ due attention to his own wife, who seems awfully wrapped up in
ole Paw anyhow.
Well, Wifey didn’t egg-zactly fall off the turnip truck, and it ain’t
long before she suspects there’s something fishy goin’ on. Wouldn’y ya
know it–she meets the old Jewish shopkeeper and buys the golden
whatzit. Well then, like no Jewish fella I ever knew, old Solomon the
antique dealer has an attack of the inside meemies and shows up at the
gal’s door to tell her he done stiffed her on the price of the
whatchamacallit. Then he just happens to see some pictures of the Dago
Prince and his little floozy, Charlotte. He tells Wifey about how
those two were in his shop previous, all lovey-dovey and yakkin’ in
Dago talk, which he just happens to understand.
Well, all hell breaks loose. It’s one swell donnybrook, and if I’m
lyin’ I’m flyin’. There’s a whole lot of jibber-jabber back and forth.
Their pals Bob and Fanny show up and get into a lot of yakkin’. That
overpriced golden whatsit falls to the floor and breaks. You see, it’s
not really a Freudian symbol, I guess–nothing sexy–it’s more like
the Wife finally gets wise to herself. So then wifey tells the snooty
Dago she’s on to him, and she sets out to bust up the affair between
her Hubby and old Charlotte. She talks old Pappy into going back to
the good old US of A with his wife, and he says he will. Well, the
Dago is so impressed with how sneaky his wife is that he decides that
he does love her, after all, and it’s a happy ending all around,
because Charlotte’s wise old paw gets sloppy seconds on a good-lookin
but kinda stupid whore and the snobby Dago Prince gets away with
running around on his wife. The Moral of the story is, ladies, if’n
you find your husband is been cheatin’ on you, drop the little girl
act and get right down to brass tacks. You can hold it over his
miserable head for the rest of his natural born days. Especially if
it’s 1904, and he’s a Dago Prince who’s squandered all his loot, and his only pal besides a whore is a fella named Bob Assingham.
These are three that I’m personally aware of:
Carmen Calabrese (a hot-tempered Italian).
Danny Boss (a bully, now deceased).
Rex Mounts (a pedophile).
I also went to school with boys named:
I have always been fascinated by these actresses:
There are many MANY more odd names out there:
Dottie Pickup (the school slut)
Adam (Hugh) Jass
April May June
S. J. Pancake
The Gross triplets
Brother Wayne Slomany
Harley Bubba Johnson
Margarette Mary Jacqueline Manoogian
Dr. Sackenoff (a vasectomist)
Dr. Bum Suck Lee
Dr. Laura Frankenstein
Suk-Hee Lee, Ph.D.
AND, LEST WE FORGET:
“Yes, I am Dick Armey. And if there is a dick army, Barney Frank would
want to join up.”
“Beantown” and “The Hub” have gotten old. My good friend and long-time native Joe Coughlin has proposed BIG SURLY and WICKEDPISSAVILLE, and I humbly propose the following:
MAGIC LAND OF SPIKED GINGER ALE
TOO MUCH DEMOCRACY LAND
ISLAND OF THE SKY GHETTOES
THE DRUG AND DEATH CORRIDOR
LAND OF THE WEIRDLY SPINELESS
THE SUBARCTIC TECH CORRIDOR
HOME OF THE TURTLEHEADS
THE GRAND DOUCHEY OF CLOUDCUCKOOLAND
NORTHEAST SECONDARY SEWAGE PROCESSING DEPOT #5
MI COSA NOSTRA ES SU COSA NOSTRA
1) Dick Tracy by Chester Gould
2) Little Orphan Annie by Harold Gray
3) Pogo by Walt Kelly
4) Thimble Theatre by Elzie Segar
5) Krazy Kat by George Herriman
6) Polly and Her Pals by Cliff Sterrett
7) Our Boarding House/Room and Board/The Squirrel Cage by Gene Ahern
8) Abbie ‘n’ Slats by Raeburn Van Buren
9) Peanuts by Charles Schultz
10) Calvin and Hobbes by Bill Watterson
11) Li’l Abner by Al Capp
12) Toonerville Trolley by Fontaine Fox
13) Skippy by Percy Crosby
14) Barnaby by Crockett Johnson
15) Count Screwloose of Toulouse (or anything by Milt Gross)
16) Smokey Stover by Bill Holman
17) Out Our Way by J.R. Williams
18) Bringing Up Father by George McManus
19) Little Nemo In Slumberland by Winsor McKay
20) Wash Tubbs and Captain Easy by Roy Crane
21) Parlor, Bedroom & Sink by Billy DeBeck
22) Sam’s Strip by Jerry Dumas and Mort Walker
23 Mutt and Jeff by Bud Fisher
24) Gasoline Alley by Frank King
25) The Far Side by Gary Larson
26) The Outbursts of Everett True by A. D. Condo and J.W. Raper
27) White Boy by Garrett Price
28) Moon Mullins by Frank Willard
29 Jackys Diary by Jack Mendelsohn
30) Sparky Watts by Boody Rogers
Enables you to be an agreeable companion to those who share your inclinations and outlooks.
Makes hopeless drunks not think of you as a stuck up snob.
Gives your sweat an interesting aroma.
The liquor store owner will be sad when you die.
Keeps you on the reservation and out the white man’s hair.
Save tons of money.
No DUIs, ever, no matter how fast and recklessly you were driving.
Less likely to do stupid things, or fuck the wrong people.
Easier to lose weight.
Brain cells and liver stay healthy.
Less chance of cancer.
No coyote uglies in your bed.
Possibility of pleasant breath.
Less gum disease.
No waking up in jail.
Your ex doesn’t have an email…or an answering machine message….from 2 am… that you will live to regret.
You don’t have to blame whiskey for my own idiocy. As in, “It was the whiskey talking.” No, YOUR own idiocy. As in, “It was the whiskey talking.” No, drunky, it was the stupified brain cells in your central cerebral cortex which put your limbic system in charge, and that’s what did the talkin’!
hands. The Morning News of November 22 carried a full-page
advertisement on page 14, rimmed in black, underwritten by a group
calling itself the “American Fact-Finding Committee.” Under a
sarcastic headline, “welcome mr. kennedy to dallas,” the committee
listed twelve deliberately provocative questions, all couched to
insinuate that the president (and his brother, the attorney general)
were unbearably soft on Communism. The advertisement complemented a
handbill that had appeared mysteriously overnight under doors and on
the windshields of countless Dallas cars. Featuring the president’s
image from the front and the left side, as if taken from a police mug
shot, the broadside accused him of turning the United States over to
the “communist controlled United Nations.” In case the imagery or text
was lost on anyone, the headline read, “wanted for treason.”After reading the paid advertisement, the president sought to prepare
Jacqueline Kennedy for any unpleasantness that might occur in the
afternoon. “Oh, you know,” John Kennedy remarked to his wife, “we’re
heading into nut country today.”ALSO SEE:The information I present in these pages on the Kennedy assassination
is well-known to certain news agencies who have chosen to suppress it,
just as the motivation for the assassination has been plunged into
cryonic secrecy. Masonic betrayal of the “common man” involves
archetypes of fertility and death symbolism seemingly motivated to
bring about syncretism in opposing principles in order to green
Israel, rebuild the Temple of Solomon and establish a One World
government.It is by way of Masonic sorcery that the union of opposing principles
is supposed to be brought about. The criminals who stage-managed
Dallas in the killing of Kennedy have controlled the American people’s
will in exchange for a sleep without nightmares. I publish this in the
wake of the situation Charles Seymour alluded to: “The moralist
unquestionably secures wide support; but he also wearies his
audience.” Most Americans are beyond being tired; the revelations have
Gershon Legman (No Laughing Matter, 1975) classifies this form of
humor as “Food Dirtying”, a sub-category of “Scatology”.
Captain Bourke’s Scatalogic Rites of All Nations
[Scatalogic Rites of All Nations: A Dissertation upon the Employment
of Excrementitious Remedial Agents in Religion, Therapeutics,
Divination, Witchcraft, Love-Philters, etc., in all Parts of the
Globe. Based Upon Original Notes and Personal Observations, and upon
Compilation from over One Thousand Authorities. Not for General
Key Phrases – Statistically Improbable Phrases (SIPs): (learn more)
catamenial fluid, urine dance, human ordure, stercore humano, cockle
bread, poultry dung, urine drunk, dung gods, excrement gods, white
dung, own ordure, grand lama, hard tumors, uterine troubles, yellow
jaundice, mortuary ceremonies, human urine, war customs, abnormal
appetite, animal excreta, own urine, sonal letter, warm urine
I’ve never seen an episode of the Sopranos. But I liked
“The Shield” on FX and “Mad Men” on AMC.
Star Trek always bored me silly. But I loved “Land of the Giants” and
“Lost in Space”. (Hey–I was ten.)
Never saw Gone with the Wind, or Casablanca; nor Ghostbusters nor Caddyshack.
Saw most of “Back to School” but I missed the best part (Rodney’s commercial).
And I haven’t followed rap in many many years. Not since I was about,
In my drinking days I’ve had a martini a time or two. I wasn’t any too
impressed. My grandfather, however, swore by the benefits of a shot
of sweet vermouth every morning. When he went to the hospital, he told
this to the doctors and nurses. When they began referring to him as
“The Vermouth Man” my Aunt Lucille slapped them down–hard (God bless her).
The TV show M*A*S*H (which I actually hate, though the movie was pretty good).
The Office (though the 1 or 2 partial episodes I’ve seen I’ve kinda
The Da Vinci Code. I didn’t even make it through the first chapter.
Tom Clancy and John Grisham books. I read one apiece. These are
productions for which the word “meh” was invented.
Survivor and all reality-based television
Law and Order, ER, and all repetitive dramas
30 Rock and the Office
Pro hockey, baseball, football, and basketball don’t move me. But I’ll
watch a boxing match.
Golf I associate with new money.
NASCAR with no money.
The Olympics or OK, but I feel no compelling need to watch them.
Star Wars (Though I have seen episodes I, IV, and V. Which were plenty.)
As a student of pop culture and mythology I do take an unhealthy
interest in Superheroes (comics only–TV and movies are generally
poorly done, though–of those I’ve seen recently, Hellboy was
acceptable, Constantine was OK, and From Hell was adequate).
And I’m always willing to read sordid tales of true crime and serial killers.
There’s very little I’m not at least superficially interested in. BUT:
I refuse to waste my time on the sorts of trivia with which other
people seem to be obsessed, simply because the media machine requires
us to be informed regarding it.
CHANGE THE NAME OF ARKANSAW? HELL, NO!
Gentlemen, you may tear down the honored pictures from the halls of
the United States Senate, desecrate the grave of George Washington,
haul down the Stars and Stripes, curse the Goddess of Liberty, and
knock down the tomb of U.S. Grant, but your crime would in no wise
compare in enormity with what you propose to do when you would change
the name of Arkansas! Change the name of Arkansas? Hell-fire, NO!
Compare the lily of the valley to the gorgeous sunrise; the discordant
croak of the bullfrog to the melodious tones of a nightingale; the
classic strains of Mozart to the bray of a Mexican mule; the puny arm
of a Peruvian prince to the muscles of a Roman gladiator – but never
will you change the name of Arkansas! Hell, NO!
Hear me, gentlemen – The man who would CHANGE THE NAME OF ARKANSAS is the original iron-jawed, brass-mounted, copper-bellied corpse-maker from the wilds of the Ozarks! Sired by a hurricane, dammed by an earthquake, half-brother to the cholera, nearly related to the
small-pox on his mother’s side, he is the man they call Sudden Death
and General Desolation! He takes nineteen alligators and a barrel of
whiskey for breakfast, when he is in robust health; and a bushel of
rattlesnakes and a dead body when he is ailing. He splits the
everlasting rocks with his glance, and quenches the thunder when he
Change the name of Arkansas? Hell, NO! Stand back and give him room
according to his strength. Blood’s his natural drink! And the wails of
the dying music to his ears! Cast your eyes on the gentleman, and lay
low and hold your breath, for he’s ’bout to turn himself loose! He’s
the bloodiest son of a wild-cat that lives, who would change the name
of Arkansas! Hold him down to earth, for he is a child of sin! Don’t
attempt to look at him with your naked eye, gentlemen; use smoked
glass. The man who would change the name of Arkansas, by gosh, would
use the meridians of longitude and the parallels of latitude for a
seine, and drag the Atlantic Ocean for whales! He would scratch
himself awake with the lightning, and purr himself to sleep with the
thunder! When he’s cold, he would “bile” the Gulf of Mexico and bathe
in it! When he’s hot, he would fan himself with an equinoctial storm!
When he’s thirsty, he would reach up and suck a cloud dry like a
sponge! When he’s hungry, famine follows in his wake! You may put your
hand on the sun’s face, and make it night on earth; bite a piece out
of the moon, and hurry the seasons; shake yourself and rumble the
mountains; but, sir, you will never change the name of Arkansas! Hell,
The man who would change the name of Arkansas, would massacre isolated
communities as a pastime. He would destroy nationalities as a serious
business! He would use the boundless vastness of the Great American
Desert for his private grave-yard! He would attempt to extract
sunshine from cucumbers! Hide the stars in a nail-keg, put the sky to
soak in a gourd, hang the Arkansas River from a clothesline; unbuckle
the belly-band of Time, and turn the sun and moon out to pasture; but
you will never change the name of Arkansas! The world will again pause
and wonder at the audacity of the lop-eared, lantern-jawed,
half-breed, half-born, whiskey-soaked hyena who has proposed to change
the name of Arkansas!
He’s just starting to climb the political banister, and wants to knock
the hay-seed out of his hair, pull the splinters out of his feet, and
push on and up to the governorship. But change the name of Arkansas?
Mr. Speaker, god-damn your soul, for more than thirty minutes I’ve
been trying to get your attention but every time I caught your eye you
squirmed like a damn dog with a flea in his ass.
I guess you know who I am Sir. My name is Cassius M. Johnson from
Jackson County, Arkansas where a man can’t stick his ass out the
window and shit without it getting riddled with bullets. Why Sir, I
was fourteen years old before I had my first pair of pants and they
was of buckskin. But at the age of seventeen Mr. Speaker, I had a jock
on me the size of a roasting ear and it was the pride of Jackson
County. And you propose to change the name of Arkansas. Never, by God
I’m out of order? How can I be out of order when I can piss clear
across the Mississippi River?
Where was Andrew Jackson when the battle of New Orleans was fit? He
was right thar Sir, up to his ass in blood. And you change the name of
Arkansas? Never, when I can defend her.
You may shit on the grave of George Washington. Piss on the monument
of Thomas Jefferson. You may desecrate the sacred remains of the
immortal General Robert E. Lee. You may rape the Goddess of Liberty
and wipe your ass on the Stars and Stripes. And your crime, your crime
Sir will no more compare to this hellish design than the glow of a
lightning-bug’s ass to the glare of the noon days sun. And you propose
to change the name of Arkansas. Never, by God Sir, never!
You may compare the lily of the valley to the glorious sunflower. Or
the sun-kissed peaks of the highest mountains to the smokin’ turd of a
dunghill. Or the classic strains of Mozart to the fart of a Mexican
burrow. You may compare the puny penis of a Peruvian prince to the
ponderous buttocks of the Roman gladiator. But change the name of
Arkansas? Never, by God Sir, never!