THE INFORMATION #991 MAY 4, 2018

THE INFORMATION #991
MAY 4, 2018
Copyright 2018 FRANCIS DIMENNO
dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

“Baby cries, Mama buys.”–slogan

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TWELVE: PART EIGHT: THE EASTERN GATE OF PARADISE

Several weeks passed. The next time Cadger Tandy saw Count Victor Justin, it was verging very close to May Day. “Beltane,” the old man called it, and Cadger Tandy did not press him as to what that meant. He was preoccupied with studying for final exams so he could get through the grade eight so he could start going to high school. They had kept him back a year, he was convinced, because he lived in a whorehouse. All the teachers knew it. Because he attended a public school he could not be denied a seat, but whenever he caught a teacher staring at him, he thought he saw a small sneer on the lips of the male teachers and a wet, almost fearful look on the faces of the elderly matrons who taught soft subjects like English Composition and French.

Count Victor Justin was in a festive mood. Spring was in the air and a spring was in his step. Despite the heavy and somewhat chill rain which flowed from the sky in sporadic torrents and the dripping water which fell intermittently, soporifically, from awnings and gutters, grey skies had given way to signs of glowing blue vistas, and there were patches of greenness everywhere one cared to look.

“Yob,” said Count Victor Justin, “I was just exchanging pleasantries with an old drummer friend of mine who I haven’t seen in a coon’s age. And you know something? You remind me more and more of him. His name was Salvatore Floyd. That’s quite a name to be tagged with, ain’t it? ”

Justin went on to explain that his old friend, the drummer, was half Irish and half Italian. “He might of had a little drop of Jewboy mixed in there somehow, though I dunno. Maybe his great-great grandpaw was a Converso. It always did seem to me that he had a furtive, Shylock air about him. But that’s neither here nor there. His Maw was Italian and his Paw was an Irishman. How did they meet? Beats me. I think they shared a Catholic Church. Started in to smooching in the pews. Anyway, the two clans were deadly enemies in his hometown of Belle Avon. It was real Romeo and Juliet stuff, only nobody died. His father was the son of an old sod.

“You mean a son of the old sod?”

“No. What I said. And his mother was a floogie.”

“What’s that?”

“A chippie off the old block.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will. Soon enough. Anyway, this pal of mine, Salvatore–everybody called him ‘Sam’–had all the worst qualities of both races. He was both greasy and sentimental. He was shifty–and a drunk, and the drunker he got, the slyer he was. Now, nobody goes into sales if they have any other skill at all.

“If you like the smell of wood and you don’t mind smashing your thumb with a hammer, you go into carpentry. If you like the smell of metal and you don’t mind losing a finger or two, you go to work at the tool and die plant. If you have a mind uncluttered with airy-fairy metaphysical notions of truth and beauty, and you don’t mind an occasional 90 milliamp shock, you become a ‘lectrician. Or if you got a mind bent on avarice and your folks have money and you can put on a front of dubious probity, you can go into stocks and bonds.

“But nobody likes sales. It’s a brutal racket. Yet some Yellofs take to it like a duck takes to water. Sam was one of that lucky tribe. When he was just starting out, he was a traveling salesman as covered a wide territory.He sold just about anything they sent him out to sell. His first summer it was shitty, cheap encyclopedias. ‘Encyclopedia Columbia’ or some asinine knock-off like that. He took me out with him to train me in sales techniques, says he, but I think it was just so’s he could have an audience.

“My God, you should have heard him tongue-lash those Bohunks! Here’s how he would work. He hands around a few cheap trinkets to storekeepers and neighborhood loafers and gets the gen on who in the neighborhood has got a baby boy-child. He makes it seem as though a Doctor or some other person respected in the neighborhood has sent him to the door of the Bohunk on an important matter. He worms his way into the house of the working man just before his suppertime. ‘Nice looking kid you got there,’ says he, about a drooling crumb-crusher who resembles a mongoloid, who is crawling about on a filthy throw rug. ‘Guess someday he’ll be working in the mines just like his pa.’ ‘Not if I have anything to say about it,’ says his Ma, full of pepper and vinegar. The old man just sits in his chair and grunts. Then Sam goes into his spiel. ‘This fine reference work is a complete educational system, A to Z, cradle to grave. Your kid won’t even need to go to school, and he will be like a Harvard Yale Scholar. He’ll be the envy of his classmates–NOT…envious of them. How would you like your boy to be a Doctor, a Lawyer, or a Professional man with a briefcase? He’d never have to get his hands dirty–not him! And he’d marry a swell society dame and have a dozen robust children with snapping black eyes. How does that sound, eh? And in your old age he could support you, and Papa wouldn’t have to work so hard?’ ‘Gee…that sounds swell,’ the housewife would say, and a wistful look would swim into her eyes. ‘Can’t afford it,’ grunts the old man. ‘Oh, but that’s where I beg to differ,’ says Sam, just as slick as snot. ‘The way I see it, you can’t afford NOT to try this set.’ (Note how he says “try” and not “buy”.)

“He then looks over at the housewife and gives her a winning smile. If she lowers her eyes, that means she’s sold. All he needs now is to get the bohunk to put his Jaroslav Hancock on the fucking dotted line. It’s an awful lot like hooking and reeling in a fish. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the way to get the Bohunk to sign would be to simply say “Old Hunky Novotny ordered a set, in twenty-four easy payments, and I gave him a steep discount because I liked the cut of his jib. Now, I’m not supposed to be handing out discounts, you understand, because they come out of the company’s pocket, but I really want you to have this set, so sign right here.'”

“And it would work. The Bohunk signs, just to get the Yellof out of his hair so he can eat his supper. And to avoid a brawl with the Wifey.

“And on those rare occasions when the pitch didn’t work, Sam would say, “Your kid is a moron and he’ll never amount to anything.’ ”

“What a sweet guy!”

1* SALUTATION
JULES & THE POLAR BEARS
SHADOWS BREAK

2*REFERENCE
BLACK HISTORY: LOST, STOLEN, OR STRAYED
STARRING BILL COSBY

3*HUMOR
REGRETS? I’VE HAD A FEW.
My (in retrospect) rather tasteless joke about radical mastectomies in front of the National Organization of Women’s 1976 Annual meeting did not go over very well. (“I guess Betty Ford and Happy Rockefeller can now form an interlocking directorate!”)

In fact. several women ran out of the room crying.

Dames, huh? Who kin figger ’em?

As my good friend Lenny Bruce once said to me, “You can’t live with ’em and you can’t live without ’em, so why not live with a lot of them?”

4*NOVELTY
BIRCHER RANTS NOW SOUND LIKE MAINSTREAM REPUBLICANISM

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
THE APU CONTROVERSY
time.com/5253884/hank-azaria-the-simpsons-apu/

6* DAILY UTILITY
UNIVERSITY OF ALABAMA SORORITY GIRL GOES ON A RACIST RANT
This will probably get buried but I actually know this girl. We didn’t go to school together but we met up through mutual friends when she came to one of the parties we used to throw in the woods on the edge of our town. She was always wild, getting way to drunk and flashing her tits. She actually had another small bout of social media fame from one of those twitter frat pages where she was caught blowing a dude in a bathroom stall, her face wasn’t in the video but it was put together based on a picture she posted of her self wearing the same outfit. The last time I saw her was about 7 months ago at a party she was carrying a full bottle of Bacardi, I swiped it. I felt bad for a bit but I sure don’t now, got proper fucked up for a few weekends after that
http://www.reddit.com/r/PublicFreakout/comments/7r1axq/university_of_alabama_sorority_girl_goes_on_a/

7*CARTOON
BORNEO OURANG RAPES IRISH TOURIST
http://www.bossfeed.net/2017/09/11/borneo-irish-tourist-savagely-raped-by-400-pound-orangutan/

8*PRESCRIPTION
ALCOHOL & THE BRAIN
pubs.niaaa.nih.gov/publications/aa63/aa63.htm

9* RUMOR PATROL
WAFFLE HOUSE MURDERS
http://www.salon.com/2018/04/24/our-president-ignores-an-american-hero-trumps-silence-on-the-waffle-house-murders-is-deafening/

10* LAGNIAPPE
AZTEC CAMERA
PILLAR TO POST

11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
THE DOUCHE CHILLS #12: COSBY FOUND GUILTY
Juries reach the darndest verdicts.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/bill-cosby-found-guilty-on-all-counts-in-sexual-assault-retrial_us_5adf7c79e4b061c0bfa274b3

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
JOY REID FAT-SHAMED CHUBBED-OUT SHREW ROSIE
http://www.foxnews.com/entertainment/2018/04/26/msnbc-star-joy-reid-fat-shamed-chubbed-out-shrew-rosie-odonnell-amid-feud-with-trump-report-says.html

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THE INFORMATION #990 APRIL 27, 2018

THE INFORMATION #990
APRIL 27, 2018
Copyright 2018 FRANCIS DIMENNO

dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

What greater evil could you wish a miser than long life? –Publilius Syrus

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TWELVE: PART SEVEN: THE EASTERN GATE OF PARADISE

“Southerners and Swamp Yankees,” said Count Victor Justin to Cadger Tandy, “them’s two type of people it never yet paid to tangle with. Of course, you can swindle those savages just as easily as ev’ryone else–more so, in fact. But don’t set out to rob ’em, unless by stealth or trickery. The nutmeg peddlers up north are a hardy breed. Your Swamp Yankees in particular would rather have you kill ’em, than to have to unhand their oofish. I’ve heerd a story from Bill the Penman, a former cellie of mine, about a rich score. A miserly old Yankee who, rumor had it, had socked away a cool thousand, and who was ripe for the pluckin’. But someone gave Bill a bum steer. It was an old Yankee storekeeper out in Daisytown named Luther Gay. Bill was six foot two and must of weighed at least 200 pounds. And the bony little Yankee peddler, why, he mought of weighed all of 135. Those swamp Yankees are too damn ornery to waste money on food. They consider ice cream to be the poor man’s pheasant.

“Anyway, Bill the Penman came in, cool as chalk, and gave the old shopkeeper a line of blarney about how he was a poor stranded Englishman who was new in town and looking for honest work and the old boy just squinted at him real hard, with his black eyes glinting with ill-concealed malice. The storekeeper wore bib overalls and a filthy white shirt. He was a sallow, limber-gaited satan-worshipping wretch with a long and slender white beard, turned partially yaller, so that he looked exactly like an ole billy-goat. Bill figured the time for palaver was well past. He jumped over the counter and got Luther Gay by the throat, asking him where the money was. Bill spied the strongbox under the counter and then grabbed for it. Gay went and screeched his durn fool head off as Bill the Penman tried to wrest from his clutching forks the old man’s wonderful tin strongbox, which Bill imagined was brim-full of shekels and yaller boys. Luther Gay clutched at that cheese as though his life depended on it, and maybe it did. The robber coshed him not just once, but several times, and yelled for the ump-chay to shut his potato-trap and given the red rag a holiday. How Bill eventually got caught was, all that ruckus finally attracted the family dog, who was chained to a stake in the backyard. He somehow got loose, was attracted by all the screaming, came springing in through the rear door, made his way to the front and went for the back of the yekkman’s throat. Now, down in New York, Bill would have shot that storekeeper, and the dog too, just as quick as look at them, or, at the very least, he’d of shoved a shiv up through the little storekeeper’s yellow belly. But up north I suppose the yekkman thought he could get by with the strong arm and the club. Little did he reckon with the god-damned orneryness of those old parchment-faced Yankees. The dog mauled him pretty good, yet he might of gotten off scot-free all the same, except the neighbors came runnin’ over with shotguns. Bill got away, but pretty soon a posse was set up to hunt him down.

“Now, Bill the Penman was in an awful fix because his pantaloons were in tatters and the Yankee storekeeper’s neighbors were quite literally up in arms. He made it to the swamp where he found a crick and crossed it several times to throw the dogs off the scent. It was late spring, and still a mite cold that far north–the ground was still partially frozen, though the undergrowth was already pretty well overgrown. As he went slogging through that odiferous swamp near to the crick, about a dozen horrible brown leeches clamped onto his legs right smart. Then it started in to rain. A torrential deluge, just as the pale sun was beginning to set and the air beginning to turn chilly. When night fell, a baleful full moon shone through the clouds and mist. Bill the Penman was not a superstitious soul, he told me, but at that moment he swore that the face of the man in the moon was staring at him with a countenance most malevolent and smug, as if to say, ‘There’s no use for it, Old Bill–they’re surely going to catch you out this time, Old Son. You had a good string of successes, but here comes your Waterloo.’

“Ordinarily, Bill the Penman wasn’t as dumb as this gapeseed yarn would make him out to be. He came from a long line of rogues and swagmen, and, he assured me, he had gotten himself out of worse fixes than this one, often times with the simple gift of gab. But there was no escaping this predicament. Everyone for ten miles around had been roused and was on the lookout for a glim of the brigand who had coshed the storekeeper until his head and face were a bloody mess. No, Bill was no Savage, but it would of taken him considerable ingenuity to make his way south and escape the clutches of Johnny Law. Even at that, he almost done it. Found a Hobo jungle and told the boys there of his plight. They was Johnsons, and they gave him some duds and put a feed in him–but there was a rat who figured there might be a hefty reward, and he figured he would funk him. So he partnered up with Bill, saying they would make a great team, but the first chance he got–I think it was at White River Junction–he told the railroad bulls that he was traveling with a wanted badman, and they clubbed old Bill half to death before hauling him off to the hoosegow. I’m glad to report that the rat got clobbered as well, and was sent packing back to the jungle.

“Even then, Bill wasn’t out of tricks. Seems as though the town jail was in the basement of the police department, and warn’t any too secure, which is the way these small town jails usually are, because all they’re generally used for is to house Lushingtons who need a chance to sleep it off, and maybe the occasional wife-beater. Bill was able to hide a tenpenny nail in his cheek, and he used it to jimmy the antiquated lock, and next he squoze hisself through some kind of basement window hid behind the furnace. But the raggedy clothes that the hautboys had given him were even more raggedy now, and he was awful conspicuous, even in a place like White River Junction, which wasn’t exactly a Paris or a Rome of high fashion. Bill’s dilemma was how to hide himelf until nightfall. He hid under a gazebo near the town square until the town was fast asleep, then he stole him a hoss and started south, but it wasn’t long before the posse caught up with him, and they might of lynched him, too, if cooler heads hadn’t prevailed. It turned out that nobody really liked the Yankee shopkeeper, who was stingy with giving credit and dunned his creditiors unmercifully until they paid their accounts in full.

“Where they finally caught up with Bill was down in Dalton, Massachusetts. “If only I’d a made it to a big city, they never would of found me,” said Bill, and he’s probably correct. But the caught him near Washington Mountain, as part of a sweep of a hobo jungle, and they hauled poor Bill to the state penitentiary in Ossining, preparatory to trial. They warn’t taking no chances this time. After all, he had nearly killed old Luther Gay. The judge sentenced him to ten years making big ones out of little ones. He served eight, and cursed himself every day for ever having mucked about with Swamp Yankees in general, and Luther Gay in particular.

“And would you believe that Bill only got away with a two dollar bill? That was all the money the old miser had in the strongbox. He kept the rest of his ooftish hid somewhere in the house, nobody to this day knows where.

“To think that old Gay fought that hard for a lousy Jefferson–you can only imagine how much of a battlecock he would of been for the whole wad!”

1* SALUTATION
THE SALVATION ARMY
SHE TURNS TO FLOWERS

ALSO SEE:
THE THREE O’CLOCK
BAROQUE HOEDOWN

2*REFERENCE
THE FOUR MOST HOMOPHOBIC COMICS EVER CREATED
http://www.cracked.com/blog/the-4-most-homophobic-comics-ever-created/

3*HUMOR
WEIRD MINOR LEAGUE SPORTS NAMES
http://www.si.com/extra-mustard/2016/02/26/crazy-weird-minor-league-team-names

4*NOVELTY
THE GREAT SOCIETY COMIC BOOK
envisioningtheamericandream.com/2013/05/16/lbjs-comic-great-society/
willrabbe.com/microblog/2011/2/22/huh-lbj-the-great-society-comic-book.html

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
CANADA RUNNING OUT OF ASBESTOS
http://www.ctvnews.ca/canada-s-last-asbestos-mine-about-to-run-out-of-asbestos-1.674045

6* DAILY UTILITY
GARBAGE SOUP
http://www.businessinsider.com/what-makes-up-garbage-soup-2012-6

ALSO SEE:
HOBO TOMATO SOUP
http://www.instructables.com/id/Hobos-Tomato-Soup/

7*CARTOON
THE SAD SONG OF PERCY CROSBY
http://www.startribune.com/the-sad-song-of-skippy/228645671/

8*PRESCRIPTION
FAMOUS DOGS
http://www.lingerandlook.com/Names/DogInfo.php?venue_key=G&when_key=X&sort_key=name&name_opt=

9* RUMOR PATROL
THE SINISTER AND TRULY TERRIFYING ARISTOCRAT TOMATO

10* LAGNIAPPE
FRANK SINATRA
(THEME FROM) STINKFINGER

11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
THE DOUCHE CHILLS #11:STARBUCKS
Starbucks is a clean well-lighted crack house for people who still secretly wish they used illegal drugs.

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
FASHION
Maybe Fashion was invented so men wouldn’t have to marry women who dressed the same as their own mothers.

THE INFORMATION #989 APRIL 20, 2018

THE INFORMATION #989
APRIL 20, 2018
Copyright 2018 FRANCIS DIMENNO

dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

I went to Boston fully expecting to be arrested – arrested by a polizia created by a government that my ancestors rebelled to establish. –Edna St. Vincent Millay

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TWELVE: PART SIX: THE EASTERN GATE OF PARADISE

“I’m telling you, Yob, they don’t pay me to lie,” said Count Victor Justin to Cadger Tandy, “so I’m a-gonna speak the truth. And the Devil take the hindmost. I’ve never seen so many disgruntled people in one locality as I found in Boston and its environs, and I never saw so many mean, sawney creatures in one place as in the much-vaunted Boston Subway system. The pickle-pussed old ladies and worn-down young men you see riding–eroding, say rather– on that newfangled contraption are like a scene out of a Bosch painting, or Dante’s famous Inferno. Someone ought to tell the good burghers of Beantown that there’s no tax on smiling down upon your brother every now and again. And that it won’t cost them even so much one red cent to at least pretend to be civil. I suppose that if some of those grizzled old Patricians were to let loose a stray grin their faces would crack. I mean, they probably haven’t cracked a smile since the Crimson boys won the Harvard-Yale game of 1875. Someone should also tell ‘em that they needn’t be all hell-bent for leather to be the first one to fly off the train, all the while knocking down mothers with suckin’ babes and gouty old men ass-over-teakettle in their great big hurry to get–somewhere? Who knows? Who knows if there’s anywheres in Boston that is even worth rushing off to visit? But from the way some of those Yellofs push and elbow, they’re fixin’ to get in the first licks of finding that pot o’ gold that’s hidin’ in plain sight on the Boston Common. Bad ‘cess to ’em.

“As bad as some of these Bostonians are, however, there’s a breed of men who are even worse. At least in the environs of Boston proper the biggest threat you’re likely to face is tripping over the cobblestones with a head full of hasheesh. But I’ll tell you something, Yob–you ain’t lived until you’ve tangled dicks with an authentic, old-time, sour-faced, hawk-nosed, rotten, vicious, spiteful, rickety, spavined, odiferous, cantankerous Swamp Yankee. You’re not likely to run into these creatures any too much. Oftentimes, you’re lucky to even encounter one at all. Because half the time they have to spend they’re drunk from hitting the cider jug and the other half of the time they’re probably off havin’ intimate relations with barnyard animals.

“To a man, these Swamp Yankees seem to hate everybody–Nigras, Injuns, Jews, The Chinee, Scotsmen, Irishmen, Dutchmen, Frenchies, Polacks, Dagoes, Spaniards, Portuguese–you name it. Because they till the rocky salty shore of New England and barely make enough off’n their toil to keep their daughters fed on johnny-cakes and stump-water, and because they’ve been told by the preacher-man that farmin’ is the highest and most patriotic occupation of ‘em all, they look down on everybody else. Even though they can barely read or write or cipher past eleven.To their eyes, the Portuguese fisherman in Provincetown or New Bedford is little better than an ape. The Irish barkeeper is a sinful heathen and a hellion. The Scottish banker is a money-grubbing highway robber. And on and on and on. These sour old men and their mean, fish-faced, cod-eyed, ratchet-jawed, chisel-tongued, shrewish, clamorous, contumelious, termagant wives have a way of making anybody who encounters them wish themselves just a tiny bit closer to death. One day we’ll elect a President from this lot, and the country will go plumb straight to hell.

“It wouldn’t be so bad, I suppose, if the savages had a little fellowship and common decency. But they care not one lick for the comfort of any man living. Should you become endlessly lost on a dark country road and find yourself in a downpour and forced to resort to the charity of the first shanty door that will open to you, you will step into the house and they will immediately shake you down for a sum of money–cash only, please–in exchange for merely coming in out’n the rain, must less staying the night. Y’see, to them you’re nothing more than a city dub, and if you’re in the North Country they’ll consider you a flatlander from away, and they will owe you no more consideration than they would give to a turd in a birdbath.

“When you walk into the house of a Swamp Yankee–should you ever have the misfortune to have dealings with one of them sharks–you will notice at once their overwhelming stench. Something like the smell of an hundred dead mice trapped in the wall boards. Personal hygiene is not the long suit of a Swamp Yankee. Quite frankly, Yob, they stink. They stink to high heaven. What’s more, they smell. They smell like a shit house door on a tuna boat. Their teeth are black as melted midnight. Their aroma is enough to scorch your mustache plumb off’n your face. I’d rather eat owl pellets then go near one of them Swamp Yankees.They are frugal to the point of insanity. If they have ever made the acquaintance of a bar of soap, and a pan of hot water, and a clean towel, I have yet to hear about it. They never paint their house or even their barn unless the Mail Pouch people come along and offer to do it. They are poor, and uneducated, and vulgar–and those are their good qualities! Their filthy hovels smell like groundhog shit; they sleep on poxy army blankets stolen from the Injuns; and they ain’t never got so much as two nickels to rub together , ‘ceptin’ at harvest time. They live poor. They live even worse than savages, if the truth be told: their lanky, rangy, rawboned sons fuck the daughters of the mill hands and then head for a cave in a mountain to avoid the awful prospect of holy macaroni, which would mean actually providin’ for the gal and her bairn. They have lousy teeth–usually it’s one yaller tooth dangling from the top of their scorbutic gums and a settin’ like a yaller lantern inside of their rotting skulls; and whenever there is a particularly awful murder committed they are suspects numbers one, two, and three. And–get this–they go to a carnival once a year around harvest time and lose all their money on a gaffed game, only to come back with a shotgun and a passel of neighbors and threaten to burn every carny on the lot, and the carny operator has to pay them off –because even the rum-dumb local constabulary know better than to get into a pissing match with that sorry-ass passel of owlhoots!

1* SALUTATION
THE HOLY MODAL ROUNDERS
EUPHORIA
Ma’s out there switchin’ in the Kitchen And Dad’s in the living room fussing and a-bitching And I’m out here kicking the gong for euphoria Euphoria When your mind starts wheeling and a-walking Your inside voices start squealing and a squawking Floating around on a belladonna cloud Singing euphoria Euphoria…

2*REFERENCE
NEW AGE BULLSHIT GENERATOR
We exist, we self-actualize, we are reborn.
Non-locality is a constant. By refining, we heal.

We must learn how to lead internal lives in the face of selfishness. Imagine a condensing of what could be. We must bless ourselves and heal others.

This path never ends. It is in evolving that we are guided. Gaia will remove the barriers to primordial health.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/pseudo-intellectual-profound-bullshit-study_us_5661acb4e4b079b2818e4020

sebpearce.com/bullshit/

3*HUMOR
THE LONELIEST BOXCUTTER
a book for children

The police have raided the gang headquarters!
They have taken all the big knives!
But what about…THE LONELIEST BOXCUTTER?
Is nobody afraid…of HIM?

ALSO SEE:
KNIFE VIOLENCE IN LONDON
http://www.nbcnews.com/news/world/knife-violence-hits-younger-teens-ever-london-n863941

4*NOVELTY
MICKEY ROONEY IN BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY’S
http://www.tcm.com/mediaroom/video/1198518/Breakfast-At-Tiffany-s-Movie-Clip-You-Like-Me-.html

ALSO SEE:
Raw termites make a tasty snack.
http://www.nbcnews.com/id/44991193/ns/travel-news/t/tasty-termites-delicious-dragonflies-other-edible-insects/
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/the-daily-meal/delicious-creepy-crawly-s_b_5466233.html

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
PEOPLE YOU SEE AT EVERY COLLEGE PARTY
http://www.buzzfeed.com/joannaborns/people-you-see-at-every-college-party?utm_term=.xePk7E0Br#.opa71B3de

6* DAILY UTILITY
FIND OUT WHAT FACEBOOK HAS ON YOU
http://www.nytimes.com/2018/04/11/technology/personaltech/i-downloaded-the-information-that-facebook-has-on-me-yikes.html

7*CARTOON
ROMAN GRAFFITI
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roman_graffiti

8*PRESCRIPTION
17 SILLY THINGS PEOPLE ASSUME ABOUT INDIA
http://www.storypick.com/17-silly-things-people-assume-india/

ALSO SEE:
This is a very good bibliography for those who wish to learn something about the topic of racism and migration.
depts.washington.edu/moving1/bibliography.shtml

SEE ALSO:
This book is another invaluable resource.
http://www.amazon.com/Sambo-Rise-Demise-American-Jester/dp/0195056582
depts.washington.edu/moving1/bibliography.shtml

9* RUMOR PATROL
PLANET X MAY KILL US ALL ON APRIL 23RD
sploid.gizmodo.com/fox-news-either-planet-x-will-kill-us-all-on-april-23r-1825197325

10* LAGNIAPPE
ROY HARPER
I HATE THE WHITE MAN

11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
THE DOUCHE CHILLS 11: TRUMP AND BUTTERY LEATHER PANTS
books.google.com/books?id=hpc4DwAAQBAJ&pg=PT188&lpg=PT188&dq=LEATHER+”BUTTERY+LEATHER+PANTS”+TRUMP&source=bl&ots=x8MDUANQtm&sig=gDLfk6RtFTeDfZon7L05aBLfMf4&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiAgfD1_7TaAhVPU98KHVrFC3IQ6AEIQzAJ#v=onepage&q=LEATHER%20″BUTTERY%20LEATHER%20PANTS”%20TRUMP&f=false

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
SWING TO THE RIGHT
This country is going so far to the right you won’t recognize it.–John Mitchell, 1972
books.google.com/books?id=fjtGRgKZLtkC&pg=PA321&lpg=PA321&dq=This+country+is+going+so+far+to+the+right+you+won%27t+recognize+it.&source=bl&ots=YuCCo1t45v&sig=XUZGqo1RZkLdJz4UKKxqmbxfPMQ&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiElv-B6bLaAhVMh-AKHXyYBf4Q6AEIWzAG#v=onepage&q=This%20country%20is%20going%20so%20far%20to%20the%20right%20you%20won’t%20recognize%20it.&f=false

THE INFORMATION #988 APRIL 13, 2018

THE INFORMATION #988
APRIL 13, 2018
Copyright 2018 FRANCIS DIMENNO
dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

I guess the lord must be in New York City.—Harry Nilsson

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TWELVE: PART FIVE: THE EASTERN GATE OF PARADISE

“I have never seen,” said Count Victor Justin to Cadget Tandy, “such puffed-up popinjays as those sallow men and dried-up women who inhabit Boston Town. Would that someone had told John Winthrop to migrate about sixty miles south, where it only snows about five months a year, instead of seven. I have never met an American in all my travels who has a good word to say about Boston. Quite the contrary! They consider it something of a faux pas to be born there–but forgivable, as ye know not what ye did. But to actually live in that subarctic purgatory over and above the three or four years it takes to procure a decent education from one of the diploma mills there–why, it’s a very serious blunder indeed. One might as well take up residence in KC, or Gary, or Duluth, or Indianapolis, or Scranton.Though I suppose the weather in Boston is slightly better than in Watertown New York, or Buffalo. And, I’ll admit, a Bostonian is ever so slightly more sophisticated than a Hoosier, or a Sucker.

But if you were to ask anybody who wasn’t a college boy what famous man ever came out of Boston, all you would get for your trouble is the name of a couple of Presidents and maybe a handful of army and navy officers. Because nobody outside of Boston cares about the place one whit. Nor should they. Their freakish dialect makes them sound, at best, like lickspittles to the British, and, at worst, like they have a poker shoved up their ass. Whereas the sound of the Southern dialect is soothing to the ear, the Boston accent is sharp and jarring, and not the sort of thing you’d want to use around a sick baby.

“Boston has fallen a far ways from its former pre-eminence as a safe harbor for American letters. I’d say that by about 1890 or thereabouts, there wasn’t much going on there to warrant any particularly strident praise on that score, with the possible exception of William James. But one Solon does not a Library of Alexandria make, Yob. Besides–what man of blood and feeling would presume to listen to those spavined, inbred, moth-pocketed Yankees with their eternal palaver about metaphysics and predestinarianism and antidisestablishmentarianism and the like? Sure, maybe them double-domes think in Latin and dream in Greek and fart in Hebrew, but what practical purpose does that serve in today’s go-gettem world of war and commerce? You might as well wear a sign on your back that says ‘Kick Me’.

“No, Yob–the best way to navigate your way through this reeking dungheap we call the world is protective coloration. Hide your feelings, no snappy palaver, keep mum, don’t let on how much you know, don’t say anything that baffles the everyday folk, and make friends in all the right places. As long as you’re known as a fun-loving go-getter who likes to hoist a few and ain’t afeered to wink at a pretty zook, then you will be welcome nearly everywhere you go, except maybe the sitting room of the fucking Harvard Club. How those Cantabridgians do put on airs! You would think they were in direct possession of the twelve keys to the kingdom, the way they carry on with their smug arrogance and their condescending sense of noblesse oblige–as if anybody would want favors from such an arid pack of overeducated poseurs and horsey arseholes! I could pick three lumberjacks out of the shape-up line of any skid row who would have more practical knowledge than the entire Harvard faculty–and you can throw in the faculty of Tufts, to boot! Most of these Professors don’t have the strength to knock a sick baby off’n the piss-pot, and if they ever came up with one idea that proved beneficial to the great mass of men, I have yet to hear about it.

“No–none of these learned professors have enough sense to pound sand in a rat-hole, and yet there they are, busying themselves with writing articles and papers and learned dissertations telling the rest of us how to live our lives. It’s enough to make a cat laugh! Why, if a man called my dog ‘Professor’ and the critter didn’t have the common decency to resent the insult to the death, I would drown the brute, indeed I would, and of a certainty. I can’t for the life of me puzzle out why the wealthy rich insist on spoiling their bairns by sending them to these academic holding pens. Maybe it’s simply for a time-out. I suppose it’s also so they can meet with like-minded nobs and snobs and make contacts that will serve them well when there’s another bank panic and Pappy’s on his uppers, and they might actually have to borrow money, or, even worse, work for a living–and what better fortune is there for such a soft-fingered fop than to have as friends the sons of men in high places? It’s always nice, when you come to the last ditch, to see a friendly face.

“I suppose that in a lot of ways, college is like the military for the sons of rich dullards. The old man might not have an ounce of class, but Sonny Boy can come home after four years of carousing and pretending to study acting as though he’s King Shit–and to the manor born. Which must be both infuriating and heartening. Daddy’s Paw might have been a hod-carrier, but at least Sonny Boy will make something of himself–even if it’s only as a shyster lawyer or a quack Doctor. Unless, of course, he picks up the clap, and the habit of overindulging in spirituous liquors. Then it’s Katy Bar the Door! But at least the kiddo gets to meet a better quality of zook, and doesn’t go off and marry the first showgirl as gives him a tumble.

“I’m guessing the biggest reason Mr. Moneybags sends the spoiled scion away is so he don’t knock up the Nigra Maid or get in dutch with the local bookies over gambling debts or doesn’t take out Papa’s favorite Hoss and get him so lathered up that’s he’s good for nothing forever after. The reason they send their bairns to school is that they don ‘t want them around the house, disgracin’ the family name. Children, after all, are just like human beings, only more so. A teenage boy is just like an idiot cousin–you can’t disown him, but you can’t really befriend him, either. The average la-ad of sixteen is ra-ather like a large, disobedient dog, who just happens to look like you. Shelling out five or ten grand to send the pup away is actually something of a shrewd investment. As for me–I had to learn how to drink to excess without puking all over a barmaid on my own dime.”

1* SALUTATION
FRED NEIL
THAT’S THE BAG I’M IN

FOOLS ARE A LONG TIME COMIN’

CYNICRUSTPETEFREDJOHN

2*REFERENCE
MAY 1972: A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A SEVENTEEN-YEAR-OLD

FALL 1969: A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A 15-YEAR-OLD

SUMMER 1964: A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A NINE-YEAR-OLD

3*HUMOR
WILLY MURPHY
COMIC STRIPS

4*NOVELTY
LET’S EXPLORE YOUR MIND
http://allthingsger.blogspot.com/2014/08/i-see-i-see-what-you-doxsee.html

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
CHICKEN MEAL DEAL GETS KILLER TO ADMIT HIS GUILT

6* DAILY UTILITY
TONNATO SAUCE
2 oil-packed anchovy fillets
1 6.7-ounce jar oil-packed tuna, drained
½ cup mayonnaise
3 tablespoons fresh lime juice
1 tablespoon drained capers
¼ cup plus 2 tablespoons olive oil
Kosher salt
http://www.bonappetit.com/story/tonnato-sauce-recipe

TUNA SAUCE
100g of tuna tinned in olive oil, drained
60g of capers, drained
4 anchovy fillets
4 eggs, hard boiled
1 lemon, juice only
black pepper, to taste
150ml of extra virgin olive oil
To garnish
capers, drained

ALSO SEE:
TUNA AND CAPER SAUCE
2 6-ounce cans solid-pack tuna in olive oil
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
2 to 4 garlic cloves, minced
1 cup red or yellow minced onion
4 anchovy fillets, optional
1/2 cup drained capers
Fine sea salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
1/3 cup minced parsley.

7*CARTOON
GEORGE WASHINGTON: RULES OF CIVILITY & DECENT BEHAVIOR
https://img.purch.com/h/1400/aHR0cDovL3d3dy5uZXdzYXJhbWEuY29tL2ltYWdlcy9pLzAwMC8yMTkvOTUyL29yaWdpbmFsL0FjdGlvbl9QcmVzaWRlbnRzXzAxLmpwZz8xNTE3OTMyMzEz

8*PRESCRIPTION
MAPS: BAPTISTS, GUNS, AND SLAVES
https://qph.fs.quoracdn.net/main-qimg-360780ea128635f96c3039873edaf820

ALSO SEE:
The historic correlation between gun rights and slave patrols.
http://www.thedailybeast.com/the-us-right-to-own-guns-came-with-the-right-to-own-slaves

http://www.truth-out.org/news/item/43260-united-states-policing-and-gun-rights-began-with-slave-patrol

The second amendment is (also) a race thing. “Owning guns” is a racist code for “shooting black people”.

You start out in 1954 by saying, “Nigger, nigger, nigger.” By 1968 you can’t say “nigger” — that hurts you. Backfires. So you say stuff like forced busing, states’ rights and all that stuff. You’re getting so abstract now [that] you’re talking about cutting taxes, and all these things you’re talking about are totally economic things and a byproduct of them is [that] blacks get hurt worse than whites. And subconsciously maybe that is part of it. I’m not saying that. But I’m saying that if it is getting that abstract, and that coded, that we are doing away with the racial problem one way or the other. You follow me — because obviously sitting around saying, “We want to cut this,” is much more abstract than even the busing thing, and a hell of a lot more abstract than “Nigger, nigger.” –Lee Atwater

More about racial coding here:
rationalwiki.org/wiki/Southern_strategy

9* RUMOR PATROL
LIST OF ETHNIC SLURS BY NATIONALITY
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_ethnic_slurs_by_ethnicity#Irish

10* LAGNIAPPE
JESUS CHRIST SUPERSTAR
COULD WE START AGAIN PLEASE

11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
THE DOUCHE CHILLS 10: ROSEANNE
Five minutes of watching the second episode of Roseanne has convinced me of one thing: Roseanne’s new show is the usual dire formulaic tripe, only with added Donald Trump.

What an evil cackling witch she is.

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
Stopping By the Woods on a Snowy Evening: A Modern Translation

Whose shack is this? Don’t give a damn.
I’m in an awful fucking jam;
They’ll never know that I stopped here
To drink a six of bottled beer.

My Chevy is a piece of junk;
Its motor’s all clogged up with gunk.
I’m stuck among these filthy shanties,
Bestrewn with porn and ladies’ panties.

I give my horn a little beep,
For as you sow so shall you reap;
For people say that I’m a fake,
And something of a fucking flake.

And I don’t want the cops to barge
In and nail me on another bogus charge,
And I will sit and have another drink,
And I will sit and have another drink.