THE INFORMATION #991
MAY 4, 2018
Copyright 2018 FRANCIS DIMENNO
“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.”
“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!”
JULES & THE POLAR BEARS
BLACK HISTORY: LOST, STOLEN, OR STRAYED
STARRING BILL COSBY
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?”
BIRCHER RANTS NOW SOUND LIKE MAINSTREAM REPUBLICANISM
5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
THE APU CONTROVERSY
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
BORNEO OURANG RAPES IRISH TOURIST
ALCOHOL & THE BRAIN
9* RUMOR PATROL
WAFFLE HOUSE MURDERS
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.
12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
JOY REID FAT-SHAMED CHUBBED-OUT SHREW ROSIE