MODERN WISDOM NUMBER 237 JULY 2018

MODERN WISDOM: AMERICA’S ONLY HUMOR MAGAZINE
NUMBER 237
JULY 2018
Copyright 2018 Francis DiMenno
dimenno@gmail.com
http://www.dimenno.wordpress.com

1. NOIR MISFORTUNE COOKIES: SECOND SERIES
501. Tedious one,even your stalker grows tired of you.
502. Obese one, she thinks of you only as her Fat Chance.
503. You are powerful only in your dreams. Dream on.
504. Coward, even among outlaws you are an object of scorn.
505. Dogs howl, cats hiss, and snakes flee your very approach.
506. Beggar-man, move on. The rick want you out of the way.
507. Ominous crows will circle your pitiful shack, superstitious one.
508. Cheapskate, an untipped waitress will betray you to the Bulls.
509. Your wife has memorized the Kama Sutra; not for your benefit.
510. Where you’re going you’ll never get to pet the rabbits, oafish one.
511. You will die in a pup tent clutching a bottle of cheap muscatel.
512. Sorry, but it wasn’t a ‘strongly dislike’ crime. It was a HATE crime.
513. You’re the town drunk. And it’s a really big town.
514. You spoke the Big man’s name and now you will burn for it.
515. They’ll stop hounding you when you pay them back, which is never.
516. It’s over when the Big man says it’s over, and not a minute before.
517. Look both ways before crossing–and they’ll still run you down.
518. Those minks you clouted belong to the wife of a made man.
519. Your weakness and fear make you distrusted by all.
520. Your cowardice is like a cloud which fills every room.
521. They laugh at you, for you are digging your own grave. Literally.
522. Half the world lives in misery, and yet you have no shame.
523. There’s nothing left for you to do but cry. Like a fat little girl.
524. You are nothing but trouble that nobody wants or needs.
525. You’re going to be dead soon, and dead soon.
526. Romeo, you wear your heart on your sleeve and it falls off.
527. The Big Boss knows you come to work late and leave early.
528. Your inner demons are bad. Your outer demons are far worse.
529. Your vain attempts to cling to your fleeting youth deceive nobody.
530. A bad actor dies a thousand deaths–and yet lives.
531. Your attempts at finding consolation will lead to double woe.
532. You are cruel. But the Big man is crueler by far.
533. Daffy one, no man of reputation regards you as strong.
534. Dotard, be still. Your days of feeble glory are long gone.
535. Why do you persist in yammering, garrulous one? Nobody is listening.
536. Even common lushes despise your drunken babbling.
537. Your life is a broken fortune cookie, unread and left to rot.
538. Throw away your glasses. there is nothing more for you to see in this world.
539. People do not understand you, true; for they are not fluent in Psycho.
540. They say you should look into your heart. But now…you have no heart.
541. Only one man can help you. God. And he’s not home.
542. She’ll never call you. Her boyfriend broke her fingers.
543. You have quite a history. But you have no future.
544. You are so crazy that you drove your psychiatrist insane.
545. The young hate your stories; the old have already heard them all.
546. You call yourself a boulevardier–but really, you are a pervert.
547. You will receive a twenty-one gun salute–aimed at you.
548. The scene of the crime is anywhere that you are.
549. You are not only broke–you have been broken.
550. It’s a sick world–but not as sick as you.

2. 13 POSSIBLE OPENING LINES FOR CHRISTIAN FICTION

It was a dark and Jesus Night.

It was the best of Messiahs; It was the worst of Messiahs.

A lot of you don’t know me, ‘less you read a book called The New
Testament by a Mr. Mark the Apostle….

When I was a young man, my Father said to me that I should not judge
others, for they have not had the advantages that I have had….

Jesus woke up in the garden to the sound of the cock crowing thrice.

“I suppose I should tell you about my lousy childhood at the right
hand of the Father and all that other David Copperfield Crap…”

“That, he thought with satisfaction, is one small step for man and one
large step for the Messiah…. ”

Jesus Christ and I sat at the table for a half-hour before he finally
went for the bill.

Jesus Christ’s socks were beginning to stink up the whole apartment.

After his sixth Gatorade-and-vodka, Jesus Christ puked all over my new
girlfriend’s tank top.

“There ain’t no atheists in foxholes!” shouted Jesus Christ as he
valiantly threw his last grenade at the advancing Japs.

Jesus Christ died today. Or maybe yesterday, I don¹t know.

Jesus Christ awoke one morning to find that he had been changed into a
giant insect.
[A tip of the Hatlo Hat to RMS for numbers 8-13.]

3. OH FAB I’M GLAD THERE’S LEMON-FRESHENED BORAX IN YOU: THE MOVIE

Opening shot: explosion. A shack in the Utah desert.

Establishing shot: 1966. Docu footage unspools: Viet War, race riots, LBJ with head in hands. Credits roll.

Long tracking shot of California farmland. Another explosion, this one large enough to level a city block. Lemon groves are devastated by wildfires.

Cut to: Office penthouse. The silhouetted figure of a man is seen and heard shouting into two telephones. Camera reveals he is XAVIER BRAND, a creepy white-haired industrialist with a withered face and a rather louche black mustache who, for diabolical reasons of his own, is trying to corner the world’s supply of lemons and Borax. Distinguishing feature: His right index finger is actually a nail file. He compulsively grooms his nails the whole time he is talking on the phones. His SECRETARY grooms his toenails.

Cut to: Exterior of office. A man with a rope and grappling hook is climbing hand over hand up the side of the building. He is FRANZ NEUMANN, sworn foe of sinister cabals. A grinning crewcut blonde giant. Distinguishing feature: His lemon-yellow eyepatch. He climbs the rope with agility and grace. He is obviously a highly-skilled gymnast.

But will he make it up the side of the building? I think not. BRAND’s sinister henchman–a midget wearing a bowler hat–undoes the hook from the cornice of the building. NEUMANN falls. An enormous American eagle swoops in and catches him. NEUMANN is whisked off to the mountaintop fortress of none other than…

UNCLE SAM, who tells NEUMANN that HE MUST NOT FAIL and provides him with advanced weaponry and two accomplices: A parrot who can mimic anybody’s voice and a cigar-smoking chimp who is an explosives expert.

A series of complications ensues, but, ultimately, Xavier Brand is foiled, Neumann gets the secretary, and a series of Fab detergent posters plastered about Futuropolis mutely testify to the fact that the surfectent now does indeed feature the miraculous novelty of “Lemon-Freshened Borax”.

4. HOLLOA! FROM THE FRIENDS OF EXTINCTION!
NEWSLETTER #1

The Friends of Extinction–in conjunction with our Wymyn’s group The
Kindly Ones, and our Children’s Auxiliary, The Sunshine and Lollipops
Guild–is a Rainbow Tribal Gathering where People Who Need People Are
the Luckiest People In the World. (Crabs, Grouches, Gloomy Gusses,
Pesssimists, Naysayers, Channel-Turners, Nut-Cutters and Lardasses
need not apply.)

Madport may be just a picture-postcard Hamlet blown up to poster-size;
a pint-sized burg with a big-league attitude, but that don’t mean the
Jukes and the Kallikaks can’t all sit down at the same table and maul
the flatware and gum their inedible vittles and snap at that bottle of
corn until they drink themselves into a slack-jawed stupor as they
stare vacantly at the hole in infinity and attempt in vain to twiddle
their non-opposable thumbs as burning joints fall from their nerveless
fingers.

What I mean to say, Pard, is Come On Down, Pilgrim, and Join the
Party–We Got a Lot of Friendly People and We Hope You’ll Like Every
One.

Just because some of us are Negroes and some of us are Oafs and some
of us are fourth-generation Greasers with a mad on against the world,
don’t mean we can’t all get together and grope at each other’s
fundaments and make real-friendly-like with that freckle-faced
redheaded Pixie Sprite who’s, like, really “into” the Ecology and
wants all of us to like, stop killin’ the whales.

Likety-like, herez what we believe:

Destroy Ugly!

Play Well With Others!

Food, Not Bums!

Can’t We All Get Along?

Listen: the FOE is all about integrity. Once you can market that,
you’ve got it made, Chief.

The temporarily permanent, non-spatial, everywhere-is-noplace HQ of
the Friends of Extinction is located in the deepest part of the woods
on the edge of Holly Park, where the flowers are in bloom. Take the
Indian trail to the cardboard box, bear right at the old mattress,
follow the blue blazes until you reach the burned-out wooden shack
right upside of Hobo’s Ridge, and You Are There. (Nota bene: Though
this be our special hidey-place where we used to go to drink Dad’s
Bourbon, that don’t mean we ain’t willing to meet at your house, when
YOUR Dad is away, and drink HIS bourbon!)

The Friends of Extinction is a zoovie non-juried space wherein brothaz
and sistaz and all our udder peeps can meet and and greet and be
supportive of one another and get baked and play drums on old coffee
cans and recite way-out poems and tell non-offensive earth-friendly
jokes and all like that. Like, get this:

Q: Why did the chicken cross the road?
A: International Bankers!

Haw Haw Haw! The Friends of Extinction is fixin’ to build us a network
of like-minded original thinkers whose home away from home is
everywhere and nowhere. For the Present will someday be the Past and
the Future Now is truly merely the past of the Eternal WOW.

On the lam of God? Running away from your obligatos? Shake the pebble
from your moccasin and set a spell. Summer times we like to meet by
the old stone windmill down by the breakwater in Smug harbor; in the
Fall our HQ is the sub-basement of the deserted Pumping Station in
Cruikshank; when old man Winter comes we meet at the Peaceful
Coexistence Coffee Shop just over the border from Nob Hill, and in the
Spring is when we observe the mystikal rite of St. Patrick & Beltane,
which is why we meet in the thickets of Holly Park like our patron
forebears who believed in gnomes, kobalds, and outdoor fucking–not
necessarily in that order.

We join together with udder Peeps from all over the world, whenever
they want to come and mooch off our one-world hospitality because a
smile is just a turned-on frown. Also, it’s always good for a High
Plains Drifter to have friends in High places, if you get my drift,
and et cetera.

Hey–listen–you can have your own club! We don’t care! Everything is
Everything! All we ask is that you use our symbol, FOE, in all your
posters and stuff that you wheat-paste around town to promote your
concert or party or event or just to cause trouble. Here are some of
the musical groups who are our affliates:

PAINLORE
THE HAUNTED DRUNKS
TALLULAH CRACKHEAD
EKSTATICK YOD
SISTERZ OF SAPPHO
THEE KORNHOLE WRANGLERS
DEPOT PROVERA
HOW BRAHMACHARYA?
DAUGHTERZ OV ROXALENA
THE CHAIWALLAHS
THE DSM IV
THE NEURASTHENIC NOMADZ
EPPUR SI MUOVE
THE THIRD ZIMBARDO
THEE IMMORTAL JELLYFISH
CHILDREN OF THE BROKEN SKYLINE
THE SQUARECROWS OF TIANANMEN SQUARE
THEE OKKULT REVOLVERZ
THEE NOSTAGIC PROPHETS
THE HONEY PEEPERS

If you’re in a band or even if you just like to pretend like you’ve
got your own “band” then why not send us your flyers and we will send
you our flyers and we can post them around town until THE MAN is
forced to acknowledge us!?

Therefore, send us your flyers!

Become part of the FOE!

The FOE is your FRIEND!

And someday–SOON!– the whole world will be surrounded by FOEs!

COMING THIS BELTANE!

THEE ICE CREAM SOLDIERS
THE TAO OF RUNNING IN PLACE
THE PSYCHOPHRENIC GODS
BIG MISTER SUNSHINE

TIME AND PLACE TO BE ANNOUNCED!!!!

5. WEE ROBIN REDBREAST: A TRADITIONAL SCOTTISH TALE
Once was there a wee Robin Redbreast happin’ on a brier.

And slee Mister Foreman from the Mill, he says: “Where’s tu gaun, wee Robin?”

And wee Robin says: “I’m gaun awa’ to the Laird to sing him a sang
this guid Yule morning.”

And slee Mister Foreman says: “Come here, wee Robin, and I’ll let ye
ha’e a twenty spot tae work in my mill.”

But wee Robin says: “Na, na! slee Mister Foreman; Na, na! Ye worry’t
the wee lamster; but’ye’se no worry me.”

So wee Robin flew awa’ till he came to the Academy, and slee Mister
Pedant, he says: “Where’s tu gaun, wee Robin?”

And wee Robin says: “I’m gaun awa’ to the Laird to sing him a sang
this guid Yule morning.”

And slee Mister Pedant says: “Come here, wee Robin, and I’ll let ye
ha’e a twenty spot tae teach in my Academy.”

But wee Robin says: “Na, na! slee Mister Pedant; Na, na! Ye worry’t
the wee schoolboy; but ye’se no worry me.”

So wee Robin flew awa’ till he came to the Laird, and there he sat on
a window sill and sang the Laird a bonny sang.

And the Lady said to the Robin Redbreast, “Hwat, my pretty sonneteer,
dost thou grace my bonny sill this most holy of days?”

And wee Robin says “I’m come to see the Laird to sing him a sang this
guid Yule morning.”

And the Laird says to his Lady: “What’ll we gie to wee Robin for
singing us this bonny sang?”

And the Lady says to the Laird: “I think we’ll gie him some crumbs out
o’ my pooch.”

And no mair did the wee Robin go aboot happin’ on a brier.

For, in sooth, it was at that very glamourie mament that the good
Laird raucht o’er and brang the window sill down upon the wee Robin
Redbreast and did smush his gaupit fucking head.

6. MEET–THE WORLD DRUNK!

Who is he?
He’s not just the Town Drunk. he is…The World Drunk.
He drinks a lot.
By high noon he is blind drunk, yet has somehow managed to read all the newspapers cover-to-cover… and is carrying all 3 under his arm, folded, wherever he goes.
He wears gloves when it is 60 degrees outside.
He sweats worn under raggedy grease-tainted jeans from October until April.
Understandably, drinking limits his accomplishments but he nonetheless remains a beloved character among the sober citizenry.
Wears either a dirty jacket from sports team that is not local favorite, or an old suit jacket.
Rides a bike around really slowly, often wobbling his way down the street in an unbuttoned flannel shirt and paint spattered jeans while holding a brown paper bag.
Keeps company with a woman who looks like she is made out of baseball mitts. Who he slurringly addresses as, ‘Your Royal Highness.’

8. MASH-UPS
OUT STEALING CORPSES by Mary Shelley and Per Pederson.
THE SILENCE OF THE DOG WHISPERER by Thomas Haris and Cesar Millan
THE WIZARD OF M by L. Frank Baum and Fritz Lang

9. CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE…

These bestselling books and their heartwarming tales have inspired millions.

Here a tale that is, perhaps, my favorite:

MIZ GRIZABELA THE TOWN LIBRARIAN
The town librarian always went out of her way to be helpful and kind,
especially if she felt that a child was the victim of unfair
treatment. In fact, she would often launch herself head first into a
controversy without even thinking about the consequences. She was very
logical but also intuitive, and the townspeople would often go to her
with their problems. Often times, proceeding only on a hunch, she
would come up with a solution that satisfied everyone and hurt no one.

She brought many improvements to our little town. She even took it upon
herself to start a book group for the library.

She posted a sign-up sheet at the library to ask various library patrons to
sign up with their names and phone numbers if they were interested in joining
a reading discussion group.

After making the initial few selections herself, she eventually came to rely
increasingly upon book group input to determine what books should be read,
and in what order. She guided the group through genres as diversified as
memoir and travel, as well as timeless classics about relationships between
different kinds of people. Serving as book group leader, she would skillfully
ask certain pertinent questions that also helped to steer the discussion.
People would fly off on tangents, and she would let them; it was only when
the discussion threatened to totally fail to discuss the book, or when one
person dominated the discussion to the detriment of the enjoyment of others,
that she would step in to focus the group and steer the discussion back to the
group’s purpose.

In this way, Miz Grizabela brought a little of the wider world to our
sleepy little hamlet.

Folks often wondered what event in her life had compelled her to take
up residence in our small town. For, clearly, she was intended for
better things. Even though she seemed to have had wide experience of
the world, still, she seemed content to be always busying herself with
a dozen different little projects at once, nearly all of them
involving ways to improve the lives of others in our little town.

Miss Grizabela wore glasses and was very shy. But she when she took
her glasses off and let her hair down she was still very shy. And also
kind of ugly. And practically blind. Which made it very easy for me
and my buddies to knock her down and steal her purse.

ALSO BE SURE NOT TO MISS:
“Chicken Egg-Drop Soup for the Grieving Chicken Mother”.
“Minestrone for the Italian Mobster’s Widow.”
“Ghee for the Morbidly Obese Buddhist.”
“General Tso’s Chicken for the Decidedly Overweight Taoist.”
Finally, bold Satanists are invited to buy the book, “Lard for the
Artereoschlerotic Devil.”

10. MORE BAND NAMES
Thee Quick-Acting Hypnotics
Asking For Trouble
Milk Of Amnesia
Origin Unk
Gonna Do It For Johnny
Cowards Of 911
Acid Is Groovy Kill The Pigs
They Eat Their Young
Radioactive Snowmen
Terraplane Soup
Laugh It Up Furball
To The Batcave
Famous Movie Drunks
Booger Buddies
Thank You For Not Killing Us
Shitfire Island
The Filthy Monkeys
Hiroshima Pwned
Brain Feast
The Murder Of Abraham Lincoln
Old People In Hell
Gorilla Crime Boss
The Incomprehensibles
The Scum Bozoes
Sleep In The Grave
Russia’s Greatest Sex Machine
S.E. Hinton’s First Novel For Adults
Not So Fast Faggot
We Belong Dead
Pushkin Shot In Duel
His Bread In My Shoulder
My Wife’s Handwriting
The Bear Wiped His Ass With The Rabbit
I Can See Your House From Here
Old Fashioned Hate
Circuit Of A Dogma
Jabbering Dynamo
Sleepy Rigamarole
Odd Enough To Be Your Father
Teenage Centurions For The Coming Armageddon
This Turbulent Priests
The Hammer Comes Down
Honey, I Smoked The Drugs
The Washington Consensus
Cosmic Ruthlessness.
The Drizzlin’ Shits
A Queer In Boys Town
Eagle On The Sunday Dollar
The Clusterfucks
Tricycle Bastard
Stalin The Clown
Xenophobic Lesbians
Born-Again-Christian Circus
Scientific Aborigines
Muslim Photographers
A Puritan Christmas
The Beatnik Jet Pilots
Vertigo Zombies
Stompbox Wankers
The Containment Boys
Please Advise
Tear Factory
Mascot Parables
Please Be Kind
The Minor 6145 Choir
Alpha Radiation
The Clean Getaways
Mrs. Babymother
The Mosquito Apologists
A Pagan Suckled In A Creed Outworn
Industrial Solvents
Eunuchss Of Empire
The Rat Parade
Big Cats
Sonic Interval
Manly Pansies
Squirrel Brains
Tweeter
Blowjob Alibis
Rackety Critters
Humiliated Jockeyboys
Sticky Trim
Alcoholic Penitentiary Inmates
Pharmacy Robbers
Cruelty To Bears
Derelict Rejects
Corleone’s Thunderbolt
Shitfire And Brimstone
Fuck Bias
Amphitheater Bums
Me Love You Long Time
Crackhead Junkies
Dance With The Go-Go Gophers
Supernatural Hitler
No Reasonable Offer Refused
Curses Fried Again
Smash Ugly
Confederate Rap
Inspector Pig
Pricked
Sphincter Monkeys
Swinger Square
Dancing Hen On A Hotplate
Thee Psychonauts
University Of Blonde Delinquents
Whiskey Rebellion
Hash And Lentils
Club Godhead
Pork Messengers
Industry Godfathers
Vagina Puppets
Soggy Tramp Gumbo
Drunk Protestants
We Refuse
Orange Twang
Atlas Mugged
Amoeba Chow
Mossy Wax
Sea Urchin Jerky
Dylan Girls
Vacation Amid The Rubble
Papa Bunk
Lifestyle Porn
Project Madness
The Fat Little Nothings
The Plastic Bottlecaps
Ghost Soup
The Lemon Detectors
The Red Hot Pistols
Tranqs For The Memories
Bennies From Heaven
Ramadan-A-Dingdong
An Ashanti In Old Ashanti Town
The Bad Actors
The Fat Biker Chicks
The Car Toads
Bungtown
The Cake Eaters
Doctor Medicine
First Of May
The Spit-Backs
The Highbinders
Ready John
Oil Of Joy
The Prairie Comedians
The Drunkery
The Turnscrews
The Wet Quakers
Wild Train
The Bird That Goes Beep Beep
Fight For Might And Right
Too Young To Know The Danger
Long Ears And Tail To Match
The Akasic Record Company
70 Bone-Breaking Secrets
Young Liberace
Jealous Daddy
Walk It Off, Jesus

11. WATCHMEN: THE GRAPHIC NOVEL
Watchmen was a paradigm-changer back in 1986-7, as it dribbled out in
serial installments. Of course, it’s going to look a bit shopworn
over 30 years later. But back when it came out, no literate man had
ever so much as once seriously questioned the whole premise of
superheroes in a mass-market comic book.

Not one.

Stan Lee? A mere pulpist.

Frank Miller? Alas, Ditto, with the added tang of a hard-on for noir.

Larry Welz? Negro, please….

And Howie Chaykin had quite a yen for porno which obviated any of his
innovations.

In fact, that whole crew up to Alan Moore were more or less either
hacks or porn-mongers, or both.

Even Jack Cole.

Even Will Eisner.

Even Steve Ditko & Jack Kirby.

About the only persons doing intelligent work other than Moore and
Miller were Steve Rude and Mike Baron on Nexus, and maybe Los Bros.
Hernandez.

Alan Moore, by the way, is seriously into the occult, though there’s
only fleeting glimpses of it in Watchmen. Far more to the point for a
serious Occultist would be FROM HELL, and, especially, book five of
PROMETHEA.

12. SELECTIONS FROM THE FULL TEXT OF “SWAHILI EXERCISES”
[“Compiled for the Universities’ Mission to Central Africa”]

[Elspeth Huxley’s mother leaned Swahili from a a handbook issued by The
Society for the Propagation of the Gospel which contained such
sentences as “The idle slaves are scratching themselves” and “Six
drunken Europeans killed the cook.”–Piers Brendon, THE DECLINE AND
FALL OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE, p. 365.]

“The oldperson is dead.”

“I see the black smoke of a great fire.They are burning the deaf man’s books.”

“You will hurt the old man’s head. I have found the drunkard’s waistcoat.”

“The barber’s white donkey kicked my aunt.”

“The thieves took all our.turbans.”

“What sort of a chief is this drunkard?”

“The servant who brought my food. The good food which killed them all.”

“I do not much like idle slaves.”

“My father bought much fruit; a dwarf his enemy took it.”

“Our chief has killed your slave.”

“Your slave girls took my umbrella.”

“Destroy all the huts.”

“I bought the spear for an old rag.”

“Hide the books that they may not read.”

“Call the man who beat you, that I may see him.”

“Drive the blind man away. Let the deaf man stay.”

“I do not believe that this [man is] a wizard; you [are] all cowards,
and you fear a shadow.”

“These burdens are light. Those black burdens are heavy.”

“I saw you, you were boxing my slave boy’s ears.”

“Rub the table for us.”

“What sort of an overlooker is a blind person?”

“I know of your getting drunk.”

“The Europeans have cut down the cocoa-nut trees.”

“The masons did not want red umbrellas.”

“I do not like beating you.”

“Europeans do not like our medicine men.”

“If you love your children, beat them.”

“The Europeans bought many large umbrellas. They are cutting down
those good mango trees.”

“I see the white ashes of a great fire.They are burning the deaf man’s
pine-apples.”

“The European caught my spear and broke it, and I struck him, and
he said to the men who followed him, Kill that man ; and I ran away
and escaped.”

“The savage chief prospered.”

“Your slave girls took my frying pan. ”

“The mangouste has bitten the child’s armpit.”

“You will hurt the old man’s eye.”

“The white ants have destroyed the account books.”

“A narrow hole. Another grave. Many graves.”

“He is not destroying your hut I do not forget your actions.”

“Supposing he should kill you, I will kill all his children.”

“The blood will remind me.”

“I have often remembered those two people ; they would at once have
killed us both, if they had known us. ”

“I have killed seven Seas.”

“The chief loves old men.”

“When they arrived at the river, the people in the road laughed,
and the donkey feared, kicked, and fell into the river and sank, and
the man and the youth returned to their house.”

“A just man is loved by his slave.”

“The children became blind.”

“I am not at all sorry.”

“These amusements do not please me.”

“All requests which the chief shall withhold to-day, I will hear afterwards.”

“Many people were with the chief. A few ran away ; those who ran away were
afterwards in our town, and I killed them all.”

“Bad people are worse than animals.”

“Let us kill them all out of the way.”

“The Europeans will not be conquered.”

“I have a sword, and [you] you have a spear and a shield ; what are we
to fear ? If a man has money he will be great. If a man has not money
he will not be great.”

“The world is evil.”

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THE INFORMATION #1000 JULY 6, 2018

THE INFORMATION #1000
JULY 6, 2018
Copyright 2018 FRANCIS DIMENNO
dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

A man who fears suffering is already suffering from what he fears. –Montaigne

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

Cadger Tandy and Count Victor Justin were standing down at the docks hard by the Salt River. School had let out for the summer, and Cadger Tandy had wandered there for want of anything better to do. The Count was also there, pushing his way through milling crowds of sailors, trying to find a likely mark for a short-con game. But all of the sailors in port that day spoke only Swedish, a language the Count did not have even the faintest smattering of, so soon he gave up in disgust and approached young Tandy.

“I remember,” said Count Victor Justin to Cadger Tandy, “old Sam Floyd just now telling me that he didn’t want no immigrant scum polluting the fair shores of our great country. “Generations of convicts deported en masse from the United Kingdom and God knows where else wash up as flotsam on shores strange to them,” says he. “Pestilential hordes of common drunkards, criminalistic imbeciles, hereditary idiots, filthy deviants, and certifiable morons all commingle to culminate in the formation of these rabble.” He says he’s planning to give a speech on the topic.

“And I’ll tell yuh whut–that Sam Floyd can spiel. Remembuh as I was tellin’ yuh before about the run-in he had with the cross-road clowns down south about fifty years ago? Well, there was an aftermath to that ‘ar story. D’ye have time for a walk?”

So the boy and the old man walked along the docks, where seagulls skirled and the strong smell of tar, turpentine, rotting fish and sea-water pervaded the atmosphere.

“Sam said that once he had escaped from the clutches of Johnny Law, he didn’t go back to the Carnival right away. “‘No–instead, I set me down on a log on the outskirts of that tiny Southern Hamlet and commenced to thinkin’,'” said he. “Thinkin’ clearly. Thinkin’ clearly for the very first time in my life. There’s nothing quite like almost dyin’ to clarify your mind. And it changed my life. And I was only 23.

‘First, I asked myself some questions. Who are we? What are we here for? And why? I was experiencin’ the let-down feeling that every red-blooded man feels after a bout of high excitement. And then I got up, and I sot down agin, and started thinking some more. Nobody lives forever. But some damn fools never live at all. Because a brain that doesn’t think is not a brain at all. It’s just a ghastly chunk of nearly pellucid blubber. So think. What is a man, anyway? An animal. Little better than a howling monkey, and nowhere near as strong. Working around a carny, you see a lot of apes and monkeys and how they do. Have you ever been to a zoological garden? And gone to the monkey house? Have you ever noticed that the smaller a monkey is, the more he looks like he wants to kill you? Monkeys have it all figured out. They don’t have no Ten Commandments to tell them what not to do–though if’n they did I imagine there would somethin’ about bananas in there. No, with monkeys, you see, it’s all about power. Just like in a school or a prison. Who gets to do what, and to whom. Look to the monkey for the answer. The weaker guy has it in for the stronger guy. Always. And the stronger guy will fold–if you manage to force his hand. It’s like a pyramid, you see. There’s only room at the top for the strongest. The pharaohs knew that for a fact. That’s why they built their tombs in pyramids. And murdered thousands of slaves to build ’em. South of any border you care to name, human life is always cheap.

‘But we happen to be more refined. Or so we tell ourselves. You don’t have to kill a man to dominate him, you know. You just have to always keep him confused, and guessing about what you’re going to do next. There’s a recipe to build a stool pigeon!

‘If there’s one thing I know for certain, it’s that human life is cheap. When someone close to you dies, it’s a calamity. When some great eminence dies, it’s a tragedy. But what if there’s a flood on the Yangtze, and three thousand Chinese peasants die? Or thirty thousand? Or three-hundred thousand? It’s a shame and a scandal, but nobody loses any sleep over it. It might be on page two of the newspaper. Or it might just as easily be on page twenty-seven.

‘What? Do you really think that the newspaper is where they print the truth? And what’s important? The plain fact of the matter is that the news is there to reinforce what you’ve already been told to believe. All news stories are written in advance. All they do is fill in the details to tell you what they want you to know. Everything else that isn’t a part of the big story that they’re promoting gets ignored or buried. T’was ever thus. Troublemakers are quickly silenced. T’was ever thus. If you believe otherwise, then you, brother, are a fool.

‘Thoughtful people might ask how God can allow thousands to die. Some chalk it up to “His Inscrutable Will”. Which is as slick an explanation as any first-rate con man or Philadelphia Lawyer could ever cook up, I’ll warrant. Everybody else–just turns their heads. By tomorrow, it’s practically forgotten. Some missionary will collect money for it, or pretend to, as most of the money will no doubt go right into his pocket. I don’t begrudge him none. No grifter would. It’s the smart move. When I was on me uppers, collecting for “charity” got me out of many a tight fix.

‘Everybody else–well, they have their own problems. Most folks figure that there’s nothing they can do. And they’re about right. That’s just about the long and the short of it. T’was ever thus. Only a fool thinks any different.’

‘Any man with eyes to see and ears to hear must figure out in time that there are only three iron laws to society. To comfort the comfortable. To afflict the afflicted. And, by far the most important law, as old as Aesop, as old as human nature: Any excuse will serve a tyrant. Keep those three laws in mind–and you can never go too far wrong.

‘Because half the world lives in misery–and the other half has no shame. T’was ever thus.’

1* SALUTATION
PENTANGLE
SWEET CHILD

LIGHT FLIGHT

THE WHEEL (ALTERNATE VERSION)

THE TIME HAS COME (LIVE 1968)

2* REFERENCE
HOW TO GET RID OF BOILS
hirabeautytips.com/how-to-get-rid-of-boils-overnight/

3*HUMOR
WHAT THE SCOTS DO FOR FUN
http://www.horntip.com/html/books_&_MSS/1970s/1976_bawdy_monologues_and_rhymed_recitation__g_legman_(article)/index.htm

4*NOVELTY
WHEN ALCOHOL RUINS PARTIES
sciencenordic.com/when-alcohol-ruins-holidays-%E2%80%94-and-beyond

ALSO SEE:
HOW ALCOHOL RUINS YOUR LOOKS AND YOUR HEALTH
http://www.bustle.com/articles/9645-5-sneaky-ways-alcohol-undermines-your-health-and-looks

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
BODY FOUND IN BEER COOLER AT ATLANTA BRAVES STADIUM
“What do you mean? Why shouldn’t I drink the beer? It’s still cold.”
abc11.com/body-found-in-beer-cooler-at-atlanta-braves-stadium/3661922/

6* DAILY UTILITY
FRANCIS BACON ON CONFIRMATION BIAS
BY PETER LEVINE
http://peterlevine.ws/?p=13386

7*CARTOON
DENNIS COOPER
ZAC’S HAUNTED HOUSE
A NOVEL COMPOSED ENTIRELY OF ANIMATED GIFS
http://www.vice.com/en_us/article/qbeybm/a-haunted-house-novel-composed-entirely-of-animated-gifs-194

8*PRESCRIPTION
SONGS RUINED BY SHITTY MOVIES
It’s become nauseatingly predictable that some great little niche song will be wrenched out of its original context and used to provide emotional heft to an otherwise mediocre movie.

That’s why I no longer go to the movies.
https://www.toptenz.net/top-10-badass-songs-the-movies-have-ruined.php
A Collection of Songs Ruined by Film, TV, and Humanity
http://whatculture.com/film/13-cringe-worthy-movie-moments-completely-ruined-great-songs

ALSO SEE:
MUSIC RUINED BY MOVIES
https://www.newyorker.com/culture/richard-brody/music-ruined-by-movies

9* RUMOR PATROL
WHAT A NUCLEAR ATTACK ON NYC WOULD LOOK LIKE
nymag.com/daily/intelligencer/2018/06/what-a-nuclear-attack-in-new-york-would-look-like.html

Cool!

Then the Boston music scene would finally have a chance.

10* LAGNIAPPE
DAVID ROVICS
WHO WOULD JESUS BOMB?

VIA:
CHRISTIAN COMMUNIST MUSIC

ALSO SEE:
COMMUNIST MUSIC
http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=One+Hour+of+Norwegian+Communist+Music
http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=One+Hour+of++Communist+Music

SEE ALSO:
Philip Koutev National Folk Ensemble – Bulgarian Polyphony, Vol.1
This was allegedly quite popular among musicians in the late 60s.

ALSO SEE:
THE MINUTEMEN
BOB DYLAN WROTE PROPAGANDA SONGS

11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
THE MAGIC POLICEMAN
What are 10 things police officers wish they could tell you, but can’t?
Dave Roberts, BA Criminal Justice & Speech Communication, University of Dubuque (1990)

Here is my list, (I went to 20):

“If the average person knew the state of law enforcement in this country, they couldn’t sleep at night” – from one of my academy instructor’s lectures. Nothing has changed in 28 years. There is a reason why I always carry a gun off-duty and try to talk all of my loved ones into at least owning a firearm.
There are a lot less of us out on the street than you know. Take your local agency’s head count, lop off about 20 percent for administrative assignments, then divide the remaining amount by three or four (shifts). Then subtract about a quarter for those on days off/sick days/limited duty/training/vacation. Make it a busy night and no cars will be available and the calls pile up…and pile up.
After about three years, most officers become civil service workers. They are not looking to invent new case law or do more paperwork. At five to seven years, most officers think about another line of work. If they pass that hurdle, they can last 20. At 20 plus years, unless you are driving like you are competing in the Indy-500, you’re not getting stopped and you have to really, really work to be arrested.
The job is not nearly as exciting as portrayed on Cops or other television shows. There is an inordinate amount of paperwork – at times it seems like we are glorified secretaries with guns.
When we arrive on scene, we instantaneously know who is going to jail: the guy with no shirt (or wearing a “wife-beater”) with a mullet, usually standing in the middle of the road puffing up.
Nothing, and I mean NOTHING, good happens after midnight.
Don’t expect me to fix in under 15-minutes what took you ten years to destroy.
Don’t expect me to raise your kids. You decided for years to raise feral children with no discipline or sense of social responsibility, I can’t do much in a few minutes.
None of us care who you know. If you had any real juice; you’d not say anything, but would just smile and accept the citation or arrest and magically, behind the scenes, things would be fixed. I’ve dealt with the really connected people and have seen how they can manipulate the system – and that obviously ain’t you.
You can’t get our badge. Trust me, we hear that all the time. Just like how you will sue – get in line. Again, if you had power, you’d be as inconspicuous as possible.
Attitude goes a long way. I’ve cited people I originally was going to warn and warned people who I was going to cite. Same with arrests.
If we have to fight you or shoot you, we will be the first to give you medical treatment.
We are not trained as social workers or psychologists but that is a big portion of our jobs. When no one else is available or can help, it seems like a good time to call the police department.
When we are trying to help you and you feel like we are trying to shove a square peg into a round hole – we feel the same way. The laws and policies don’t make much sense to us either.
Law enforcement is one of only two jobs where everyone is an “expert” with no training or experience. The other one is being a head football coach.
I sincerely apologize when we forget to be empathic. While this our 500th burglary, this is your first time being violated. While this is our 200th dead body call, it’s your first.
I don’t care about your prior bad experience with law enforcement. I’m here now. I’ve had bad experiences with plumbers, physicians and barbers, but I don’t stereotype a whole profession off of one experience.
Our cars aren’t much different than yours. Sure we have a snazzy paint job, some special lights and a radio, but we can get as stuck as easily as you, we can have an accident just like you and we can’t stop on a dime. And, we’re limited on how fast we can get to a call. We can’t go warp speed nor get traffic to part, like Moses did with the sea.
We really don’t care what race, sex or ethnic group you belong to, we are trying to get this issue resolved before going to the next call.
We all H-A-T-E when you scare your young kids by threatening them by telling them we will arrest them. Really? Way to make your kids the next generation of cop-haters and they are now petrified to approach us if they’re in danger or lost.

*11A BOOKS REVIEWED AND RATED
47 RONIN. RICHARDSON & SAKAI. ****1/2
ALL SUMMER LONG. LARSON. ***
ALL THE ANSWERS. KUPPERMAN. ****
ALL-STAR BATMAN 3. THE FIRST ALLY. ***1/2
ALPHA: ABIDJAN TO PARIS. BESSORA & BARROUX. ****1/2
AMAZING SPIDER-MAN BY JMS. ULT. COLL 1. ***1/2
AMAZING SPIDER-MAN. VENOM, INC. **1/2
ARCHIE VOL. 5. ***1/2
ASTONISHING X-MEN. WHEDON. ***1/2
BART SIMPSON BUST-UP. ***1/2
BATGIRL 3. SUMMER OF LIES. **1/2
BATMAN BEYOND 2. RISE OF THE DEMON. ***1/2
BATMAN LEGACY 2. ***1/2.
BLACK PANTHER. CULVER. ***
BLACK PANTHER: LONG LIVE THE KING. **1/2
BLACK PANTHER: SHURI: THE DEADLIEST OF THE SPECIES. ***1/2
BLONDES, BRUNETTES & BULLETS. GRANLUND. ***1/2
BYRON IN LOVE. O’BRIEN. ****1/2
DAMON RUNYON. BRESLIN. ****
DC/WILDSTORM. DREAMWAR. **1/2
THE DECLINE & FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE. VOLUME 1. GIBBON. *****
FAITH & THE FUTURE FORCE. ***1/2
FIREBUG. CHRISTMAS & BONVILLAIN. ***
GENERATION X 2. SURVIVAL OF THE FITEST. ***
H.G. WELLS’ THE ISLAND OF DR. MOREAU. ***
HOW DEMOCRACIES DIE. LEVITSKY & ZIBLATT. ****1/2
JAMES JOYCE. O’BRIEN. ****1/2
LOVE THAT BUNCH! KOMINSKY-CRUMB. ****
MARVEL’S ANT-MAN & THE WASP. PRELUDE. ***
THE MASTER SWITCH. YU. ****1/2
MEAN GIRLS CLUB: PINK DAWN. HESHKA. ***1/2
ON THE TOWN. BERMAN. ****
THE OUTSIDERS. THE DEEP. ***
THE PAIN TREE. ***1/2
PETER PARKER THE SPECTACULAR SPIDER-MAN 2. MOST WANTED. ***
REFRESH, REFRESH. NOVGORODOFF, ET AL. ****1/2
RIGHT HERE ON OUR STAGE TONIGHT! NACHMAN. ****
ROCK STEADY. FORNEY. ****
RUNAWAYS 1. FIND YOUR WAY HOME. ***
SABRINA. DRNASO. ****1/2
SALLY HEATHCOTE SUFFRAGETTE. TALBOT, ET AL. ****1/2
SATOSHI KON’S OPUS. ***1/2
SIMPSONS COMICS. GAME ON. **1/2
THE SMEAR. ATTKISSON. ***1/2
SPIDER-MAN/DEADPOOL 5. **1/2
STORYWORTHY. DICKS. ****
SUPERGIRL 3. GIRL OF NO TOMORROW. ***
WHAT TO DO WHEN I’M GONE. HOPKINS & BATEMAN. ****
YOUR BLACK FRIEND & OTHER STRANGERS. PASSMORE. ***1/2

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
CURMUDGEONS
H.L. Mencken
Samuel Johnson
William Randolph Hearst
Winston Churchill
Richard Nixon
Ambrose Bierce
Mark Twain
William Burroughs
W.C. Fields
George Carlin
G.K. Chesterton
Florence King

What do they have in common? Curmudgeons all. (Not to mention such fictional curmudgeons such as Ignatius O’Reilly from A Confederacy of Dunces; and classic comic-strip curmudgeons such as Everett True, The Terrible-Tempered Mr. Bang, and Major Hoople.)

What qualities define a curmudgeon?

1) An intrinsic loathing of novelty for novelty’s sake. (“Nothing odd will do for long.”–Samuel Johnson.)
2) An outlook on life which is essentially sour, and even satirical, in the classic mode. (“The damnable human race.”–Mark Twain.) It does not have to be humorous, although many curmudgeons are quite witty.
3) A loathing of sham and pretense and a hatred of hypocrisy. (“How is it that we hear the loudest yelps for liberty among the drivers of negroes?”– Samuel Johnson.)
4) Misanthropy to varying degrees. ( “Women are like elephants. I like to look at ’em, but I wouldn’t want to own one.” –W. C. Fields)
5) Politics which tend toward the reactionary. (“Government is a broker in pillage, and every election is a sort of advance auction sale of stolen goods.”–H.L. Mencken.)
6) Dyspepsia; often exacerbated by a love for booze, rich food, and cigars. (“If heaven has no cigars, I shall not go there.” Mark Twain. )
7) Honesty; a tendency to be brutally frank. ( “I’d rather rot on my own floor than be found by a bunch of bingo players in a nursing home.” –Florence King.)
8) A propensity to nurse grudges. (“The more I learn about people, the more I like my dog.”–Mark Twain.)
9) An active dislike of and often an open hostility to received opinion and cant. ( “The only vice that cannot be forgiven is hypocrisy. The repentance of a hypocrite is itself hypocrisy.” –William Hazlitt.)
10) Fearlessness in expressing an opinion, with no hedging, fudging, or shilly-shallying.( “Think of how stupid the average person is, and realize half of them are stupider than that.” ― George Carlin.)

THE INFORMATION #999 JUNE 29, 2018

THE INFORMATION #999
JUNE 29, 2018
Copyright 2018 FRANCIS DIMENNO
dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

Hell is empty and all the devils are here.–Shakespeare

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

The High Sheriff, whose name was Pike, was surely no Sweet Betsy from Pike, and that was a natural fact. He had it in for carnies and traveling folk of all stripes, and although I didn’t realize it at the time, he took it upon himself to make their lives a misery. The nearby creek ran through a place called Hickory Holler and show-folk said, I learned years later, that it was haunted with the restless spirits of smart-mouthed drummers, talky clowns, grab-ass geeks, and hard-luck hobos what had had an unfortunate encounter with this particular Sheriff name of Pike. If I knew at the time just how dangerous that particular High Sheriff was, I would of shit my breeches for real. Only I wasn’t wearing none. Sheriff’s Deputy Hoxie had told me to strip naked, and I had done so.

Pike turned to Hoxie and said, “What kind of prayer did he say, just before I interrupted your holy ceremony? Was it a Papist Prayer?” “Naww, Opie, it was a good old Protestant hymn.” “That’s good,” said O.P. Pike, “At least he’s a prayin’ man. He’s gonna need it, where he’s goin’.”

I didn’t know how it was possible, but I began to sweat even harder. I was just about to piss myself when Pike turned to me and said, “Are you some kind of carpetbagger, boy?” “No Sir,” I said. “I’m a son of the south both born and bred.” “A very pretty speech,” said Pike. “But it aion’t gonna help you none.” “Shall I shoot him now, Sherf?” said Hoxie, and there was something of a shrill urgency in the adenoidal Deputy’s voice. “Not now,” said Pike. “I ain’t through with interrogating him yet.” “Say whut?” said Hoxie. “I got a few more questions I needs to axt him.”

“So,” said Pike, “if you ain’t a carpetbagger then you must be some kind of scalawag. I thought we chased your kind out of here years ago.”

“No Sir,” I started to say, and then I felt the butt of a rifle on the back of my neck, and I got so sick to my stomach that I coughed up some sort of red bile, and at that moment I actually did piss myself. My water trickled into the warm dirt, and, thankfully, none of it splashed on the high sheriff, or I wouldn’t be here to tell the tale.

“Don’t you contradict me, or I’ll castrate you, you miserable Yankee dog.”

“Go ahead and cut my nuts off, but I ain’t no Yankee,” said I. I had stuck the word “ain’t” in there so they wouldn’t think I was putting on airs, like a big-city fancy-man.

I was expecting at any moment to get shot, or to feel the stock of the rifle on the back of my neck again. But nothing happened,. I looked up. Hoxie was standing around and shifting his weight uneasily and looking a mite sickly himself. “You must be some kind of scalawag for sure.” said the High Sheriff.

I didn’t open my mouth.

“Have you made your peace with your maker?”

“Look,” I said, with courage I never knew i had. “If you’re going to shoot me, Sheriff, then why don’t you get down to it? Fish or cut bait. I didn’t do anything wrong except to take in some of the sights around here, in the little town where I happened to be born.”

“You was born here, was you?” said the High Sheriff, with a grin. “I suppose you think that you’re some punkins. I guess you thought you were going to have a gay old time here, pokin’ fun at the yokels you left behind here to rot, and molestin’ our womenfolk. I know everything there is to know about you carnival types, boy. I’ve seen every type of a gyp show and a huckster wagon pass through these parts, and yourn is the worst by far. Do you think those honest farm folks and their hard-workin’ and long-sufferin’ wives need to be exposed to the type of degrading carnival filth you Yankees have got infestin’ your midway? Those short-change artists and those rigged gambling games and those inhuman polluted spectacles you got in that freak show? Boy, I’ve been around, and I ain’t no shrinkin’ violet, but some of those exhibits you got there just beat all. And that moss-haired girl–nearly named as a jaybird, and a common prostitute to boot.”

My blood rose hot in my throat. I stood up. I looked the High Sheriff dead in the eye and God damn me if i wasn’t mad enough to spit in his face. “Don’t you slander HER! Miss Wax is gentle and kind, and as sweet and innocent as the new-mown hay!”

The High Sheriff laughed, and held up both of his hands. “I guess you’re sort of sweet on that twitchet, hey? Well, it’s really too bad, because–”

Pike made a gesture then, and Hoxie raised his pistol.

At that moment the other Sheriff’s Deputy rode up on his horse; the silent one, whose name I never did get, even though I owe him my life. He didn’t bother to dismount, and he wasn’t aiming his rifle at me. He had a hurried confab with the High Sheriff. All the while Hoxie had his pistol pointed at me, and I knew he wouldn’t miss, so I didn’t even try to run. Pike turned from the Deputy on horseback and gave me what looked to be a fatherly grin. He even called me “Son.” “Put your clo’s back on, Son,” said he. I did so, with some alacrity, lest he change his mind.

“Why,” said Pike, “didn’t you say you were the son of Colonel Floyd of the third regiment? I fought beside that man at the battle of Antietam. A braver soldier I never knowed. Why, he even saved my life, onct. I was skylarkin’ at the front ramparts and showed my head and the Colonel shoved me to the ground and said “Get down, you goddamned fool,”. Just then, a bunch of minie balls went over our heads like a swarm of angry bees. I’d of had my head blown clean off if it wudn’t for yore Paw. Let’s us have a drink,” said Pike, and he took out a flask. I wasn’t much of a drinkin’ man, then nor now, but I took a long pull and felt the warmth of the moonshine circulating though every inch of my sweat-soaked body. “That’s the way,” said Pike. (I noticed he didn’t offer any to Hoxie, who just stood back, hopping from one leg to the other, like he had an itch he dast not scratch.) “In memory of your paw. How is he, anyway?” “I haven’t seen him lately. Not for about twenty years, Sheriff.” “Well, last as I saw him, right after the war, him and me rode with the night riders. We did a lot of good around here, before the Federals came in. No uppity Nigras in these parts–no SIR! Now, what became of your Paw after that, I couldn’t say.” Once again Hoxie started balancing his weight on one foot, and then the other. “You’ve got to allow for Hoxie,” said High Sheriff Pike. “He may be a tad over-zealous, but he does a good job and he’s a brave man and he didn’t know what to make of you. Now, don’t you let our little misunderstanding put you off our town. You’re a Floyd; you can come back here anytime you like and settle down. We lost a lot of good men in the war. Only don’t be bringin’ that carnival with you. What you doin’ with that carnival nonsense anyway, Boy? You remind me of the Prodigal Son, muckin’ around with the hogs. Ain’t you got no natural sense? Ah, well, the apple never falls far from the tree. You’re your father’s son, all right. The Colonel was also a bit of a scamp when he was a young ‘un.”

“By the way,” said Pike, “what was you doin’ over t’ the water tower anyway?”

“Well, Sheriff, I suppose I was fixin’ to climb to the top and carve my initials there.”

“Son, you are one lucky bastid,” The High Sheriff laughed. He was really yukking it up. “All I can say is that it’s a good thing ole Hoxie caught up with you when he did. Because, ” said the Sheriff with a wide grin. “Before you got half-way back down that ladder,” and he put his wide hand in front of his narrow mouth and whispered, “why–he would of shot you in the back–and you’d be dead as a doornail!”

1* SALUTATION
THE MAGIC CHRISTIAN
FREE MONEY

2* REFERENCE
SWINBURNE’S REJOINDER TO EMERSON
A foul mouth is so ill matched with a white beard that I would gladly believe the newspaper scribes alone responsible for the bestial utterances which they declare to have dropped from a teacher whom such disciples as these exhibit, to our disgust and compassion, as performing on their obscene platform the last tricks of tongue now possible to a gap-toothed and hoary-headed ape, carried first into notice on the shoulder of Carlyle, and who now, in his dotage, spits and chatters from a dirtier perch of his own finding and fouling; Coryphaeus or choragus of his Bulgarian tribe of autocoprophagous baboons who make the filth they feed on.

FULL TEXT:
http://www.lettersofnote.com/2012/07/a-gap-toothed-hoary-headed-ape.html

3*HUMOR
S’ALRIGHT? S’ALRIGHT!

4*NOVELTY
STUPID INTERNET QUESTIONS
https://www.google.com/search?q=stupid+internet+questions&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiy-u3NhdHbAhWMjVkKHfcPBm0Q_AUICigB&biw=1366&bih=662#imgrc=ohU_mM5oEKFCRM:

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
JIMMY OLSEN ROCK & ROLL
misfitdaydream.blogspot.com/2013/10/so-jimmy-olsen-you-wanna-be-rock-n-roll.html

ALSO SEE:
TV TROPES: THE NEW ROCK AND ROLL
http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/TheNewRockAndRoll

SEE ALSO:
GUY COLWELL: RADICAL ROCK
http://www.tcj.com/reviews/inner-city-romance-2/

6* DAILY UTILITY
OCD
Schwartz explained that people afflicted with OCD engage in a wide variety of problematic behaviors — compulsive hand washing, door opening, repetitive checking of ovens and doors, even repeating the same word, phrase or sentence. The cause, at a neurological level, is hyperconnectivity between two brain regions, the orbitofrontal cortex and the caudate nucleus, creating a tidal wave of unfounded mortal fear and triggering habitual response as the only way to attain calm. But the worst part is that, despite recognition that all these thoughts and behaviors are irrational, the OCD sufferer feels driven to obey them, nonetheless.
discovermagazine.com/2013/nov/14-defense-free-will

7*CARTOON
THE BOBBY FULLER FOUR
The Bobby Fuller Four was in the tradition of Buddy Holly. It’s a shame what happened. Rock might have gone in a slightly different direction had Bobby Fuller lived. But at least we have this; a hint of what might have been:
LET HER DANCE

ALSO SEE:
LOSER SONGS
ultimateclassicrock.com/top-loser-songs/

8*PRESCRIPTION
CONTRA STAR WARS TROLLS
http://www.wired.com/2018/06/geeks-guide-star-wars-trolls/

9* RUMOR PATROL
TOO SMART FOR STRANGERS
WITH WINNIE THE POOH

10* LAGNIAPPE
SADDEST SONGS EVER
AL JOLSON
SONNY BOY

A lot of these came out in the early 1970s. Maybe the strain of melancholy was on account of the end of the counterculture dream, what with Manson and Altamont. And because everybody was crashing after taking bad speed. And because there was a marijuana drought and the music biz was being flooded with heroin in the early 70s.

SEE ALSO:
RANDY NEWMAN
I THINK IT’S GOING TO RAIN TODAY

HARRY NILSSON
LIFELINE

LOU REED
THE KIDS

BEE GEES
I LAY DOWN AND CRY

11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
BEE GEES
ALONE AGAIN
The Bee Gees of the late 60s and early 70s remind me of a sluggish, strangulated, inbred, Australian Bizarro World version of the Beatles.

This track in particular:

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
JET: DECONSTRUCTED
This sure is a bitchin’ tune. I thought so, when it first came out. But what is it even about? All I can make out is some nonsense about a “sergeant major”.

THE INFORMATION #998 JUNE 22, 2018

THE INFORMATION #998
JUNE 22, 2018
Copyright 2018 FRANCIS DIMENNO
dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

Every man must do two things alone; he must do his own believing and his own dying. –Martin Luther

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

Seeing as how Sheriff Hoxie was holding a gun to my head, literally, I got down on my prayer dukes in the dust, nekkid as a jaybird, and with just about as much composure as I could muster and not one iota more. I struggled to recall some words of prayer, and came up empty. My brain was tired and was working the third shift. I finally recalled the words of an old hymn, “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me….”

It was then that I heard the hoofbeats of approaching horses. I didn’t know it then, though I sure do know it now: news of any kind travels fast in a village or hamlet. Later on, I imagined that the boys were all sittin’ around a-chewin’ the fat down t’ the general store when word came of funny doin’s over t’ the water tower. So the High Sheriff and his other Deputy must of saddled up, and there they were now, galloping down to that very location to see what big doin’s were afoot.

The High Sheriff was a man whose name, I later learned, was Oliver Percival Pike, only nobody dast call him Oliver Percival, not even his wife, who called him O.P., along with everybody else who didn’t call him Sherf. And if you was a Nigra who had won his condescending favor, you could call him “Boss,” or “Mr. Opie,” and he wouldn’t pay no never mind.

High Sheriff Pike dismounted from the saddle of his horse right smart for an old man–as I could see from the corner of my eye. He kind of looked like a grouchy Walrus. He had a big white mustache, and wore a fancy cowboy hat, and he sported silver spurs on his shit-caked boots.

His other Deputy hung back and stayed on his hoss. I never did learn his name.

The first thing the High Sheriff done was draw his Deputy, Hoxie, aside. I could see from the corner of my eye that the Deputy on the other hoss had me covered with a big, heavy shotgun. I might of taken a chance and made a run for it, but I know that the slightest miscalculation on my part would almost certainly result in a fatal wound, and I surely did not want to die in the dust of a weedy vacant lot hard by a stinking red clay river.

So I kneeled there in the dust and didn’t twitch a muscle.

I overheard Pike and Hoxie talking, but could only make out scattered words: “Sam Floyd…says he’s a Baptist…with the carnival…pigsticker the size of your arm…bad character…up to no good fer sher….”

I didn’t realize this at the time, but I’m sure that they meant for me to hear what they were saying. That’s just how the police everywhere do, only at the time I was just too damn green to know it.

Sheriff Pike then walked over to the Deputy on his horse and talked to him for a minute–I couldn’t hear what he was saying–then the deputy on his horse nodded and galloped away. It was then that I had a queer feeling–like I was falling away entirely–first my knees, then my stomach, then my neck, then my teeth and my jawbone, and finally, my eyes and then the top of my head. It was an awful, sick feeling. To know that I was a dead man. And that I was going to die in the dust like a hog. Vultures would pick away at my eyebrows. Ants would swarm over my skin. Worms would devour my rotting carcass. The Red & Black Carnival would move on for greener pastures early the very next morning. The owner, Colonel Gentleman, would figure that I had jumped ship, or that maybe I was shacking up with a Grass Widow, and no inquiries would be made, discreet or otherwise, and no one would miss me ner ever learn what had become of me.

It was a strangely liberating feeling. I didn’t want to die, but I had the notion that if I did, then all my troubles would be forever over, and I would be at rest at last. Even then, I had no notion of heaven or hell. Not even in that extremity. I thought that beyond the vale of tears was simply–nothing. Otherwise, it would just be too cruel. And I also thought that the world would have to go on without me. And be no better ner no worst than before. It was a most humbling experience. I hadn’t yet made my mark, as I had fully intended to, once the time was right–and yet, it simply didn’t matter, somehow. Did it? Because I–we–all of us–were dust. I saw that as clear as day. Dust. That’s all. Food for worms and flies. And all of us, without exception, are destined to be scattered–scattered to the four winds. Maybe there was a fifth wind, I thought, half-mad with fear–a wind they never talk about–a wind which sweeps up all the forgotten souls and deposits them somewhere into the vast unknown.

Well, I would find out for myself–and soon enough.

But then I came to my right senses, and I started to sweat and shiver. My heart was racing. My knees were trembling. And the big High Sheriff loomed over me and his shadow blotted out the sun. That was a calculated effect, I’m sure, though I didn’t think about it at the time. I could see that the High Sheriff’s Deputy, Hoxie, still had his pistol aimed straight at my heart. I closed my eyes and prayed. Prayed that Hoxie would kill me with a clean shot, and nothing else. Anything but a gut shot.

Time seemed to slow down and nearly stop.

Seconds crawled by. They seemed like minutes, hours, days, eternities. My sweat slowly tricked across my closed eyelids.

“FLOYD!” the High Sheriff boomed. “I say, you there–Floyd!” It sounded, I swear it sounded, like the voice of God. “Floyd!” he said. “Open you Goddamned eyes when I’m talking to you!” The High Sheriff then moved slightly, and was no longer blocking out the sun, and I saw a blinding white light. I squinted. The High Sheriff, who had long jowls, and a nose like a hog, and spat in the dirt with a great deal of vigor, then asked me a series of curious questions.

“Are you a Mason?”
“No Sir.”
“Are you a Yankee?”
“No Sir.”
“Good. What was the name of General Lee’s horse?”
“Traveller, Sir.”
“What was the name of the late War?”
“The War of Northern Aggression, Sir.”
“Who was Abraham Lincoln?”
“The Devil, Sir.”
He looked at me.
“The Original Baboon. Sir.”

High Sheriff Pike seemed satisfied with the answers. But I hadn’t been left off the hook just yet. Far from it.

1* SALUTATION
MERCY
LOVE CAN MAKE YOU HAPPY

ALSO SEE:
THE SHADES OF BLUE
OH HOW HAPPY

SEE ALSO:
BRENDA HOLLOWAY
WHEN I’M GONE

2* REFERENCE
The Levenson Self-Report Psychopathy Scale
https://openpsychometrics.org/tests/LSRP.php

ALSO SEE:
EINSTEIN, RACIST
https://sputniknews.com/world/201806131065360060-einstein-travel-diaries/

3*HUMOR
Snagglepuss is Gay. And so was Huckleberry Hound, apparently.
https://www.cbr.com/snagglepuss-gay-hanna-barber-cartoon-canon/

ALSO SEE:
WHY BERT LAHR SUED
His most famous is his perpetual exclamation, “Heavens to Murgatroyd!” – a line first uttered by Bert Lahr in the film Meet the People (1944).
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Snagglepuss

4*NOVELTY
JOHN COLTRANE
LOST COMPOSITION: UNTITLED ORIGINAL 11383

http://www.theguardian.com/music/2018/jun/08/lost-1963-john-coltrane-album-discovered

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
ADAM CAROLLA’S WORK ADVICE FOR YOUNGSTERS
Something called PragerU is running these noxious ads on youtube clips. Here is their latest abomination:
http://www.prageru.com/videos/adam-carolla-dont-make-things-worse

And my rejoinder:
SHUT UP, FATSO BOSS! You pay ’em shit; you make ’em eat shit; and then you expect ’em to croak their gratitude through shit-smeared lips. Why don’t you kill yourself, you despicable fascist looter! Eat shit and die, you smug little butterball turkey!

6* DAILY UTILITY
GRAVE OF THE FIREFLIES (1988)

7*CARTOON
PLAY NICE, NORTH KOREA!
https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/#inbox/1633fee11fdcf807?projector=1

ALSO SEE:
CARTOON ALL-STARS TO THE RESCUE
Tiresome half-hour anti-drug PSA.

SEE ALSO:
TOP TEN JUST SAY NO SPECIALS
http://www.thefix.com/content/top-ten-just-say-no-tv-specials2076?page=all

ALSO SEE:
SOOTHING VIDEOS FOR DOGS

8*PRESCRIPTION
A SHORT HISTORY OF CLOWNS AND WHY THEY ARE SO TERRIFYING
theghostdiaries.com/a-short-history-of-clowns-and-why-they-are-so-terrifying/

9* RUMOR PATROL
PETER LEVENDA INTERVIEWED

ALSO SEE:
Cass Elliott from The Mamas and The Papas in an orgy with Yul Brynner, Peter Sellers and Warren Beatty.
https://deeppoliticsforum.com/forums/showthread.php?2306-Strange-Timing-amp-Motive-In-Polanski-Arrest/page3#.Wx_v0dJKjIU

SEE ALSO:
ACOUSTIC KITTY
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Acoustic_Kitty

10* LAGNIAPPE
THE FLYING BURRITO BROTHERS
WHY ARE YOU CRYING?

ALSO SEE:
FATS WALLER
THERE’LL BE SOME CHANGES MADE

11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
THE MOST DANGEROUS BOOK IN THE WORLD
http://www.simardartizanfarm.ca/ARK/9-11%20As%20A%20Mass%20Ritual.pdf

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
HOMEWARD BOUND: DECONSTRUCTED

Homeward Bound
Simon & Garfunkel

I’m sitting in the railway station.
Got a ticket to my destination.
Brilliant rhyme scheme, shrimp! Did you think of that one all by yourself, my little man? I’ve seen better verse on outhouse walls.

On a tour of one-night stands my suitcase and guitar in hand.
Waah! I’m famous and I have to perform for people to make money! Waah!

And every stop is neatly planned for a poet and a one-man band.
Oh Jesus Christ, you insufferable asshole, fuck you and the boat you rode in on.

Homeward bound,
I wish I was,
Homeward bound,
Home where my thought’s escaping,
Huh? What the fuck does that EVEN MEAN??? Prepositions, you preposterous midget, are your friend. Use them.

Home where my music’s playing,
It’s always about you, isn’t it?

Home where my love lies waiting
Silently for me.
What kind of cackling hag would want to fuck an evil midget like you?

Every day’s an endless stream
Of cigarettes and magazines.
Watch it with the inhaling, shorty, or you might barf.

And each town looks the same to me, the movies and the factories
The movies and the factories? That literally makes NO SENSE.

And every stranger’s face I see reminds me that I long to be,
When you’re a solipsist, every man’s a stranger.

Homeward bound,
I wish I was,
Homeward bound,
Home where my thought’s escaping,
Home where my music’s playing,
Home where my love lies waiting
Silently for me.
Tonight I’ll sing my songs again,
I’ll play the game and pretend.
You poor fucking baby. I feel so sorry for you.

But all my words come back to me in shades of mediocrity
You said it, not me.

Like emptiness in harmony I need someone to comfort me.
What in hell does this even mean??

Homeward bound,
I wish I was,
Homeward bound,
Home where my thought’s escaping,
Home where my music’s playing,
Home where my love lies waiting
Silently for me.
Silently for me.
Presumably because she choked to death on all your pretentious bullshit, you filthy little dwarf.

THE INFORMATION #997 JUNE 15, 2018

THE INFORMATION #997
JUNE 15, 2018
Copyright 2018 FRANCIS DIMENNO
dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

I was moved above all not by the thought that my death would ‘count,’ but that it would not count in the least.” –Christopher Hitchens

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

I had a gun on me. And so my situation was desperate. All the more so because I knew I couldn’t call out for help. There was no man in that small town who could help me. I couldn’t call for the police. The sheriff’s deputy WAS the law, south of Mason and Dixon.

Now, if I had been a full-blooded Senegambian or even an Octoroon or an Italian or if I even had so much as a lick of the ol’ Tar Brush, I’d of been a dead man right then and there, and I wouldn’t be here talking to you about it today.

Who knows? Maybe I’m not talking to you. Maybe it’s all just one great big crazy dream.

But for sure, if I had looked like a Nigra, that would of been the end of me–of that I had no doubt. But I had one unexpected advantage–I was a Floyd, and my being a Floyd must of counted for something in them parts–plus me being unmistakably a white man. Though at the time I thought that I had enjoyed my last drink, my last twitchet, and had laid down my final bet on the turn of a card and the whims of a bob-tailed nag.

The Sheriff’s Deputy kept me covered. His horse pistol was pointed straight at my heart, and his hand was steady and didn’t tremble at all, even though it must of been ninety degrees in the shade, and there warn’t no shade. I knew–don’t ask me how–but I just knew that he probably couldn’t even read or write–but I also just knew that he was a dead shot.

“Holt out your hands,” he said, and I hesitated, thinking that maybe he was fixing to break my thumbs. It’s funny, the thoughts that go swimming through your head during your last extremity–when you know for sure you’re going to be shot down like an ornery government mule. And then, for some damn reason, the Sheriff’s Deputy smiled. The goddamned bastard smiled! I didn’t know what was so funny. To this day I still don’t know!

His teeth were brown and stained with tobacco juice, and the two top teeth in the middle were missing. Likely, he had gotten them knocked out in a bar fight. But that wasn’t my concern.

“I said to be holtin’ out your hands, Mister. And be Goddamn quick about it.”

So I slowly lowered my hands; my arms were aching from keeping them over my head for so long. Try it sometime, and you’ll see. Not even a Yogi or an Indian Rubber Man can keep them clutching the sky for much more than a minute or two.

So I held my hands out to him, palms up. The palms were calloused from me having to pound in tent stakes and dig trenches. “I see you are a working man,” said the Sheriff’s Deputy, whose name, incidentally, was Hoxie. Jackson Hoxie. He handed me his hat. “Blow into the hat,” he said. I had no idea what he was about, but I did as I was told. He then took the hat back and gave it a little sniff, and it was then I realized that he was trying to determine if I was drunk. It was a dry county, and a charge of drunk would of landed me in the hoosegow for thirty days, unless I wanted to fork over two hundred frog skins, which I most assuredly did not.

When the Deputy Sheriff told me that his name was Jackson Hoxie and asked me what my name was, I told him that it was Sam Floyd. And, as I said it, from the look on his face, I knew that in them parts, a Floyd was better than a Hoxie any day of the week. Though I didn’t venture to express that particular opinion.

Hoxie then grew very serious. I could tell, because he inserted a slow pause between his every word, like stupid people, or very smart people do when they’re trying to get a point across. Hoxie was stupid, I was sure. Bone stupid. And that made him all the more dangerous. If I riled him up in any way, shape, or form, he could squeeze that trigger in a half second and blow my brains out, without even pausing to consider the consequences. I decided that if I was going to somehow escape this deadly situation, I would have to use all my circumspection, and then some.

“Floyd,” Hoxie said, “Whut. The Hail. Was you doin’ thar. At thet thar Water Tarr?”

I started to speak and he held the gun a little closer to me and he said, “Shut. Yer. face. Yew. Ain’t. Got. No. BIDness. Thar. Now. Do yuh?” I wanted to laugh. The way he squeezed out every word, it almost sounded like he was straining on the toilet.

But I dasn’t. I said, “Nosir.”

Hoxie said, “Shut yer stinkin’ pie hole.”

I stood utterly silent. The wind came up just then and it blew through the leaves in an overhead canopy of trees and made a sound like WSSSSH. At that moment, I would have given most anything I had to be back in my warm bed.

“Now,” said Hoxie, though he pronounced it more like “Naow.” “Now. Tell me…whut were yew…doin thar?”

I knew that any answer that I gave him would be the wrong one.

I said to him, “Sir–I don’t know.”

Hoxie looked at me in mock wonderment. “Yew…don’t know. Yuh…don’t know. Yuh don’t know a whole lot, now, do yuh?”

I said, “No, Sir.”

Remember–he still had the gun pointed straight at my heart.

Then Hoxie said, “Take off your clo’s.”

I said, “What?”

Hoxie said “I won’t tell yuh again. Take off your clo’s. I’m fixin’ to have some fun with yew.”

So I peeled my clothing off. I had two hundred dollars sewn into the lining of my jacket, and I had hidden my buck knife deep down in my boot, so I kept both my boots on. Hoxie gave me a withering look. “Did I say yew could keep your boots on? What yew got hid in there? Some whiskey? A Yankee dollar?

I said, slowly and meticulously so there could be no mistaking my meaning, “No Sir. Can I tell you, Sir?”

He nodded. “G’wan.”

I said, “I got me a knife in there, Sir. A little knife.”

He gazed at me with vast contempt. So vast that a man who didn’t know what he was about could have gotten swallowed up in it.

“Did I hear you right, Boy? You say you have a ‘little’ knife? Well, you just take that ‘little’ knife of your’n out of that ‘ar boot and lemme have a look. No tricks now, or I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off. Humm. Hold ‘er up to the light. A ‘little’ knife, huh? Well, now, you just take that ‘little’ knife of yourn and yew turn around and yew throw it into them there woods thar just as far as you can.”

I did as he said.

“Now–turn to face me. Whut did you say your name was?”

“Floyd–Sam Floyd.”

“‘Zat your real name?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“What church do you go to?”

“Sir,” I babbled, “I am a hard-shell Baptist through and through born and raised–and…and…I know my redeemer liveth.”

“Are yew a prayin’ man?” said Hoxie.

I said, “Yes, Sir.”

And he said, “Well…then…Floyd…yew had better get down on your prayer dukes riot naow.” He meant “right now,” but he pronounced it “riot naow.”

I looked at him and said, “Sir?”

And Hoxie replied, in a slow voice, “Ah SAID…tuh get down…on your knees…RIOT NAOW. En start prayin’.”

I thought this request was odd, and I almost laughed, in spite of the deadly danger I was in. Who would have thought that a Deputy Sheriff in a one-horse tank town would be so keen on the power of prayer. But then it occurred to me that he was giving me a chance to make my peace with my God just before he blew my head off, and at that moment I started farting in fear like a new-born calf, and it was only through a supreme effort of will that I managed not to soil myself.

I knelt, and then I closed my eyes, and when I did…and when I did, I could swear that what I was looking at–was at the flames…the flames of hell.

1* SALUTATION
SAIL AWAY LADY
VAN DYKE PARKS AND THE MONDRIAN STRING ORCHESTRA

SEE ALSO:
DAVID JOHANSEN
OLD DOG BLUE

DAVID THOMAS [PERE UBU]
WAY DOWN THE OLD PLANK ROAD

2* REFERENCE
THE GREAT AMERICAN READ
Incidentally, at least half of those selections are junk.

Wait–did I say junk? I meant “abysmal junk”.

For every 100 people who claim they read Moby Dick, only about 3 actually did.

Hence, the worthlessness of such polls.

They are fine for gauging audience preferences, I suppose.

Who was it–Saul Bellow? who spoke of s destructive game played in a certain Department of English at a certain University? Where young professors tried to impress each other by naming books they’ve never actually read and admitting that they never read them?

Hurston is underrated. Angelou is way overrated. And so is Morrison, though her third book was pretty good. I’m talking about Song of Solomon.

http://www.pbs.org/the-great-american-read/books/#/

3*HUMOR
HOW MEL BROOKS GOT HIS BIG BREAK IN SHOWBIZ

Hello hello hello
I’ve come to start the show
I’ll sing a little dance a little
I’ll do this and that
And though I’m not much on looks
Please love Mel Brooks

books.google.com/books?id=BfkIdiOFnJgC&pg=PA93&lpg=PA93&dq=%22though+I%27m+not+much+on+looks/please+love+Mel+Brooks%22&source=bl&ots=VTUeuHFbqe&sig=kXjF9ocg4RmjmX55zS3N78Vd2E0&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiEp7La77DbAhUj8IMKHbksC9gQ6AEIKjAB#v=onepage&q=%22though%20I’m%20not%20much%20on%20looks%2Fplease%20love%20Mel%20Brooks%22&f=false

4*NOVELTY
Dimash Kudaibergen
The latest singing sensation. You heard it here first.

One source states that “the illuminati” has already got to him.

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
BELOVED CHILDREN’S CLASSIC WRITTEN BY PROFESSED RACIST
The Education of Little Tree.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Asa_Earl_Carter

6* DAILY UTILITY
ROSEANNE’S HITLER PHOTO SHOOT
Roseanne’s courageous attempt to publicize both the Muslim Brotherhood and the underrated Planet of the Apes franchise has been completely misunderstood by the humorless puritans who drive the outrage factory of the east coast snowflake elites, and, furthermore, if only I had my gun.

By the way, did you know: Roseanne was the child of Holocaust survivors who told her she had to have five children, to make up for the 3/5ths of Jews who were killed by Hitler.
https://www.thewrap.com/roseanne-hitler-hate-speech-shelf-life/

7*CARTOON
CARTOONIST VS. MEME
Sentimental slop gets remixed. That’s news?
https://www.polygon.com/2018/6/6/17430838/ctrl-alt-del-loss-found-memes-tim-buckley

8*PRESCRIPTION
Ricotta Pudding (Budino di Ricotta)
I added chocolate, pistachios, and dried berries to the mix. Worth the effort to make.
http://memoriediangelina.com/2013/05/05/budino-di-ricotta-ricotta-pudding/

9* RUMOR PATROL
SULLIVAN VS. SINATRA
This version of the wonderful Sinatra-Sullivan imbroglio is from Nachman’s book:
https://books.google.com/books?id=5z_1Jg4F0jcC&pg=PA301&lpg=PA301&dq=sinatra+sullivan+last+drop+of+my+blood&source=bl&ots=AXx6E5toSq&sig=8Yo9zRpNMwLJ4JmLjiZLQ4rYHFQ&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwi67ozAvsHbAhXKpFkKHcF3BWIQ6AEIKTAA#v=onepage&q=sinatra%20sullivan%20last%20drop%20of%20my%20blood&f=false

10* LAGNIAPPE
GREEN FUZ
GREEN FUZ

Here we come, we’re coming fast
All the others are in the past
Jump to your feet, let us get you high
We’re the green fuz

We’re not too fast, we’re not too slow
Come along baby to see where we go
Jump to your feet, let us catch your eye
We’re the green fuz

We’re coming fast and I’ll tell you why
Jump to your feet, let us catch your eye
Here we come baby and you’d better run
We’re the green fuz

11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
INTERNATIONAL HOUSE OF PANCAKES TO BECOME INTERNATIONAL HOUSE OF BREAKFAST

The biggest news in IHOP history since Pat Buchanan said, in 1992, that the only foreign policy experience that Bill Clinton had was eating at IHOP. As he put it:

Bill Clinton’s foreign policy experience is pretty much confined to having had breakfast once at the Intl. House of Pancakes.
buchanan.org/blog/1992-republican-national-convention-speech-148

Actually, they should call it IHOD.

International House of Drunks.

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
BOUNCERS
Q: What criteria do bouncers use to select people at the front door?

A: Christopher Aeneadas, Veteran at I Observe My Environment. (2003-present)

At a packed club with a long line? When we literally can’t get all the people’s cover charge for fear of the fire marshal?

(This is bad to say, but true…)

Club owners like money
Old *men have money.
Attractive women dancing causes old men to spend money.
Attractive young men cause attractive women to dance.
Did I mention that club owners really like money?

First we screen for **whales. The (generally but not exclusively) older guys dressed well, but not trendy. They get in first. Many will self identify by offering a $100 handshake. A $50 handshake will often suffice. A bouncer who discovers he was subtly slipped a $5 bill to cut the line is going to find a reason to eject you.

Improper technique. The bill should be hidden from view. Particularly if you are using Mr. Washington as your co-negotiator.

Next we ensure about 55–60% of the club is females, dressed appropriately for the venue. Mix your races, body types, and ages… but admittedly not fairly. We are effectively swiping left or right on Tinder on behalf of men in general.

Why more women than men? Men aged 20–30 have a superpower. They can detect a gender imbalance that is not in their favor. If you have exactly 10,000 men and exactly 10,000 women at a massive rave there is no problem. The moment one woman leaves the premises? 2000 of those guys have a SAUSAGE FEST ALERT go off in their heads. Instantly. Then they get grumpy, start fighting, and stop spending money.

Now we fill the rest of the club with guys we think the women would swipe right on, and don’t look like they will make problems.

Single guys are disfavored. They will stay alone all night and bring down the energy. No one likes a mope. Brooding adds ambiance only to goth clubs.

Single women are favored. They will quickly be absorbed into another group. This makes everyone happy.

Groups larger than 5 are disfavored. Y’all came in multiple vehicles. That means you feel “Strength In Numbers.” The group is too big to be easily ejected as a unit.

If Insane Clown Posse is not on your DJ playlist these folks will need to be ejected sooner or later.

Groups larger than 8 are strongly disfavored. There is always a story. Bachelorette party? Gang initiation? IPO celebration when everyone’s stock now has real value? We don’t have time to sort it out. It’s suspicious. You’re not getting in.

Bouncers do not like to be outnumbered. Thanks.

Sports apparel and anything gang-ish (colors and flags) are strongly disfavored.

Anyone who is already drunk or obviously drugged is not getting in.

…and again, a cash-filled handshake will usually make a bouncer let you in first.

Just do it quietly. Approach a side-door guard or roaming guard rather than doing it in front of everyone waiting in line.

*While I used “men” here, there are very occasionally female whales. They get treated even better than their male counterparts. On one occasion in Los Angeles one of my guys got $100 from a mid-40’s lady who bluntly told him “I have 2 hours and I like both men and women.”

In that 2 hours she was all but mobbed by young gentlemen looking for a “Sugar Momma”. We didn’t even need to send guys her way. We deliberately pushed more guys into the club since she was buying lots of top shelf drinks for lots of people. I even sent a couple of D-list male celebrities I knew to visit her.

Once we sent a couple of “plant” girls over to be seen flirting with her, she had no shortage of young ladies attention either.

She dropped about $2500 on the bar tab. I’m not sure how much she spread around in tips. That single night surely netted her a year’s worth of kids to play with.

**”Whale” is a term for a big spender. At any given time one may or may not be present, but when they appear their whims come third after public safety/code compliance and maintaining ambiance. While I have never seen a nightclub’s accounting ledger, I would guess that they account for 20–30% of revenue.