MODERN WISDOM NUMBER 238 AUGUST 2018

MODERN WISDOM: AMERICA’S ONLY HUMOR MAGAZINE
NUMBER 238
AUGUST 2018

Copyright 2018 Francis DiMenno
dimenno@gmail.com
http://www.dimenno.wordpress.com

1. NOIR MISFORTUNE COOKIES: SECOND SERIES

551. You call yourself an Irish Storyteller but really you are a drunk.
552, They’ll deport you to where they kill people like you on sight.
553. Empty beer bottles will not finance your need to get high.
554. You are a crooked man in a crooked shack, and here comes the rain.
555. You bullied the parents; now their children jeer at you.
556. Piker, where have all your big-shot buddies gone off to?
557. You realized too late that your Guru is insane.
558. Only the most fawning parasites pretend to desire your company.
559. You followed your dream and it led you straight into an open manhole.
560. The Bulls plan to clear their casebook by framing you for everything.
561. Every agreement you hold sacred will be broken repeatedly.
562. Women find you too needy to tolerate for more than five minutes.
563. Seduced by cheap hoodlums, you will end your days in the gutter.
564. You have seen behind the mask and it has driven you insane.
565. Your night terrors persist more and more into your empty days.
566. Your father taught you to steal but he didn’t teach you very well.
567. Stay? they will find you. Flee? They will find you. Surrender–NOW.
568. They’re not listening. You might as well be boasting to an empty room.
569. You will not carry on. For you are carrion.
570. We were born to love one another. But nobody loves you.
571. If Will Rogers met you he would hate you on sight.
572. Even your own relatives have little faith in your wild promises.
573. You think you’re a great detective. But you’re only a schizophrenic.
574. You shouldn’t drink Canada Dry. Start small–with British Columbia.
575. Wipe that grin off your pan, Laughing Boy–the boss don’t like it.
576. You went from Happy Valley to Madport in one precipitiously easy step.
577. You have a million crazy ideas–not one of them will pan out.
578. Is it possible that The Big Man controls your very thoughts? Yes.
579. You will eventually be reincarnated–as a loathsome toadstool.
580. Your temperature and your favorite radio station is 101.4.
581. The truth is not in you for you’re living in a lie.
582. Don’t worry about the Indian, my little man. Worry about yourself.
583. Your baby sister will be corrupted by a loathsome pimp.
584. Most people live in pampered misery. But you’re in real hell.
585. You have the ambition of a giant–and the mind of a midget.
586. Someday very soon they will name a loathsome disease after you.
587. Your mother traded you for a car. A Yugo.
588. Your worship of a stupid strongman will prove your undoing.
589. Everyone avoids you, for your opinions stink of the looming grave.
590. Your stuffy wife divorced you. Now you live in a stuffy room.
591. Junkie, the venal pawnbroker will buy your swag for pennies on the dollar.
592. Lush, the Drunk Train ends up only at Terminal Station.
593. All your grandiose opinions are merely dressed-up received opinion.
594. No matter where you travel, the lonely place is in your heart.
595. You had ideas above your station. Now you’re stranded at the crossroads.
596. You are a small man. The world of big affairs is not for you.
597. Fat, stupid, and ugly–the trifecta of your loneliness.
598. Poor stupid man–you cannot even keep a poor stupid woman.
599. Loser, they won’t even let you join the Failure Club.
600. A frog-faced sexless doughboy like you can never excel.

2. FAILED CAR NAMES
The Ford Pomeranian
The Volvo Cunny
The Chevy Backstabber
The Hyundai Kismet
The Ford Dachau
The Volvo Mantra
The Dodge Ram Make Up Your Mind
The Saturn Chronos: “It will devour your children!”

3. PAPA WAS A ROLLING STONE: THE LOST VERSES
Folks say Papa used to often wore a
Stupid feather-in-the-sweatband Fedora
Folks say Papa had a string of foxy whores
That kept him busy tending to his chores
When it come to lovin’ he must of held a Master’s
Because he fathered ’bout a dozen bastards

Mama I’m dependin’ on you
To tell me the truth

4. LYRICAL HALLUCINATIONS
Cuss me for a fogbound galoot, but I just can’t figure out what in
tarnation our so-called modern troupadours are jawin’ about in their newfangled self-styled “compositions”. Maybe I’m just some sort of relic, but as far as I’m concerned, popular music makers make absolutely no sense a-tall.

Fats Domino:
I found my thrill on Blueberry Hill…

(An entire hill made of delicious blueberries stretches plausibility. Wouldn’t the blueberries rot? Or be eaten by hungry bears?)

Mel & Tim:
Backfield in motion/I’m going to have to penalize you…

(Difficult–if not, in fact, anatomically impossible.)

Little Peggy March:
I will follow him
Follow him wherever he may go….

(There is at least one type of public facility where it would be
socially inappropriate for Miss March to follow “Him”.)

Barbara Streisand:
I’m a big girl now, I’m five.

(Sadly, Miss Streisand is deluding herself. The age of five is at
least three years prior to the age in which a girl can, by popular
consensus, be considered “Big”.)

Nat Gonella & his Georgians:
The music goes round and round…

(Impossible. Music does not travel in a circular pattern.)

The Supremes:
Stop! in the name of love
Before you break my heart….

(Medical science has conclusively proven that no instrument short of a metallic bandsaw would be capable of literally breaking apart the involuntary striated musclature of the myocardium.)

Yes:
Hot color
Melting the anger to stone oh ho

(Anger is a feeling rather than a physical entity, and, therefore,
cannot quantitatively be affected by enhancements of the ambient
temperature. Furthermore, it has been conclusively demonstrated that, in institutional settings, colors considered “cool” are those most conducive to ameliorating anger.)

The Cure:
Daylight licked me into shape.

(The Sun does not have a tongue. Furthermore, were the sun capable of extending a tongue-like flare some 93 million miles across space, its heat would probably incinerate the earth’s atmosphere, and, consequently, all sentient life on the planet. Far from licking one into shape, such a grotesque phenomenon would undoubtedly prove catastrophic.Furthermore, “light” as described here, does not occupy physical space (as a solid, liquid, or gas might) Therefore, even if a solar flare of catastrophic proportions such as this, it would not, in fact, be light that licked you.)

Bruce Springsteen:
And when you realize how they tricked you this time
And it’s all lies but I’m strung out on the wire
In these streets of fire

(Assuming a mixture of concrete composed of one part cement and two
parts sand, with added lime and aggregate, the melting point of said “street” would be about 1000 degrees Fahrenheit, which would cause visible destruction of human skin at the site of contact.)

Reverend Gary Davis:
“And the bees made honey in the lion’s head”
http://www.lyricstime.com/rev-gary-davis-s…lah-lyrics.html

(Even allowing for the fact that bees have a decided preference for
constructing their hives in a dark and enclosed space, there would
probably not be adequate room in the skull of a recently deceased lion to fashion a hexagonal structure of the requisite size and shape.)

Elton John:
Philadelphia freedom put me knee-high to a man….

(Actually, not so impossible at all….)

5. A FUNNY JOKE

Strange to say, different nationalities have different notions of what’s funny.

Northern Europeans tend to love anal humor.

Ala:

A bear and a rabbit are shitting in the woods. The bear says to the
rabbit, “Does shit stick to your fur?” The rabbit says no. So the bear wipes his ass with the rabbit.

One source (which attributes it, almost certainly inaccurately, to
Gilbert Gottfried):

A bear and a rabbit are taking a shit in the woods, the bear turns to the rabbit and says, “Do you have a problem with shit sticking to your fur?” The rabbit says no and the bear wipes his ass with the rabbit.

This, by the way, is a fairly standard old tale–possibly centuries
old, since something similar was cited in GARGANTUA AND
PANTAGRUEL–that appeals to the Anglo-Saxon proclivity for shit jokes.
(For more on this topic, see Gershon Legman, who has written a
two-volume work titled THE RATIONALE OF THE DIRTY JOKE which provides an exhaustive classification of joke motifs.)

Even within the U.S. there are regional tastes in humor. Southerners
go in for incest jokes. Back in 1987 I was doing a set at the Funny
Farm in Louisville Kentucky. The guy who followed me, a policeman (!) told this one and laid ’em in the aisles:

Q: What’s a hillbilly gal say on her first date?
A: “Git off me, Paw, you’re crushin’ my smokes.”

Further South, they seem to go in for bestiality jokes:

Two fellers sittin’ on a porch. Hound dog’s layin’ there, lickin’ his balls. Young Merle says, “I sure wish I could do that.” Old Earl says, “Get to know him, first.”

Underage sex gags are also popular. This is one cited by H. Allen
Smith in his book RUDE JOKES:

Guy and a girl is a motel. Guy casually asks the girl how old she is. She tells him. The guy grabs his clothes and flees. Girl sits on the bed and says, “MEN! They’re so SUPERSTITIOUS!”

6. POPSICLE DAYS AND FUDGSICLE NIGHTS

RNC Drafts Proposal to Make Popsicle Brand Quiescently Frozen Treats the Official National Dessert.
(AP) Washington, DC.

In an emergency press conference this morning, RNC head Ronna Romney McDaniel has recommended that the Popsicle Pops brand of frozen confections be designated our “national dessert.”

“I see this as a bipartisan issue,” said McDaniel. “Because everyone loves delicious Popsicle Brand frozen treats. Even Democratic Socialists. They are an American Classic.”

In a recently-announced rebuttal, Senator Bernie Sanders (I-VT) countered what he referred to as a “cynical gambit” by proposing that Eskimo Pie Brand Ice Cream Sandwiches be designated as the nation’s official dessert. “The Klondike Bar,” said Sanders, “Recalls our ugly record of imperialism and genocide and oppression by the Republican National Socialist Party. But Eskimo Pies,” Sanders added, “Are a Wonderland in Every Bite.”

Both politicians have strenuously denied that intensive lobbying by
representatives of Unilever and Nestle have had anything to do with
their endorsements.

7. LYRICAL HALLUCINATIONS, PART TWO
Well, I’ll be switched if’n the overwhelming amount o’ mail from yew galoots–egg-zactly none–didn’t inspire me to explore further the wonderful world of These Kids Today and their downriot DOUR
lyrico-musical outpourin’s, off-scrapin’s, and effusions. Seems to me that back in the Good Old Days the Moon-June-Spoon school was good enough for when Paw was courtin’ aw and was even popular with the sprats and sprouts. But nowadays anymore, all this here recent talk about detachable umnetionables and ladies of easy virtue with advanced cases of στεατοπυγία is–wal, it’s enough to–pardon my French–gag a maggot. Anyhoo, here are some more examples of the consarned, dadgummed, dodblasted, higglety-piggelty, flibber-te-digits and their lowbrow, highfaltin’, so-called “music”.

CHICAGO:
Does anybody really know what time it is?
Does anybody really care?

I do, assholes

U2:
Sunday, Bloody Sunday.

Impossible. Days of the week do not bleed.

GEORGE HARRISON:
“While the Pope owns 51% of General Motors…”

No, he doesn’t.

NIRVANA:
“I don’t have a gun”

Well, actually, you had at least one, and that, apparently, was one too many.

ICE CUBE:
“So pay respect to the black fist
Or we’ll burn your store right down to a crisp.”

http://www.mp3lyrics.org/i/ice-cube/black-korea/

Contrary to Mr. Cube’s rather gruesomely strenuous asseverations, it would be impossible to configure an act of arson in such a way as to guarantee the reduction of a Korean merchant’s establishment to the state of a “crisp”.

ELTON JOHN:
“Someone saved my life tonight/ Sugar bear.”

What in hell does poor SUGAR BEAR have to do with it???

ELTON JOHN:
“Don’t let the sun go down on me.”

Even assuming the sun’s proclivities were in that direction, I suspect that noshing on Reg Dwight’s ding-dong would not be high on that celestial body’s list of things-to-do.

ELTON JOHN:
“He was born a pauper to a pawn on a Christmas day
When the New York Times said God is dead
And the war’s begun
Alvin Tostig has a son today”

1) The New York Times did not say “God Is Dead”. It was Time Magazine, and the cover line was “Is God Dead?”

http://www.time.com/time/covers/0,16641,19660408,00.html

Incidentally, Nietzsche said it too–in 1882.

God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it?

http://74.125.93.132/search?q=cache:HIott8yzmJgJ:en.wikipedia.org/wiki/God_is_dead+Nietzsche+god+is+dead&cd=1&hl=en&ct=clnk&gl=us

BUT ALSO SEE:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_J._J._Altizer

2) No wars began during the week in which that cover came out (April 6, 1966), although the United States invaded the Dominican republic later that month.

SEE:
http://www.time.com/time/magazine/0,9263,7601660408,00.html

3) What in blue blazes does the Earl of Wessex have to do with anything?
http://www.straightdope.com/columns/read/1755/in-the-elton-john-song-levon-who-is-alvin-tostig

CUTTING CREW:
“(I Just) Died in Your Arms Last Night”

Although the narrator in this case may have been speaking
metaphorically, and referring to what is traditionally known as “le
petit mort” (the little death) of the orgasmic experience,
nonetheless, impressionable children might be given the mistaken
impression that it is the ever-present but little-spoken-of
sex-and-death nexus traditional to American mass entertainment since the post-1945 era that is being referenced.

Such a conflation of sexual activity with violent death has been shown by commentators (M.McLuhan, The Mechanical Bride; G. Legman, Love and Death; F. Wertham, Seduction of the Innocent) to be a prime mover in the creation of a warped sexuality which leads, inexorably, to a society of passive spectacle and the disintegration of the nuclear family.

THE POLICE:
“Every breath you take, I’ll be watching you”

Clearly, the narrator is Santa Claus. (“He sees you when you’re
sleeping/He knows when you’re awake….”)

CARRIE UNDERWOOD:
“Jesus, Take the Wheel”

Even in the unlikely event that the mummified 1,976 year old corpse of the historic Jesus of Nazareth still actually existed, it would, it goes without saying, be of little use in averting an automotive
collision.

Incidentally, the enormous popularity of this song has led to several, little known, sequels:

Jesus, Assist Me With My Taxes
Jesus, Help Me Hammer in the Nails
Jesus, Help Me Geeze the Spike
Jesus, Show Me How To Use Windows Vista
I’m Sorry, Jesus, But I Have to Put You On Hold

8. PLEASE DON’T HATE MY GOOD FRIEND JESUS

I say unto the skeptics: There is no reason to hate Jesus, my friends.

It would be very noble of you not to further hurt the feelings of our Saviour.

But we are all human, and are sometimes tempted by the forces of chaos.

And so was He.

Forgiveness is yours, if you will seek it.

Just as Christ healed the lame, so Easter shows there is salvation for even the most crippled soul.

For truly, we live in two worlds: the world of logic, and the world of the unseen.

And truly, we must not blame ourselves for any evils which may befall us, and will not do so once we realize that we are all dust and are therefore merely a very small part of a much larger plan.

His plan.

Even so, my friends, always remember that there are certain things
that are too sacred to be mocked by self-styled “rebels”.

You may choose to mock Jesus, but remember this: He was beaten to a
pulp for you.

I address myself in particular to the skeptical younger crowd.

Remember: Jesus was “cool”.

You might even say that He was the original “punk rocker”

His piercings were his crown of thorns.

He allowed himself to be mutilated.

He sought to see the truth behind the lies.

And He bravely spoke out against all the big authority figures.

There is such a thing as karma, my friends. There truly is. Even for a Saviour.

His karma is to be despised by those who cannot fathom the karmic
wheel of reward and retribution.

Let us conclude by concluding.

Oh, His plan is far more subtle than we can fathom.

Remember, my rash friends: there is no reason to despise the messenger
of peace.

For, “A prophet is not without honour, save in his own country”.–Matt. 13:57

9. AN OPEN LETTER TO THE ALPHA HOBO OF HARVARD SQUARE

Clearly, Sir, you are an eater of Ramen noodles with perpetually bloodshot eyes who parrots Rush Limbaugh, buys booze in bottles with plastic handles, pays for sex, owns a post office box to receive clandestine porn, harbors plates of food under your ratty sofa that you dug from a trash heap, sleeps 15 hours a day on a mattress on the floor, wears elastic waist jeans, sports an ironic beard, and never misses his daily viewing of “The Yogi Bear program”. I am sure you are the semi-homeless man I saw digging food from the trash can in the dumpster alley near where the Tower Records store used to be. You also have extensive personal experience with the phenomenon known as cock burn,

My guess is that you are also an eater of Beefaroni straight out of the can, you always scratch your balls in public whether any “pretty ptitsas” are watching you or not, and you think that Howard Stern is totally original and “really out there” and wil divulge this fascinating information to anyone who cares to listen.

For a treat, you raid convenience store “leave a penny-take a penny” bins until you have accumulated eleven cents, and then you gather up 36 discarded empty bottles, then take the ensuing funds and invest in one stick of store brand butter ($0.74), and, for solace, late at night, spread it inches thick on day-old store brand white bread ($1.17), and then lay back in bed, slowly chewing, in an ecstasy of starch and fat.

Your favorite song is “Theme to ‘Wally Gator’,” and you never miss your daily reading of The Boston Herald, which, to your infinite credit, you always contrive to fish out of a trash can. You are also known to go trolling around the hidden dumpster at Finagle a Bagel and retrieve bag-fulls of the day’s leavings. On a rainy day you examine closely the bin books at Goodwill on the off-chance that someone might have left a twenty-spot in one of them.

10. TO A SPYMASTER DYING OLD (1)

“Spargere voces in vulgum ambiguas.”–Vergil (2)

Not long from the Merry Maypole, nor far
From where he spent his childhood and his days,
Director Hoover (3) crossed the bourne of life
The second morn of May. (4) Condolences
Varied. “Jesus Christ! That old cocksucker!”
The President replied. (5) And “Are you sure?” (6)
But pundits, solons, hangers-on agreed:
“The ending of an era.” Pep was gone. (7)
Speed had run his race. (8) King Pandion
Was dead–and all his friends were filled with dread. (9)

(1) An allusion to A.E. Housman’s “To an Athlete Dying Young,” which begins:
The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.

For the full text SEE:
http://www.bartleby.com/103/32.html

(2) Translation: “To scatter doubtful rumors among the common people.”

(3) “The Director” was the long time nickname of FBI Director J.Edgar
Hoover. See Gentry, et al.

(4) May first, traditionally known as “May Day”, was a Communist
Holiday. The irony could not have escaped Hoover as he lay dying on
the evening of May 1st.

(5) See: http://74.125.93.104/search?q=cache:u6vehjLg81EJ:www.trutv.com/library/crime/gangsters_outlaws/cops_others/hoover/1.html+%22J.+edgar+hoover%22+died+may+2+1972&cd=1&hl=en&ct=clnk&gl=us

Also: http://www.metafilter.com/30348/The-Rotten-Library

(6) “At his death, then President Richard Nixon had Hoover’s office and its
contents sealed for several months. Reports are that Nixon’s first
reaction to being told of Hoover’s death was, ‘Are you sure?'”
http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0393890/bio

(7) Allegedly, John Edgar Hoover’s nickname as a teen marching cadet was “Pep”.

(8) Another allusion to Housman. Also, Hoover’s nickname as a 12-year old grocery delivery boy was “Speed”. See Gentry, et al. Later, as assistant director of the (then) Bureau of Investigation, perhaps not coincidentally, Hoover named his beloved Cairn Terrier “Spee De Bozo.” (Experts differ on the spelling.) Terriers and Beagles were Hoover’s favored breeds. LBJ owned a Beagle he named “J.Edgar”, the dog was a gift from the Director. (“J Edgar” replaced the Presidential Beagle “Him”, who was “run over and killed on the White House grounds”.)
SEE:
http://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=1827
ALSO SEE:
http://books.google.com/books?id=L0iv57e2mXEC&pg=PA223&lpg=PA223&dq=Spee+De+Bozo&source=bl&ots=vjN5OqnE7V&sig=9_YJzFbhvpU3rQ0t02x1FyfBYis&hl=en&ei=jtvTSaCeHaPglQfjsoXLDA&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=3

(9) A play on “An Ode,” a poem by Richard Barnfield (1574–1627):

As it fell upon a day
In the merry month of May…
Every thing did banish moan,
Save the nightingale alone.
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Lean’d her breast up-till a thorn
And there sung the doleful’st ditty,
King Pandion, he is dead…
All thy friends are lapp’d in lead…

11. UGLY POETRY

“The poetry of the 20th century is principally to be found in the
explication of the profoundly ugly.”

The process of which, in and of itself, can be beautiful.

This is also a statement regarding aesthetics.

I mean to signify, ala the Frankfurt School, that there is a quality of the 20th century which obliges artists to wrestle art and beauty from ugliness and strife.

A hasty reader might conclude that I am somewhat baldly stating that 20th century poetry is ugly.

Not so!

Even I would not be so rash.

I have wandered widely if not wisely in the English poetic tradition, having studied under Robert Fitzgerald and Elizabeth Bishop.

Elizabeth Bishop was a remarkable teacher who made us actually
memorize poems. She was particularly eloquent regarding the merits of Robert Frost and Wallace Stevens. Also, Thomas Hardy.

Is the following not eminently fine? Especially “…down the
diminishing platform bore…”?

ON THE DEPARTURE PLATFORM

We kissed at the barrier; and passing through
She left me, and moment by moment got
Smaller and smaller, until to my view
She was but a spot;

A wee white spot of muslin fluff
That down the diminishing platform bore
Through hustling crowds of gentle and rough
To the carriage door.

Under the lamplight’s fitful glowers,
Behind dark groups from far and near,
Whose interests were apart from ours,
She would disappear,

Then show again, till I ceased to see
That flexible form, that nebulous white;
And she who was more than my life to me
Had vanished quite . . .

We have penned new plans since that fair fond day,
And in season she will appear again –
Perhaps in the same soft white array –
But never as then!

– “And why, young man, must eternally fly
A joy you’ll repeat, if you love her well?”
–O friend, nought happens twice thus; why,
I cannot tell!

It can be argued that 20th Century Modernism was, to some significant
degree, a reaction against Romanticism and other movements that
followed it. Romanticism in turn was a reaction, in part, against the
industrial revolution. (As was once said of Donovan: “As the world
about me rages/I’ll go back to the middle ages.” See “Magical Misery
Tour” by Michael O’Donoghue, illus. Randall Enos, in National Lampoon
#19, October 1971.)

Compare Hardy to John Clare:

I Am!

I am: yet what I am none cares or knows,
My friends forsake me like a memory lost;
I am the self-consumer of my woes,
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shades in love and death’s oblivion lost;
And yet I am! and live with shadows tost

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life nor joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems;
And e’en the dearest–that I loved the best–
Are strange–nay, rather stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man has never trod;
A place where woman never smil’d or wept;
There to abide with my creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept:
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie;
The grass below–above the vaulted sky.

And Clare to Blake:

LONDON
I wander through each chartered street,
Near where the chartered Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet,
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
In every cry of every man,
In every infant’s cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forged manacles I hear:

How the chimney-sweeper’s cry
Every blackening church appals,
And the hapless soldier’s sigh
Runs in blood down palace-walls.

But most, through midnight streets I hear
How the youthful harlot’s curse
Blasts the new-born infant’s tear,
And blights with plagues the marriage-hearse.

This whole wrestling-of-beauty from ugliness, din and strife is far
from a uniquely 20th-century phenomenon. But whereas some sort of
pre-Industrial Arcadia may have lingered in the living tradition of
Blake, Clare, and even Hardy, we are, I am convinced, growing ever
further away from a pre-Industrial mindset. To do so, we actually have
to travel back, if solely in our minds, because we can simply no
longer remember back.

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THE INFORMATION #1004 AUGUST 3, 2018

THE INFORMATION #1004
AUGUST 3, 2018
Copyright 2018 FRANCIS DIMENNO

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

I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just; that his justice cannot sleep forever. –Thomas Jefferson

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

Let me tell you something else, said Sam Floyd to Cadger Tandy as they lay in bed that night. Let me tell you about Big Tiny Small, the world’s fattest midget woman. It was enough to make a grown man spue the way she would give out unsolicited opinions to every Tom Dirk and Harry who was merely stopping by her trailer to pass the time. She was always into swapping highfalutin palaver about how this and that was her ‘practice’. “Honesty is my practice,” she would say, apropos of absolutely nothing. “If you never tell a lie then you never have to contradict yourself.” But she herself was as crooked as the day is long.

F’r instance, she was always spinning tall tales and outright whoppers about how she had to turn down this or that disappointed beau, and how her rejected swains forthwith became so despondent over the spurning of their advances that they invariably resorted to the rope, the Pistole, or the black bottle with the skull and crossbones. She actually had the nerve to insinuate that she had been obliged to gently ‘let down’ the Calabrian Strong Boy, because she could never be seen with an ‘Eye-talian’ feller. “The disgrace of it,” she said with a wistful look, “would kill my Mammy and Pappy.”

But the Strong Boy told a different story. “Why, I wouldn’t touch that Fatty with a barge pole,” he snorted. Me and him and the boys were having a few snorts in the back room of the local watering hole. The Strong Boy would never touch strong drink; all he would ever drink was watered wine, which he took as he washed down a dozen or so raw oysters. He was also very fond of bachelor’s eggs. Those were simply raw eggs with a pin-hole in ’em so you could suck down the white, the yolk, and all. “She’s always casting the goo-goo eyes at me,” says the Strong Boy, “and I don’t like it one bit. I stay out of her way as much as possible. The Colonel, he would be mad at me for sure if I made her sore.”

She had a ‘practice’ for everything under the sun. I never knew or even heerd of a zook as gave herself such airs. If the boss, Colonel Gentleman, wanted her to sit on her platform for as so much as an extra minute or two, she’d say, “It’s my practice to never go to work in an atmosphere where I am not accorded the proper respect.” Imagine–a fat hog like that, mouthing off to the Colonel! But the Colonel took it. Mawks were his weakness. He couldn’t stand to see a Mollie cry.

Anyway, this honesty practice of hers was little more than an excuse for her to say any hateful thing she pleased, and, incidentally, to shove her way to the front of the chow line when the supper bell rang. “Excuse me,” she would say, as she pushed and jostled her way forward to get ahead of everybody else. “But I’m feeling a bit faint. Oh me oh my! How dizzy I am! The Doctor says I’m prone to these dizzy spells, and so I simply must stay off my feet.”

She was some dumplin’s, that one was, and that’s a Godalmighty fact! She even had a Nigra maid, as nobody else did, or was allowed to. Now, you know me–I’m a man of the South, and I bear no great love for a dusky poltroon of any condition. But there’s no need to be mean to au utterly harmless, superannuated Senegambian! Why, she would torment that poor old woman something fierce; I swan she would. She would interrogate that poor serving-wench like a Police Captain interrogating a cut-throat, tryin’ to get to the bottom of some particularly furtive and bizarre murders. “Did you clean the trailer like I told you?” she’d snarl. And then she’d snap her fingers. “What about there?” Snapping her fingers. Pointing to the floor. “And there.” Snapping her fingers. Pointing to the bed. “And there?” Snapping her fingers, twice. Pointing to the windows. The rail-thin wench would start into whining, “Well, Miz Small, ah–“. But Miz Small was having none of it. “I didn’t ask for excuses,” she’d snort. “It’s my practice to never accept excuses. Excuses are the sign of a weak intellect. Just answer the question, Lucy.” And she proceeded to snap her fingers nine times in rapid succession as she said, “Did. You. Clean. The. Trailer. Like. I. TOLD. You?” She paused. “Yes…or no?”

She didn’t care one lick that she was humiliating the poor old stammering Negress right in front of me. I s’pose she liked to throw her weight around. So to speak. And there was plenty of it to throw–I’ll tell the world!

“Yes, Miz Small, I did, Ma’am. I cleans the trailer just like you done tole me.”

“Is that so? Then how do you account for this dust?” And she held her white-gloved finger under the crooked black nose of her hapless maid.

By the way, she always sweated something fierce, like a hog in a waller, and she never wore gloves at all, except to torment pore old Lucy.

“Well, M’am,” said poor old Lucy, who must of been close to ninety years old if she was a day, and was all hunched over from years of chopping cotton and other forms of servitude, “I guesses I couldn’t stretch that fur, Miz Small.”

“I wasn’t asking for any of your fancy excuses,” the Fat Lady hissed. “I was asking how’s come there’s dust there? You know, Lucy,” she continued, with a twisted-mouth smirk. “Honesty is the best practice. If you never tell a lie then you never have to contradict yourself. I’m sure you’re old enough by now to understand that.” She said this just as though she were talking to a child. Then she started in to wheedlin’ poor old Lucy, because she knowed full well I was listenin’ in and she didn’t want to come across as the ogre she was, despite her “practice”.

“Now, Lucy,” says she, “Haven’t I been good to you?”

“Yes, m’am?” says the poor bewildered Lucy.

“Didn’t I put a roof over your head?”

“Yes, Miz Small.”

“Don’t I buy you pretties?”

“Yes, Miz Small.”

Now, just so you know, in case you were wonderin’, the ‘pretties’ in question consisted of one of the Fat Lady’s own threadbare cast-off ribbons that she insisted that the darkie wear, even though Lucy scarcely had a hair left on her wooly short-cropped white head and in fact was practically ball-headed. She had long ago probably tore out what little hair had naturally remained on account of having to work for such an ill-tempered woman.

“So,” says Miss Big Tiny Small, “then how come there’s dust on this here lintel? You said you cleaned the trailer, but apparently you did not. I’m not stupid, you know.”

“Yes, Miz Small. I mean–no, Miz Small.”

The Fat Lady could, and would, go on all the livelong day with that sort of slow water torture. It was a wonder Old Lucy didn’t get fed up to her eyelids and take a big ole straight razor to her as she slept.

And if the jury knew the full facts of the matter, I’d bet for a sure thing that no twelve men good and true, either North ner South of the Mason-Dixie line, would ever convict her!

1* SALUTATION
David Bowie & Philip Glass – Heroes (Aphex Twin Mix)

ALSO SEE:
PHILIP GLASS
HEROES

2* REFERENCE
BEST NOVELS BY CHARLES DICKENS
https://themillions.com/2012/08/dickens-best-novel-6-experts-share-their-opinions.html

ALSO SEE:
https://www.sffchronicles.com/threads/566839/

3*HUMOR
THE OUTBURSTS OF EVERETT TRUE
https://jeffoverturf.blogspot.com/2011/01/outbursts-of-everett-true-nemo-26-part.html

ALSO SEE:
AL CAPP

https://animationresources.org/category/al-capp/
https://www.wsj.com/articles/SB10001424127887324503204578316572565345816

4*NOVELTY
HISTORY OF THE CHIMICHANGA
https://ixtapacantina.com/history-of-the-chimichanga/

ALSO SEE:
Q: WHAT SHOULD YOU NEVER DO IN A FAST-FOOD RESTAURANT?
BY RYAN LESLIE
A fast food restaurant is a sacred place.

There are such acts that must be performed, before even eating. There is one thing one must never do.

Never sinply ask for food, pay and then collect your food, politely.

I will show you the correct etiquette used in fast food restaurants:

Smash the door open, with your foot.
Square up with everyone in line. In our culture, you must fight for your position in line.
Say you are a member of the KKK for 69 percent discount offers. It’s very honorable.
Say, “Look mate, I’m feeling generous. I’m going to give you an extremely high tip.
Pull out your monopoly dollars and give a tip of $1000.
Leave a suit case, in the restaurant, with a sticker labeled – “Bomb”.
Walk out with no complications.
https://www.quora.com/What-should-you-never-do-in-a-fast-food-restaurant

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
VIRGIN MARY WEEPING OLIVE OIL
Wonder if it was Extra Virgin olive oil.
http://www.foxnews.com/us/2018/07/16/investigation-into-weeping-virgin-mary-statue-continues.html

6* DAILY UTILITY
HOW TO NOT WASTE MONEY

https://www.thepennyhoarder.com/smart-money/how-to-not-waste-money/?aff_id=4&aff_unique3=6111543709586&utm_source=facebook&utm_medium=social-paid&utm_campaign=how-to-not-waste-money&utm_content=6111543662586-157207525&utm_term=157106910_157169730_157207525&utm_id=157207525&aff_sub3=6111543660986_6111543662586_6111543709586&aff_unique4=1

7*CARTOON
THE LEXICON OF COMICANA
The term Boozex, you’ll be happy to know, was totally invented, circa 1979, along with dozens of other such terms of Comicana, out of thin air, by none other than Mort Walker, the beloved inventor of both Beetle Bailey and Hi & Lois. (Who were related in some way.)
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Lexicon_of_Comicana

Thirsty, the red-nosed lush character in the latter, never, to my recollection, ever got so pickled that Walker had to deploy the Boozex. Which I have seen in New Yorker cartoons dating back to ca. 1929. Walker’s triumph, therefore, can be seen as a triumph of nomenclature rather than sheer invention.I am pretty certain that the beloved (comic strip artists = always “beloved”) Bill Holman, of Smokey Stover fame, contributed nearly as many catch-phrases to the lingo as Walker, although his were unique to his own strip I refer to “foo”, “notary sojac”, “scram gravy ain’t wavey” and “1506 nix nix” . God bless wiki!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Smokey_Stover

Holman was also responsible for the comic strip which ran above Smokey Stover called The Squirrel Cage, which featured a nameless character known only as “The Little Hitchhiker,” who bears more than a passing resemblance to Mr. Natural, a fact which Crumb himself would very likely own up to.
http://the-squirrel-cage.blogspot.com/2012/05/little-hitchhiker-takes-one-on-chin.html

8*PRESCRIPTION
MINDFULNESS & CRAVINGS
https://www.ted.com/speakers/judson_brewer

9* RUMOR PATROL
THE RUN ON CLARK BARS
http://www.post-gazette.com/business/pittsburgh-company-news/2018/04/16/Clark-Bars-Pittsburgh-Necco-candy-production-run-sales-end/stories/201804140028

ALSO SEE:
NECCO IS SHUTTING DOWN.
https://www.bostonglobe.com/business/2018/07/24/necco-shuts-down-abruptly-sold/0NOi9G7MLIWXy9aZnOM6qJ/story.html

10* LAGNIAPPE
THE MOODY BLUES
YOU AND ME

I once bought a used DJ copy of 7th Sojourn by the Moody Blues and this song was scratched out and on the back cover the title was scratched out and someone had scrawled DO NOT PLAY!!!

11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
DON’T HELP A GOOD BOY GO BAD

I’ve been looking without success for the following 1960’s television PSA.
Teens scoping out a parked car.
“Nice car, nice car.”
“Hey look the keys!”
“Let’s go!”
“Ha ha ha, ha ha ha. Look out!”
[Crash.]
V.O. “Don’t help a good boy go bad. Lock your car. Keep the keys.”

This is the closest thing I could find.

*11A BOOKS AND MOVIES READ AND REVIEWED
ALL-NEW GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY 3. INFINITY QUEST. ***1/2
AMERICA 2. FAST & FUERTONA. **1/2
THE AVENGERS: THE ULTIMATE GUIDE. ***1/2
BATMAN 5. THE RULES OF ENGAGEMENT. ****1/2
BATMAN & HARLEY QUINN. ***1/2
CITY OF NIGHT. RECHY. ****1/2
THE COMIC BOOK STORY OF BASEBALL. IRVINE, ET AL. ***1/2
THE CRAVING MIND. BREWER. ****1/2
DARK HAZARD. BURNETT. ***1/2
DARK KNIGHTS METAL. DARK KNIGHTS RISING. ***1/2
DREAMING THE BEATLES. SHEFFIELD. ***1/2
ETERNITY. KINDT. ***
EVERYBODY HAD AN OCEAN. MCKEEN. ***1/2
THE EXCRUCIATING HISTORY OF DENTISTRY. WYNBRANDT. ***1/2
FAST & FURIOUS. TOKYO DRIFT. **
GOOD BOOTY. POWERS. ***1/2
GREAT EXPECTATIONS. DICKENS. *****
INTIMATE STRANGERS. ZEHME. ***1/2
JUSTICE LEAGUE 5. LEGACY. ***1/2
LAND OF THE SONS. GIPI. ****1/2
MANFRIED THE MAN. MAJOR & BASTOW. **
MARBLES. FORNEY. ****1/2
MECHABOYS. KOCHALKA. ****
THE NEW WORLD. REYNOLDS. ****
ON TYRANNY. SNYDER. ****1/2
ONE-PUNCH MAN 14. ****
POPEYE: THE GREAT COMIC BOOK TALES…. SAGENDORF. ***1/2
REDLANDS. BELLAIRE & DEL REY. ****
SAGA. 8. VAUGHN & STAPLES. ****
SHAKE IT UP. LETHEM & DETTMAN, EDS. ****
A STUDY IN EMERALD. GAIMAN. ****
THEFT BY FINDING. SEDARIS. ****
TOM’S MIDNIGHT GARDEN. PEARCE & EDITH. ****
TWILIGHT OF THE GODS. HYDEN. ***1/2
VICTOR LA VALLE’S DESTROYER. ***1/2
VIETNAMESE MEMORIES 1. LEAVING SAIGANO. BALOUP. ****
VISUALIZING THE BEATLES. PRING & THOMAS. ***1/2
THE WICKED + THE DIVINE 6. IMPERIAL PHASE PART 2. ****

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE

MOST-BANNED WEDDING SONGS
1. Chicken Dance 23.1%
2 Cha-Cha Slide DJ Casper 22.5
3 Macarena Los Del Rio 17.6
4 Cupid Shuffle Cupid 16.5
5 YMCA Village People 15.4
6 Electric Boogie (Electric Slide) Marcia Griffiths 12.6
7 Hokey Pokey 10.4
8 Wobble V.I.C. 7.1
9 Happy Pharrell Williams 5.5
Shout Isley Brothers 5.5 (tied)
fivethirtyeight.com/features/the-ultimate-playlist-of-banned-wedding-songs/

THE INFORMATION #1003 JULY 27, 2018

THE INFORMATION #1003
JULY 27, 2018
Copyright 2018 FRANCIS DIMENNO

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

Life is an eternal struggle between irrepressible bon vivants and insufferable prigs.–Francis DiMenno

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

“So now,” said Sam Floyd to the Young Justin Victor, as thunder continued to roar and lightning to flash outside of their bare attic room in the Big Stick country of Buneville, “you’ve been patient so far and haven’t asked too many damfool questions, so now I’m going to tell you of the second great crisis of my adult life–which–as crises tend to do–followed fast on the heels of the first one.”

“Why?”

“The first rule, Boy, is never to ask why. But I’ll tell you anyway because I like you. The reason I’m telling you this is, you remind me of me–when I was young and stupid.”

He then proceeded to tell his tale.

This is about the time I got tangled up with Big Tiny Small, billed at the Red and Black Carnival as the world’s fattest midget, and I have no reason to doubt it. The Big Boss wanted me to do it, and I didn’t know how to say no.

Our first meeting was not auspicious. I ran into her very early in the morning in front of her trailer, which was bigger and fancier than anybody else’s, given her status on the lot–and her girth. There was mud, everywhere–we were in some hick town called Gibsonia–there had been a big storm–and she was kind of daintily feeling her way down the steps of her trailer and onto the first of the boards that had been placed from her trailer to the midway.”How are you, Toots,” says I. “Should I make like Sir Walter Raliegh and give you a hand?” She just glared at me like I was the mud under her feet. “You will address me like a Lady, Sir. I will have you know, my ancestors came over on the Mayflower.”

So I says to her, “If April showers bring May flowers, what do May flowers bring? Give up? I’ll tell ya! Pilgrims!”

And I yukked it up.

She was not amused.

She said, “Sir, I do not appreciate such coarse humor at the expense of my revered ancestors.”

And I thought, “If her ‘revered ancestors’ were as hefty as her, that Mayflower trip must of been one rocky boat ride”.

Later on, the Carny boss, Colonel Gentleman, told me on the earie that she was no covenanter descended from the Bradshaws and Winthrops. On the contrary. Her real name was Walsh and her ancestors fled the Irish Potato Famine.

“Which she probably caused,” said I.

The Colonel roared with laughter, then looked at me, abashed, and said “Nix, Nix. Be nice to her. She brings in the ooftish.”

So–what was it like, making love to the world’s fattest midget woman? Brother, you just don’t want to know. Colonel Gentleman first put me up to it as a way to gentle her down some. I said, “It can’t be done–unless if maybe I dust her with flour and go for the wet spot!” He laughed again and then looked guilty and whispered, “Nix, nix.”

So I gritted my teeth and did what I was told, and I didn’t pay no never mind to any of the other Cazarnies who tipped me the wink and gave me the big haw haw whenever they saw I was fixin’ to pay a mandatory visit to her trailer. Though I wanted to lay into them and bash ’em until they were spittin’ their choppers out onto the midway.

I suppose if she weighed about four-hundred pounds less, she’d of been a right pretty filly, what with her curly blonde hair and her porcelain white skin and her cherry-red cheeks. But everything you would of thought was beautiful in her was inexpressibly bloated, and she looked more like a gasping fish than any kind of human being. Plus, as I said, she was a midget woman. Couldn’t of been more than four feet high. Hell, her noggin was so flat, and he neck so solidly made of blubber, you could have ironed clothes on her head, or maybe used it as an anvil to shoe hosses. But her most defining characteristic was that she was fat. So very fat. Fatter than the world’s fattest hog. Only she didn’t get that way from eating no acorns. Plenty of milk and cheese and butter in her diet, I’ll wager. And potatoes, too–all kinds of potatoes–with gravy. She always had to have “a little gravy”. Which was, in fact, usually the contents of the whole gravy boat.

I’ll tell you one thing, though. You’d think, given her condition, she would be eager to please a man and would maybe be all sweetness and light with him. But you would be grievously mistaken. Perhaps her romantic disappointments had soured her disposition. Or perhaps she was just born ornery. Whatever the reason, she was just about as peckish as a snappin’ turkle. She warn’t any too bright, either, but she fancied herself a blueblood because, she said, she was borned in Boston Massachusetts, and, in her off hours, she allus had her nose buried in some readin’ material. Usually–at least for public consumption–it was some kind of crackpot religious tract. She was very big on long, windy sermons, and the afterlife, and ghosts and spirits, and angels from heaven interferin’ in the affairs of ordinary mortal men, which they ain’t had no bidness to doin’. She particularly liked listenin’ to the palaver laid down by goofy preacher-men who swore up and down that Armageddon was comin’ up fast and was just around the corner so you’d better be sure to get right with the Lordie by givin’ his ministry a lot of scratch.

But when nobody warn’t lookin’, she’d read the trashiest she-male romances, just like any other two-dollar zook. She especially liked racy novels about big black bucks who ravished innocent southern maidens until the Klan came riding to the rescue; and supposedly true accounts of nuns and priests who did awful things behind the closed doors of the cloister up in Montreal and Quebec, and the thousands of baby skulls they found underneath an altar; and lovingly detailed accounts of slavemasters who maintained a string of dusky concubines, and administered the lash on a frequent basis, and called out to their darkies, “Ho! Sambo! Quimbo! Fetch the red-hot branding iron!”

I never actually saw her reading any of this stuff, mind. But while rooting around in her quarters in search of dosh I found the hidey-hole where she kept all this edifyin’ literature. I warn’t any too surprised, even though, looking into some of those books, some of the stuff she read made my hair stand up on end like I’d just seen a dead man come to life.

1* SALUTATION
JOHN LENNON
BRING ON THE LUCIE (FREDA PEOPLE)

2* REFERENCE
THE TEN CRAZIEST DRUGS YOU NEVER KNEW EXISTED

ALSO SEE:
FOODS THAT CAN GET YOU HIGH

3*HUMOR
NO ONE CARES ABOUT YOUR GARAGE BAND
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wikipedia:No_one_cares_about_your_garage_band

4*NOVELTY
FECES DO YOUR STUFF
http://www.nbcbayarea.com/investigations/SF-Mayor-Theres-more-feces-on-the-sidewalks-than-Ive-ever-seen-488156431.html

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
DARK MONEY
http://www.npr.org/2018/07/17/629823953/dark-money-groups-get-a-little-darker-thanks-to-irs

6* DAILY UTILITY
LOST IN SPACE
PLANET OF THE HIPPIES

7*CARTOON
TOM & JERRY; TOP TEN TOM SCREAMS
I once watched a Tom and Jerry cartoon and so now, based on anecdotal evidence, I believe that cats are bad and mice are good so I’m going to kill my mommy’s cat and let all the mice into the house.

8*PRESCRIPTION
BAD LUCK SOLAR ECLIPSE
Indiana-based evangelist and pastor Paul Begley fears the July 13 partial solar eclipse will have dire occult ramifications for the world.
The controversial conspiracy theorist claimed demonic forces will be in play when the moon passes in front of the sun.
http://www.express.co.uk/news/weird/987906/Eclipse-2018-July-Friday-the-13th-bad-luck-solar-eclipse

9* RUMOR PATROL
FASCISM WATCH
medium.com/@amy_Siskind

10* LAGNIAPPE
THE WHATNAUTS
MESSAGE FROM A BLACK MAN

11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
HEATED PENNIES
At 494 Mass Ave in Cambridge MA, circa 1998, there was a bitter young Scientologist in Apartment #2 who used to drop heated pennies on passerby. Neighborhood pedestrians confronted me and asked me to tell him to stop. I wrote him a note explaining that I understood how much he hated humanity in general and the good people of Central Square in particular, but that he should knock it off because they were onto his sick game and might do him a physical injury if he persisted.

Though not in those exact words.

I think what I said was, “Knock it off, asshole, or you’re heading for a beat-down.”

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
PEOPLE IN BIKE LANES
When I am piloting my gasoline-powered robot slave I feel nothing but amused scorn for the outlandish fleshapoids on their rickety “bicycle” contrivances uneasily weaving their way through schools of two-ton machinery–trying to prove what, I don’t exactly know. Such freaks should be chastised.

THE INFORMATION #1002 JULY 20, 2018

THE INFORMATION #1002
JULY 20, 2018
Copyright 2018 FRANCIS DIMENNO
dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

“It has been a common saying of physicians in England, that a cucumber should be well sliced, and dressed with pepper and vinegar, and then thrown out, as good for nothing.”–Samuel Johnson

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

You ever notice, Boy, said Sam Floyd to the young Victor Justin, the red mites on a strawberry? When you kill ’em, all they leave behind them is a little red stain. And the same thing goes for us. We are all just little red stains; captives of the things we thrive on. They get into our blood, and we can’t do without them, and they rule us until we die, and that’s all there is to it. The rich man suffers more from a loss of basic comforts than the poor man. The poor man is used to it. The rich man is usually a softie, and you can knock him off his perch with a few well-aimed blows.

My point is that we become the things that surround us. The farmer’s great insights all pertain to mud and weeds. The mealy-mouthed clerk in the office remains a mealy-mouthed clerk in the street. And the robber baron of industry dreams of great machines, and engine oil is in his blood and he has the taste of copper coins in his mouth. You may say that this is a hateful and cynical philosophy. But you’ll see, soon enough. For someday there may come a great calamity–and as ever, the strong will prevail. Certainly not the weak.

How do they do it? By finding out what it is the mass of men want and need and scooping up as much of it as they can–grabbing it all, if they possibly can. That’s the smart move. Don’t let some puling milksop tell you any different. They too would be grabbing with both hands themselves, if they had the nerve to do it. You can prate all you like about the noble lives of great and successful men–they are all simply bewhiskered monkeys who have managed to treasure up all the coconuts. And the rest of us are left to stare at them in awe amidst the Palm trees. And that’s it. T’was ever thus.

So. After almost being gunned down by a mean old sheriff and his goofy deputy, I came to a crossroads. I had a decision to make.

Tyrant or victim?

Madman or fool?

Slavemaster or slave?

Was I just another scorpion in a bottle?

Was I going to save my brother from drowning, only to have him pull me down with him?

Was I going to live my natural life as some poor and downtrodden wretch who every Sunday puts on his best bib and tucker and stands in a sweltering church pew shouting hallelujah to the Lordie?

Was I going to be some sort of home-bound infantine family man of a larger growth, eager to snap up the crumbs from the giant’s high chair?

Was I to be some frightened and timid clerk, content with my fifteen a week; a wretched salary man leading a wretched existence–counting half-pennies, living on gingerbread and cheese and eating in chop-houses once a month as a sort of special treat?

Or would I stoop even lower–become a common manual laborer–content to make just enough to sustain me in my wretched existence, and dependent for my daily beer on the charity of braggarts and thieves?

Only to become a whining tramp after they turf me out.

Or was I going to storm heaven and protest?

Am I going to be a strong man who cares not who makes the nation’s laws, so long as I get what’s coming to me and is rightfully mine?

A man who takes what he wants and manages to keep it and has no sanctimonious qualms about whether it’s right or wrong? A man with no weak-minded worries about what others might think? A man with no second thoughts about incurring the righteous wrath of a Supreme Being who may not even exist?

You may not know me well, Boy, but you know me well enough to guess that I decided, then and there, that I would never again be put in a position where I was the weaker party. I decided there and then that I was going to use every tool at my disposal to amass a big pile someday, and that I would never stop thinking and planning and working and scheming and grasping until I had got it.

Be a good citizen? Phaugh! You can have it! Let me tell you something, Boy–once you’ve escaped from the gripe of one grand delusion–why, then you’ve escaped from them all! Mine for me and me for mine–that’s my only law. The law of the jungle, you call it, maybe. Hwat, you say, if everybody thought like that? But a man of action has no time for such pusillanimous sophistries. Root, Hog, or Die–that’s what I’m going to put on my Coat of Arms.

Sure, it’s a lonely life. But it’s the only life, so far as I’m concerned. It’s the only real life. The only one.

Brute, you may call me. Brigand. Savage. All terms, you should note, which the jealous use to restrain the strong. Well, just let the jealous rotters just try to hold me back. I’ll show ’em a hero!

So–ask yourself this, Boy–are you a man among men? Or are you content to be a simple blind field mouse? A wee,sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie, who, at the slightest disturbance, will flee in terror and hide in a dirty hole until he starves to death? It’s one or the other. You makes your choice and you takes your chance. And once you do, you’re stuck with it. T’was ever thus.

Well, which? And, I tell you true, you’d better make your choice sooner, rather than later. That makes all the difference. This is no bagatelle. This is a matter of life and death.

As for me, here’s what I will say, and with my dying death–God damn the spineless man who turns down the main chance even after it slaps him in the face! Damn…him…to…hell!

1* SALUTATION
QUICKSILVER MESSENGER SERVICE
DON’T CRY MY LADY LOVE

GONE AGAIN

WHAT ABOUT ME

2* REFERENCE
HOW OTHERS SEE THE UK
http://www.vice.com/en_uk/article/nnyw4z/how-others-see-us-gavin-haynes-927

3*HUMOR
HOW NOT TO COUNTERFEIT ONE MILLION DOLLARS
http://www.deceptology.com/2010/09/how-not-to-counterfeit-one-million.html

4*NOVELTY
CRAZY & DANGEROUS STUNTS

ALSO SEE:
THEM
COULD YOU WOULD YOU

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
‘Hail Satan’ carved into South Carolina Baptist church porch
http://www.thestate.com/news/state/south-carolina/article214618710.html

As Popsicle Pete might say “It Begins.”
s3.crackedcdn.com/phpimages/article/5/6/1/73561.jpg?v=1
http://www.cracked.com/blog/the-8-most-baffling-food-mascots-all-time/

6* DAILY UTILITY
TRUMP’S SUPREME COURT NOMINEE
Had credit card debts. Probably had gambling debts. Not a deal breaker. But she showed very poor judgment in betting on the Nationals. Next, I suppose we’ll find out that he also bet on the Washington Generals.

7*CARTOON
CARTOONING FOR EVERYBODY
https://spookycomics.files.wordpress.com/2015/09/001.jpg?w=465&h=632
spookycomics.wordpress.com/author/jfkxyy/

8*PRESCRIPTION
SIZE OF THE DOUGHNUT HOLE DOWN THROUGH THE YEARS
https://dakiniland.files.wordpress.com/2015/11/211418a075d1476b943bd0bf8f0b9698.jpg?w=590&h=719

9* RUMOR PATROL
HOW THE WORLD REALLY WORKS
howtheworldreallyworks.info/

10* LAGNIAPPE
BOB DYLAN & THE BAND
WHEN I PAINT MY MASTERPIECE

SEE ALSO:
LITTLE RICHARD SINGS GOSPEL
MY DESIRE

11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
“SCARFACE”
Al Capone was called “Snorky” by his pals. Never “Scarface,” a name he detested.

So when the film Scarface (1932) appeared, the Screenwriter Ben Hecht got into a little trouble with “The Syndicate.”.

“Hecht…said that Capone sent two of his men to visit him to make sure that the film was not based on Capone’s life. He told them that the character of “Scarface” was a parody of numerous people with whom Hecht was acquainted. He claimed that the reason that he called it “Scarface” was not because it was about him (which it was), but because Al Capone was one of the most famous men of the time and it would intrigue people to go see the film. After that, the two left him alone.”

He also said that in “the Hollywood racket” that’s the way they always did things.
http://www.commentarymagazine.com/articles/a-child-of-the-century-by-ben-hecht/

I’m surprised there weren’t hordes of Italians picketing up and down the block, protesting the movie.

But then again, Italians weren’t considered white until about 1940.

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
MANIFESTO
I say that you cannot make men fat by making them hungry.
You cannot make the weak stronger by allowing them to be bullied by the strong.
You cannot make small men big by taunting them with the deeds of bullies.
You cannot make the poor feel better by tormenting them with the affluence of the rich.
You cannot make the wage-slave prosperous by refusing to give him any stake in his work.
You cannot make people happy by encouraging them to squander their patrimony.
You cannot lull the populace into a stupor by claiming that all their petitions for justice are rabble-rousing.
You cannot encourage people to live within their means while denying them a living wage.
You cannot create a myth of character-building by denying people the opportunity to prosper.
And you cannot promote the myth of the self-reliance in a society rife with corruption and greed and special favors.

THE INFORMATION #1001 JULY 13, 2018

THE INFORMATION #1001
JULY 13, 2018
Copyright 2018 FRANCIS DIMENNO
dimenno@gmail.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

People will not look forward to posterity who never look backward to their ancestors.–Edmund Burke

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

Young Count Victor Justin–not yet a Count–was a ready student of the meandering palaver of his fellow drummer Sam Floyd.

He listened intently as they sat on the lone trundle bed in their shared dimly lit boardinghouse attic room where the two of them were stranded in remote Bunetown. There was a smoky, flickering oil lamp and the lightning intermittently animated the long shadows in the room during a hot dark summer night. When the heat finally broke and there came the torrential rain there came also the nearby thunder rattling the worn window panes, gnawed along the edges as if by an ambitious dog.

Imagine, if you will, said Sam Floyd, what if–what if every human being on the face of the planet actually believed that every human life is sacred? There would be no war. There would be no slavery. There would be no prisoners, no sweatshops, no bondsmen. Poor wretches would not be forced to work themselves to death or starve. An old widder-women wouldn’t go stone blind doing embroidery in a dark attic rooms lit only by candlelight.

Imagine a world where everybody had enough to eat, and enough clothing, and a place to sleep. A pipe dream, you say? Perhaps. But, once upon a time, and not so very long ago, there surely must have been a tribe where everybody was supplied with all the basics, and there was no want. It may even have been an entire country. Or even a continent. But, somewhere along the via dolorosa, there was a fall from grace. The few used their hard-won power to oppress the many. Then there came the poor among us, like Jesus said. What Jesus didn’t mention–for the fact was all too plain to see–was that the lives of the poor are expendable, on this earth–because they are poor. And vice versa.

Look to the apes, Boy. Just like with the apes, there is something in any real man that makes him want to be first and foremost in every situation. Those are the men that the female of the species are attracted to. Except, maybe, in Boston. And why, indeed, shouldn’t they be? It’s a known fact that such men are superior providers. They scoop up everything they can snatch at with both their grimy paws and prevent anybody else from having any of it. Any crumbs that fall to the table are used exclusively to nourish their own kin. A man can be forgiven any sin whatsoever–as long as he has a reputation as a good provider. T’was ever thus.

Some of the learned men in universities maintain that this is how the human race advances. I’m not so sure of this. I know a great many of those educated fools. Most of ’em don’t have the sense to pound sand into a rathole. They will always be on the side of the side that has already won. They claim to be in search of knowledge, and wisdom, these professors–they claim that their goal is to discover the incontrovertible truth. And that’s the biggest lie of all. Why, even your average Nigra shoeshine boy has more accumulated wisdom in his tiny wooly head than the entire Faculty of an Ivy League University.

Now, get this–I ain’t no sob sister, see? If you ain’t got the will to strive for the brass ring, then you might as well just flop down and die, and let better men trample your grave in search of the holy grail. Because if you ain’t willing to give it your all, then getting to the top ain’t for you. You may just as well resign yourself here and now to being one of the countless also-rans who populate this fair land with the stench of their rank failure. At which point, you will become one of the legions of nameless and unnamable myrmidons whose lives are–in essence–utterly expendable.

Just imagine for a moment that all unnecessary suffering should finally cease. God couldn’t do it. He didn’t want to. Why? Either because he don’t exist–even odds–or because suffering really is the only way the human race can advance and evolve, like the Professors maintain and that heathen Darwin fella says.

I have got these thoughts all balled up in my head. I must admit.

Only suffering itself ain’t the goal; it’s avoiding the sufferin’ and settin’ in your rockin’ chair and watching everybody else do the sufferin’–that’s what makes you one of the very advanced critters.

That’s why some people put themselves in a position where they and their loved ones get to suffer less. Sure–it might be at the expense of everybody else–but what of it? Is the strong man responsible for the fact that the milksop is too puny to even squawk at the rough treatment he gets? Isn’t it understandable that a strong man who sees his advantage should step up and take whatever he damn well wants to?

Pardon my French.

If human beings are so damn smart, and closer to the angels than the apes, then tell me this–why don’t they address the problem of needless suffering? Why don’t they find some good strong man who will turn this country into a land where nobody has to beg for bread?

It will never happen.

Because if you’re strong, you never give up an advantage. The only people who do that are the weak, the timid, and the lazy. It’s not to the advantage of the strong to carry the weak.

T’was ever thus.

That’s why the poor have so many children. They seek to prolong their own miserable existences. That’s why soft and decadent societies pamper their children. It’s pure selfishness–that’s all it is.

The strong man makes his children strong–not by coddling them–but by ignoring them. Casting them away. By pushing them out of the nest. That’s what makes them strong.

Spare the rod and spoil the child. That’s what the Good Book says. And it’s the truth. You know it’s the truth!

My daddy–why, he dusted my britches every now and again. Sometimes when I done something he didn’t like, and other times just on general principle. And it didn’t do me a single lick of harm.

If a baby dies; if a boy falls down a well and breaks his neck; if a young man dies in a senseless war…?

Well, there’s always more where that came from.

Remember this: conquerers leave behind them thousands of descendants. The weakling is lucky if his bloodline persists for a generation or two. The mass of men are mere insects; blood-filled ticks squabbling over the surface of a rotten pear.

I am right–and I will be proven right.

1* SALUTATION
UNHOLY MODAL ROUNDERS
JEALOUS DADDY’S DEATH SONG

HOLY MODAL ROUNDERS
BOOBS A LOT

ANTOINETTE

LOW DOWN DOG

JEANINE’S DREAM

ALSO SEE:
MY NAME IS MORGAN BUT IT AIN’T J.P.

2* REFERENCE
BOB DYLAN AS POET
Chaucer, Spenser, Sidney, Marvell, Marlowe, Shakespeare, Milton, Donne, Herrick, Pope, Blake, Burns, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley, Keats, Byron, Browning, Clare, Dickinson, Hopkins, Hardy, Tennyson, Matthew Arnold, Yeats, Edgar Arlington Robinson, Frost, Eliot, and Pound are all greater poets than Bob Dylan.

Shakespeare wrote better songs.

As did Burns.

And Yeats.

Dylan is, admittedly, a better vocalist. Because they are all dead.

On the other hand, Shakespeare never pissed out a window. Marlowe, maybe. But not Oor Wullie.

But Bob Dylan did.
http://www.vulture.com/2016/10/37-hilarious-bob-dylan-stories.html

3*HUMOR
LENNY BRUCE
HOW TO RELAX YOUR COLORED FRIENDS AT PARTIES
“Christ, that Bojangles could tap dance!”

4*NOVELTY
FLORIDA WOMAN LEAVES PHONE IN URINE PUDDLE AT SHOPLIFTING CRIME SCENE
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/shoplifting-suspect-brooke-amber-sutton-leaves-cell-phone-urine-puddle-at-crime-scene_us_56b230d2e4b08069c7a5a9d3?utm_hp_ref=weird-news

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST

Love those little pit bulls.
Can’t wait to sell ’em to hillbillies and ghetto dwellers.

6* DAILY UTILITY
THE AMERICAN CREDO
…a boil on the neck purifies the blood and is worth $1,000.
…all Asiatic idols have large precious rubies in their foreheads.

http://www.gutenberg.org/files/23858/23858-h/23858-h.htm

7*CARTOON
LOUSED UP IN SPACE
rpg1.com/RV-NET/play.php?f=n://All%20Ebooks/Mad%20Magazine%20All/1966/MAD104.pdf&t=././skins/mybrown/assets/docs.png

8*PRESCRIPTION
HOW TO LIVE IN THE WOODS
A screaming five-year-old sounds a lot like an air raid siren.

What would you do if you woke up in the middle of the night and you heard the sirens and you knew that it wasn’t a screaming five year old and you knew that nuclear Armageddon was just around the corner? What would you take with you?

Not a television. There would be no electricity to watch it. And what would the programming consist of? “The Ballad of Armageddon Clampett”?

No, the best thing to take with you would be a tarp, a buck knife, a whetstone, a pair of good hiking boots, plenty of wool socks, and a transistor radio and a lot of batteries.
https://www.wikihow.com/Live-in-the-Woods

9* RUMOR PATROL
MICK JAGGER’S LEGENDARY LOVE OF MARS BARS
Mick Jagger loves Mars bars.
Or so I’ve heard.
http://www.snopes.com/fact-check/a-mars-bar-fills-that-gap/

10* LAGNIAPPE
SPIRAL STARECASE
MORE TODAY THAN YESTERDAY

Haw haw haw. Here, Chicago covers the Spiral Starecase song whose sound they ripped off so many times and in so many ways.

11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
LONESTAR
MY FRONT PORCH LOOKING IN

Congress should consider a law which specifies that no country music song can ever use the term “sippy cup”.

There’s a carrot top who can barely walk
With a sippy cup of milk
A little blue eyed blonde with shoes on wrong
‘Cause she likes to dress herself
And the most beautiful girl holding both of them
And the view I love the most
Is my front porch looking in, yeah

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
Scarlett Johansson faces firestorm amid news she will play a transgender man
LGBTQ activists and transgender performers blasted the news on social media.
https://www.nbcnews.com/feature/nbc-out/scarlett-johansson-faces-firestorm-amid-news-she-will-play-transgender-n889036

Duh… It’s called “acting” for a reason.

The problem with these activists is that they take Hollywood simulacrums for reality.

Hollywood product which claims to be “based on a true story” is often rife with historical inaccuracies.

Many of these outright anachronisms give us a seriously distorted picture of what life was like in the past.

Where’s the outrage?

Most Hollywood product is just a bunch of creepy shadow shows which tell us more about Hollywood’s conception of the world than about the world as it is. They have rendered themselves ludicrous by their own pusillanimity.

So why all the fuss?

Here is Hollywood’s idea of a “serious” film.

THE SESSIONS
A man in an iron lung who wishes to lose his virginity contacts a professional sex surrogate with the help of his therapist and priest.
http://www.imdb.com/list/ls071682476/?ref_=tt_rls_4

I am currently reading John Rechy’s City of Night (on the train) and listening to David Copperfield (in the car).

If only…if only the two could be combined!

David Cop-a-Feel?

The Rechy book was blasted on publication.
http://www.nybooks.com/articles/1963/06/01/fruit-salad/

Rechy responds:
http://www.nybooks.com/articles/1996/10/31/complaint/

More on Grove Press:
http://hilobrow.com/2017/08/17/into-the-grove-22/