THE INFORMATION #994 MAY 25, 2018

THE INFORMATION #994
MAY 25, 2018
Copyright 2018 FRANCIS DIMENNO

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

“I met in the street a very poor young man who was in love. His hat was old, his coat worn, his cloak was out at the elbows, the water passed through his shoes, – and the stars through his soul.” –Victor Hugo

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

“For some insane reason all his own that I never could fathom,” said Count Victor Justin to Cadger Tandy, “old Sam Floyd was down on a whole passel of Yellofs who, as far as I know, never done him any dirt. He was always after complainin’ about them, too. I don’t know what motivated him; the sort of thing that set him off. Most salesmen I ever met would glad-hand anybody, and they never had a harsh word to say against their fellow man, even if it was an old church-going penny-pinching handkerchief-headed nigra auntie who wouldn’t buy what you had to sell no matter whut you offered as an incentive.

“No, old Sam Floyd was no brown-noser. He would tell you what’s what–and with the bark off. He didn’t have no use for nobody, unless if they was British. He would tolerate a Dutchman, but that’s about as far as he would go.

He abhorred the Chinese. Despised them. Felt the rascals should be barred from this great country of ours, long before they actually were. According to him, John Chinaman was stingier even than a Scotsman or a Jew, but, unlike Sandy, or Yiddle with his fiddle, the China boy was a shrewd little monkey and well-nigh impossible to sell to, and they loved to haggle but never bought anything; they would bargain with you all day but always ended up wasting your time, as if they were stringing you along just for the fun of it. It got so every time old Sam saw a Chinaman, he would turn the other way, and run–not walk. He wouldn’t even eat Chinese food–that’s how much he abhorred the yellow man. He would mumble a spiteful litany whenever he spotted them: ‘Despicable Yellow dogs–they are lower than the worm. They are worse than even the worst blue-gummed, cowardly, and superstitious Senegambian.’ He claimed that The Celestials shuffled and bowed and held their hands in reverent supplication when they were in public, and a citizen was watching them, but behind closed doors they held their yeller heads high and hissed and snarled and rubbed their hands together like a slippery fly and schemed against the white man. ‘Those yaller bastards think their shit don’t stink. I’d like to lay into ’em with a good old American Slippery Elm club, and tech ’em how to behave around decent folk. At least a Nigra has sense enough to step aside and let a white man pass. But those yellow bastards pretend like they don’t know our customs and they don’t speak English good. It’s a lie. In secret, those low curs can speak the patois better than your average English Perfesser. I’m convinced of it. The worst thing about those perfidious scamps is that they breed like minks and have established vast subterranean labyrinths beneath their stinking restaurants and laundries where hordes of midget slaves toil in secret, manufacturing worthless gew-gaws to sell to tourists and sporting types. Plus, to a man, they are all slaves to opium, and all their women are floozies. I am right and I will be proven right.’

“And Sam Floyd truly hated the Indian. He would always say to me, ‘Don’t you make a piss and moan about the fate of the Noble Red Man, me fine boyo. Worry about yourself. They are treacherous savages who would scalp you in a second, just as sure as I’m standing here. Why do you suppose the early trappers and soldiers always carried a loaded pistol with one bullet in the chamber? That’s so they could shoot themselves if they was ever captured by Injuns. Because otherwise unimaginable tortures awaited the reprobate who lost his nerve Being captured was a fate worse than death, because the Indian is little more than a fiend in human guise. I stay as far away from them as possible. You never know when one of them might turn. I wouldn’t show my back on any of their children, either–not on a bet. As the great Colonel Chivington said, “Nits make lice.” ‘”

“Old Sam didn’t have much love for European immigrants either, that’s for sure. ‘The Dago is a menace.’ said he. ‘They shouldn’t even let ’em into this country. They’re going to ruin everything. They’re sneaky, and treacherous, and dirty, and are just waiting for a chance to waylay you in a dark alley and stab you with a stiletto and steal your valuables and leave you for dead. They are murderous, dirty egg-sucking dogs– thieving scum, and hanging’s too good for ’em. Plus, they are so stupid that you can’t convince them of anything.

‘The same goes for the Greek, only those babies are slightly craftier. You know the old expression–“Shake hands with a Greek, and count your fingers.” When I see those mustachio’d stooges with their dark brows and their air of indolent idleness, I wush I had my revolver. And the men are even worse.

‘The Poles and the Russians and other such scum are thick-tongued sons of bitches who ought to be horsewhipped in the public square until they learn to behave like decent people, instead of always pushing themselves to the head of the line. And the Czechs and the Slovaks and the Macedonians and other such rabble ought to stay on their own side of the pond.

‘The French I abhor. Polluted with loathsome diseases caused by their predilection for filthy vices, these syphilitic, absinthe-addicted reprobates spray themselves with cheap perfume to cover up the stench of all their sins against common decency. They are mere swine. Only God Himself knows why they give themselves such airs.

‘The only thing worse than a Frenchman is a Spaniard. It’s hard for a white man to regard those jamokes as even remotely human. They are irredeemably polluted with Moorish blood. I would sooner entrust my business to a monkey wearing a fez–at least you would know what to expect. And I never heard of a monkey who would stab you in the back, so long as you kept him in fresh fruit and other such truck. And the only thing more nauseating than a Spaniard is a Portuguese. They have the world’s worst complexions, they play the world’s worst music, and the only job they’re fittin’ for is gaffing fish. Bad ‘cess to ’em.

‘Speaking of fezzes–the Turks. Why, they are just about the worst. They are lower than the Russian. Unscrubbed Mohammedians who worship a savage God conjured up by the harsh fumes of hasheesh. It is well that Lord Palmerston called them “The Sick Man of Europe.” The whole country is comprised of murderous gangs of turban-wearing bandits bransishing shiny scimitars who rape and enslave their hapless victims. I wouldn’t touch a Turk with a barge pole. The very thought of one makes me shudder. If they haven’t been outright barred from our shores, they certainly ought to be. Even the Devil himself despises a Turk.

‘But it’s the Hungarians who are truly among the lowest of the low. But–go figure–they are so haughty you’d think that their every pronouncement were the received word of God. Nobody outdoes a Hunky for sheer arrogance. They make even the rawest Prussian look like a pickled punk. These people rely on putting nauseating paprika in everything, which leads me to suspect that they ain’t even human at all, but, rather, some freakish hybrid of animal and insect. Say, Yob–did you hear about the Hungarian officer who made love to a French courtesan? When the question of payment was discreetly broached, the hunky clicked his heels right smart and said, “Madame! Please be assured that a Hungarian officer never accepts money from a woman!” ‘

“Well,” said Count Victor Justin to Cadger Tandy, “and that was the man from whom I learned everything I know about selling a proposition. Come to think of it, as I grow older, a lot of the things he had to say make more and more sense.”

1* SALUTATION
ELECTRIC PRUNES
GET ME TO THE WORLD ON TIME

THE YOUNG RASCALS
A PLACE IN THE SUN

THE YOUNG RASCALS
HOW CAN I BE SURE?

2* REFERENCE
RACIST LAWYER
GoFundMe page raises money to send Mariachi band, taco truck to troll NY lawyer who threatened to call ICE on restaurant employees who were speaking Spanish
thehill.com/blogs/blog-briefing-room/388151-gofundme-raising-money-to-send-mariachi-band-taco-truck-to-troll-ny

SEE ALSO:
http://www.cnn.com/2018/05/17/us/new-york-man-restaurant-ice-threat/index.html
http://www.cnbc.com/2018/05/16/racist-viral-video-lawyer-aaron-schlossbergs-law-firm-yelp-bombed.html

ALSO SEE:
RACIST ICE CREAM
http://www.washingtonpost.com/news/morning-mix/wp/2014/05/14/that-familiar-ice-cream-truck-jingle-has-some-pretty-racist-lyrics/?utm_term=.d07eaac201a2

3*HUMOR
RICHARD PRYOR
HILLBILLIES

ALSO SEE:
RICHARD PRYOR LIVE IN CONCERT: LONG BEACH

4*NOVELTY
IAN FRAZIER
THANKS FOR THE MEMORY
books.google.com/books?id=VcLKR7fGzIcC&pg=PA32&lpg=PA32&dq=Thanks+for+the+Memory+By+Ian+Frazier&source=bl&ots=5ADe0bKiZh&sig=LFg6NEVjy6lX4dxbhxAgjYzDOpU&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjViue55IzbAhUS7lMKHZ3lBcEQ6AEIOzAD#v=onepage&q=Thanks%20for%20the%20Memory%20By%20Ian%20Frazier&f=false

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
MEMES: LADY WHO CALLED COPS ON BBQ-MAKERS
http://www.liberalmountain.com/us-politics/lady-who-called-cops-on-bbq-gets-life-ripped-apart-by-memes-here-are-the-best

6* DAILY UTILITY
HOW THE NAZIS WERE INSPIRED BY JIM CROW
http://www.history.com/news/how-the-nazis-were-inspired-by-jim-crow

7*CARTOON
SIX WORKS OF ART THAT SHAPED PERCEPTIONS OF NATIVE AMERICANS
indiancountrymedianetwork.com/history/people/propaganda-6-works-art-shaped-americas-view-natives/

8*PRESCRIPTION
CAESAR THE CHIMP
The most notorious member of the scene surrounding The Mutiny, the Miami nightclub that epitomized the excesses of the 1980s, was a chimp named Caesar.

As Roben Farzad explains in his new book “Hotel Scarface: Where Cocaine Cowboys Partied and Plotted to Control Miami” (Berkeley Hardcover), Caesar was the companion of drug kingpin Mario Tabraue, who adorned him “with a gold-rope necklace holding a 50-peso gold coin, an 18-karat ID bracelet with his name in diamonds and a ladies’ Rolex Presidential.

“The primate was partial to turtlenecks and a New York baseball cap, and proudly rode shotgun in his owner’s Benz while waving a Cuban cigar.”

But just as with salmon-colored jackets and shoes with no socks, Miami residents didn’t bat an eye at Caesar — it was all just part of the show.
nypost.com/2017/10/19/inside-the-mutiny-club-the-1980s-home-to-every-miami-vice/

9* RUMOR PATROL
MAP OF HATE GROUPS
http://www.splcenter.org/fighting-hate/intelligence-report/2017/year-hate-and-extremism

ALSO SEE:
BLACKFACE MONTAGE FROM “BAMBOOZLED”

JAY-Z
THE STORY OF OJ

ENTARTETE KUNST

10* LAGNIAPPE
THE ASHES
DARK ON YOU NOW

SEE ALSO:
WAS/NOT WAS
WHEEL ME OUT

ALSO SEE:
LOU REED
STREET HASSLE

You know, some people got no choice
And they can never find a voice
To talk with that they can even call their own
So the first thing that they see
That allows them the right to be
Why they follow it
You know, it’s called bad luck

11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA

DISNEY: ANTI-SEMITE?
Walt Disney’s grandniece backs up Meryl Streep’s racism claims: ‘Anti-Semite? Check. Misogynist? OF COURSE!!!’
http://www.independent.co.uk/news/people/news/walt-disney-s-grandniece-backs-up-meryl-streep-s-racism-claims-anti-semite-check-misogynist-of-9064138.html

Fact-Checking the Age-Old Rumors of Walt Disney’s Dark Side
http://www.vulture.com/2013/12/walt-disney-anti-semitism-racism-sexism-frozen-head.html

ALSO SEE:
THE THREE LITTLE PIGS: THE JEWISH PEDDLAR SCENE

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
TEETOTALER TRUMP
http://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-38651623
http://www.projectknow.com/a-complete-guide-to-the-us-presidents-and-their-drug-and-alcohol-use/
ALSO SEE:

In reference to ‘animals,’ Trump evokes an ugly history of dehumanization
http://www.washingtonpost.com/news/the-fix/wp/2018/05/16/trumps-animals-comment-on-undocumented-immigrants-earn-backlash-historical-comparisons/?utm_term=.f5297555e022

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THE INFORMATION #993 MAY 18TH, 2018

THE INFORMATION #993
MAY 18, 2018
Copyright 2018 FRANCIS DIMENNO

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

The torture of a bad conscience is the hell of a living soul. –John Calvin

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

“I learned a lot from Sam Floyd,” said Count Justin Victor to Cadger Tandy. “Even in spite of the fact that he was a brain-damaged loony crim. Or maybe because of it. He once said, ‘I’ve been in a lot of scraps. But you should avoid brawling at all costs. Getting into a fistfight with an ugly customer is a good way to scramble your brains. But if you have to fight and there’s no way to get out of it, always hit first and always fight dirty. Fighting fair is for chumps. When have you ever seen an animal fight fair?’

“Sam Floyd was preoccupied with animals. He was also prone to wax philosophic on more than one occasion. Especially when he was in his cups. He says to me once, ‘The only time an animal mutilates himself on purpose is when he’s caught in a trap or kept in a cage. You might do well to ponder that fact. Yellofs in the Navy get tattoos. Yellofs in jail get tattoos. But no one in their right mind would deliberately set out to punch holes in their own bodies. It’s the sign of an extremely weak intellect. You’d be better off investing the money in Railroads. Jay Gould never wasted his money on tattoos–you can bet your ass on that. Do you want to know how to prosper in this world? Study the doings of the Robber Barons and follow their example in everything. And do things on a grand scale. Steal a dollar, you’re a thief. Steal a million, you’re a millionaire.

“‘Tattoos are for low-minded people who are announcing to the whole world that they’ll never amount to anything. The same goes for poking needles in your body. A normal man recoils at such a thing. But hypes who are on the ‘morph’ do it all the time. That’s because they’re caught in a trap of their own devising. Nobody ever made them take that first shot, unless it was a mountebank doctor or a crooked druggist or a patent-medicine quack. The quickest way to go sliding down a bottomless rathole is to associate yourself with reckless men who have nothing, and, consequently, have nothing to lose. You should always be angling after scrooching up to a higher class of person. You never know what you might learn that could prove useful. You especially want to pay attention to old drunks in taverns and beer gardens. They’ve been through the mill, and they love to talk, and to a man they are walking object lessons in what not to do with your life. Nobody should work in a mill for forty years and then be kicked out on their keister, and all they have to show for it is a cheap watch, which is their boss’s way of saying, “No more factory whistles for you–your time is now your own. Go, sad man, and feed the pigeons in the park until you finally croak from freedom.”‘

“But, for all his bitterness, old Sam Floyd was also quite the wag. One time we was flat out busted with nary a dollar to our names and had to lay low in some jerkwater town in Ohio named Lancaster. We was walking down the main drag and I saw a hound dog lyin’ in the dust and licking its balls, and I said, ‘I sure wish I could do that.’ Sam gave me a look and scratched his chin and took off his hat and said, in a deep voice, and with impeccable timing, “Get to know him, first.” Big haw haw from all the courthouse loafers. Sam used this as a wedge to make their acquaintance and, before too long, he got himself invited to a round of beers and a friendly game of poker with the boys down to the Lodge, where all the Rotarians met. I backtracked and holed up in the flophouse. He didn’t completely skin the old boys, but he did make enough to ensure that on the following day , as we were leaving town, we were riding the plush instead of having to make do with riding the rods. I asked him why he didn’t skin them savages good and he just looks at me and says, ‘Why, that would be like killing the goose that laid the golden egg. I may not give a shit about another living soul, except my own self–but I do have some sense. Why, the next time we swing through that Burg, I might even lose a few dollars to them boys, and all on the up and up. So that the third time around, I can use sleight of hand to substitute a sealed marked deck–and then I’ll clean the savages out. You see, I know how to think ahead, for the long term, and the big killing. Yob, I’m telling you that you have got to lose the impulsive habits of your youth if you ever hope to make your way in the world. You can’t be all things to all men, but you can certainly try. And if there’s one thing that gray heads distrust and secretly despise, it’s an impulsive youth who wants things done yesterday. Another thing they like to look at is your shoes. That’s why they should be polished all the time, front and back and sides. And your linen needs to be clean, and your collar starched, even if you have to change your shirt two or three times a day. And your suit should always look as if it’s newly pressed. And your hair should be neatly cut and combed. These savages set great stock in such simple details. It would well behoove you to look after them. If you fail to do so, they’ll whisper that you’re “a bum” and they won’t want to do business with you.

Now, you may resent their cavalier attitude in the short run, but once you gain their total confidence and complete trust–why, that’s when you can skin ’em for all they’re worth! And then who has the last laugh? Strike and fade, me hearty lad–that’s the motto of the nihilists. And–after all–ain’t that just about what we are?’

1* SALUTATION
SHIRLEY & CO.
SHAME SHAME SHAME

2*REFERENCE
HOW AMERICA LOST ITS MIND
The liberal elite want to take our guns. You can’t be a Christian and be a Democrat. You have got to watch cable news to get the real truth.
https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2017/09/how-america-lost-its-mind/534231/

3*HUMOR
RICHARD PRYOR
HEY, MR. NAT-SAY!

4*NOVELTY
THE ULTIMATE OPPRESSORS OF MEN
http://www.wehuntedthemammoth.com/2017/06/12/fat-women-who-have-sex-the-ultimate-oppressors-of-men-creepy-incels-say-yes/comment-page-3/

ALSO SEE:
CRIMINAL PSYCHOPATH QUOTES
http://www.remorselessfiction.com/criminal-psychopath-quotes.html

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
SHAKESPEARE FOR THE MILLIONS
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/12/11/books/chapters/chapter-shakespeare.html

6* DAILY UTILITY
TONSILLOLITHS
http://www.breathmd.com/tonsil-stones.php

7*CARTOON
ALAN JONES
DONKEY SERENADE

8*PRESCRIPTION
GREEN ARROW’S SCORCH YOUR MOUTH CHILI
The only man who can eat it, other than Green Arrow himself, is Batman.
http://www.factfiend.com/batman-can-eat-hottest-chili-dc-universe/

ALSO SEE:
“The Batman, that weird figure of the night, takes under his protecting mantle anally in his relentless fight against crime …”
forgottenawesome.blogspot.com/2018/03/batman-and-robin-sitting-in-tree.html

SEE ALSO:
SUPERMAN VS. GOOFY

9* RUMOR PATROL
THE SHORT HAPPY LIFE OF JEAN HARLOW
http://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2013/02/the-original-blonde-bombshell-used-actual-bleach-on-her-head/273333/

10* LAGNIAPPE
LAST STAND
WHO’S THAT?

11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
MUSIC FROM “THE BRADY BUNCH”
http://www.bradybunchshrine.com/bbsounds3.htm

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
Music scene old timers: nobody cares about The Channel and The Rat any more! Move on!–Billy Copeland

I’m afraid I must agree with my young friend. So listen good, all you tremulous half-deef dotards with one queasy tooth wobbling precariously in your rotting gums: What right have you to becloud the discourse with your feeble-minded reminiscences of days gone by? Why don’t you get wise to yourselves and quit waxing nostalgic about bacteria-teeming dives located in stygian basements, where insectoid Carbona-huffers spasmodically clawed at badly-tuned guitars, oafish bass players interminably thrummed the same two murderous chords, and red-eyed mesomorphic tub-thumpers drummed inexorably just behind the beat, while an androgynous front-creature dressed in filthy threadbare denim screamed and growled through a putrid microphone reeking of creosote and stale beer? Can’t you see that the all-new all-different NOW sounds of today are so much better, thanks to insightful lyrics about money, indiscriminate fucking, and microfame, cojoined with sophisticated innovations such as autotune, cut ‘n’ paste instrumentation, and benevolent robot percussion? So please stop trying to pathetically discuss your fading niche interests when the world demands ubiquitous praise for novelty. To quote your own psychedelic champion Aldous Huxley: “Old things are horrid. new things are lovely.”

“We haven’t any use for old things here.”

“Even when they’re beautiful?”

“Particularly when they’re beautiful. Beauty’s attractive, and we don’t want people to be attracted by old things. We want them to like the new ones.”–Aldous Huxley, Brave New World

THE INFORMATION #992 MAY 11, 2018

THE INFORMATION #992
MAY 11, 2018
Copyright 2018 FRANCIS DIMENNO

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

19th ANNIVERSARY ISSUE

None of us are saints.–Albert Fish

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

“Salvatore Floyd,” said Count Victor Justin to Cadger Tandy, “is an example of ‘insanity without delirium’. He taught me everything I know about selling a proposition to a savage. But he was a bad actor, all right. A real police character. Maybe that’s why he was so good at closing a proposition. He did not give a hoot in hell fer nothin ner nobody. He didn’t care what anybody thought of him, just so long as he got away with whatever grift he was following at the time. I followed him around and watched him from the time I turned seventeen to about the time I was twenty-one. He was better than any college would of been. He taught me right away the one thing that every grifter knows. A maxim that ought to be chiseled on the tombstone of every con artist. Namely, that there’s no percentage in wising up a sucker. Let ’em stew–that was his motto. He was not a normal Yellof. Fact is, he did quite a bit of stewing his own self.

“But he was quite the actor for all that. He could beat a lathered horse half to death and be in a blind rage the one minute, then turn around and be nice as pie to a diseased old prostitute the very next. It all depended upon who was watching him. Me, I got a front row seat at his goings on. To see him scrooch up to a mark, you would imagine that honey wouldn’t melt in his mouth. But after he cleaned the sucker out of everything he had, he was all scorn. He had the filthiest mouth you ever heard. The devil his own self would blush to hear the imprecations that barrelled forth from his coarse and over-loud maw. He may of been half Italian, but he had the map of Erin all over his face, to be sure. He had the face of an ugly baby on the neck of a full grown man. For some reason, this made some zooks take a shine to him. Guess he awakened their maternal instincts. His hair was always tousled, I guess so’s he could fool ’em into thinking he was some kind of froward sprat. In public, he always acted all humble and had these big oogly-moogly eyes as if he was always after appealing to people to help him tie his own shoelaces for him. But that, too, was an act. In private, he always lashed at what he called ‘his inferiors.’ He was quite a ridiculously puffed-up little man. To hear him talk, you’d think that he was the boy who put salt in the ocean. Of all the loochers down t’ the Seven Stars, not one of them would piss on him if he was on fire, ner give him the time of day. It’s because nobody else ever invented a new gimmick or soft con or grift–no, whenever somebody brought up a new approach to the oldest game, he would up and declare that he had done thought of it ages ago, and that it was old hat, and that even the greenest rube would be able to see through that superannuated flim-flam. Of course, people don’t like to be made fools of no-how, but they particularly dislike having to listen to the boasting and bloviating of a phonus-balonus who talked as though he had a masters’ degree in underhandedness and a PhD in skullduggery–him with his red hair and his flat black eyes, as dark as obsidian. And freckles all over his infantine phiz.

“Unlike nearly every other confidence man I ever knowed, he was always up for a good donnybrook, whether it be administering a tongue-lashing to a lackey or thrashing a bar-room loafer. And he took real pleasure in hurting people, was another thing I noticed, though I didn’t say nothing. Mostly because nobody can never hold what you didn’t say to them agin you. I got the impression early on that here was a Yellof around whom you would have to watch your step. One phony remark and you might jolly well find yourself spitting your choppers out onto the boardwalk.

“He didn’t know what to do with himself when there was nothing doing. He couldn’t stand to just twiddle his thumbs. He always had to be out and about. ‘Sleep when you’re dead,’ said he. ‘Time enough then.’ He was so ornery that he would destroy things just for the sake of having something to do. He has been known to throw rotten eggs into mailboxes, though there’s no way such behavior would be of benefit to him. He was just plain cussed, is what he was. And listen, Yob–you’re not to breathe a word of the Yellof’s doings to another living soul, because even though he was sent up the river to Sing Sing for a yard, he could bust out at any time and get me.

“He never did not suffer fools gladly. As a matter of fact, he did not suffer humanity gladly. ‘We’re pards, ain’t we?’ said I to him. He grudgingly conceded that it was so. ‘So what does it take to be your friend?’ ‘I ain’t got no friends,’ says he. ‘I look out after myself, and the rest of the world can go hang. I’ll use you, if it suits my purpose. But don’t never mistake me for no friend of yours. I’m being honest with you, because you’ve stuck by me all these years. But when it comes right down to it, don’t count on me, or on no man, to pull your acorns out of the fire. I’ll be long gone. You’ll be whistling in the dark. You might as well be bringing sand to the beach. Selling iceboxes to Eskimoes. Or nailing jism to a tree.’

“I was duly warned, and it wasn’t too long after that that we came to a parting of the ways. A friendly one, I’m glad to say. Because I’d hate to think was a man like that could do to me if he had an inclination to do me a mischief.”

1* SALUTATION
THE YARDBIRDS
WHAT DO YOU WANT?

BARRY & THE REMAINS
ALL GOOD THINGS

THE MONKEES
CIRCLE SKY

ALSO SEE:
MONKEES
DADDY’S SONG

MONKEES
MOMMY AND DADDY (ORIGINAL VERSION)

MONKEES
SHORTY BLACKWELL

2*REFERENCE
OPIOID DEATHS
http://www.drugwarfacts.org/chapter/causes_of_death

1. Opioid Involvement in Deaths in the US Attributed to Drug Overdose

According to the US Centers for Disease Control, in 2016, there were 63,632 drug overdose deaths in the United States. The CDC further estimates that of those, 42,249 deaths involved any opioid.

The CDC reports that in 2016, 15,469 deaths involved heroin; 14,487 deaths involved natural and semi-synthetic opioids; 3,373 deaths involved methadone; and 19,413 deaths involved synthetic opioids other than methadone, a category which includes fentanyl. The sum of those numbers is greater than the total opioid involved deaths because, as noted by the CDC, “Deaths involving more than one opioid category (e.g., a death involving both methadone and a natural or semisynthetic opioid such as oxycodone) are counted in both categories.”

See also:
https://www.drugabuse.gov/drugs-abuse/opioids/opioid-overdose-crisis

Also see:
https://www.drugabuse.gov/related-topics/trends-statistics/overdose-death-rates

SEE ALSO:
https://www.cdc.gov/drugoverdose/index.html

ALSO SEE:
The Samhsa database:
https://www.datafiles.samhsa.gov

3*HUMOR
DENNIS MILLER JOKE GENERATOR
http://dennismillerbot.tumblr.com/

4*NOVELTY
TEN POPULAR MEME GENERATOR TOOLS
https://www.lifewire.com/popular-meme-generator-tools-3486457

5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
Man wearing ‘MAGA’ hat, Trump shirt attacks Hispanic subway rider in New York, police say
https://abcnews.go.com/US/man-wearing-maga-hat-trump-shirt-attacks-hispanic/story?id=54642028

6* DAILY UTILITY
THE ORIGINAL HARE PSYCHOPATH TEST
http://www.0eb.com/index_psychopath.html

ALSO SEE:
How words give them away

To examine the emotional content of the murderers’ speech, Hancock and his colleagues looked at a number of factors, including how frequently they described their crimes using the past tense. The use of the past tense can be an indicator of psychological detachment, and the researchers found that the psychopaths used it more than the present tense when compared with the nonpsychopaths. They also found more dysfluencies — the “uhs” and “ums” that interrupt speech — among psychopaths. Nearly universal in speech, dysfluencies indicate that the speaker needs some time to think about what they are saying.

With regard to psychopaths, “We think the ‘uhs’ and ‘ums’ are about putting the mask of sanity on,” Hancock told LiveScience.

Psychopaths appear to view the world and others instrumentally, as theirs for the taking, the team, which also included Stephen Porter from the University of British Columbia, wrote.

As they expected, the psychopaths’ language contained more words known as subordinating conjunctions. These words, including “because” and “so that,” are associated with cause-and-effect statements.

“This pattern suggested that psychopaths were more likely to view the crime as the logical outcome of a plan (something that ‘had’ to be done to achieve a goal),” the authors write.

And finally, while most of us respond to higher-level needs, such as family, religion or spirituality, and self-esteem, psychopaths remain occupied with those needs associated with a more basic existence.

Their analysis revealed that psychopaths used about twice as many words related to basic physiological needs and self-preservation, including eating, drinking and monetary resources than the nonpsychopaths, they write.

http://www.livescience.com/16585-psychopaths-speech-language.html

7*CARTOON
SIX BATSHIT CRAZY WAYS SUPERMAN TRIED TO PROTECT HIS SECRET IDENTITY

The first thing Superboy did was yank the road under Ronald into the sky where his ludicrous arsenal of superpowers animated a scarecrow and a tin man. They squawked words of madness from their unliving mouths, and Ronald ran. But you can’t outrun fear, and you can’t outrun Superboy. Yanked into the sky to be shrieked at by robots? The boy would never be the same. But Superboy wasn’t done with this child’s mind. He was only getting started.
http://www.cracked.com/blog/6-batshit-crazy-ways-superman-tried-to-protect-his-identity/

8*PRESCRIPTION
GAELIC PHRASES
http://www.ireland-information.com/irishphrases.htm

9* RUMOR PATROL
THE JOHN BIRCH SOCIETY: MYRON FAGAN

10* LAGNIAPPE
THE FLIES
FALL INTO YOUR WORLD

ALSO SEE:
JULES & THE POLAR BEARS
SHADOWS BREAK

11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
THE DOUCHE CHILLS #13: BILL COSBY
He called the pills that he doped his victims with “Your little friends.”

*11A BOOKS READ AND RATED

ABOUT HARRY TOWNS. FRIEDMAN. ****
ACTION PRESIDENTS 1. GEORGE WASHINGTON. ****
ACTION PRESIDENTS 2. ABRAHAM LINCOLN. ****
THE ADVENTURES OF BLANCHE. GEARY. ****1/2
THE ALARMING HISTORY OF MEDICINE. GORDON. ****
ALEX RIDER: EAGLE STRIKE. HOROWITZ. ***1/2
AMERICAN GODS 1. SHADOWS. GAIMAN. ****1/2
AND HERE’S THE KICKER. SACKS. ****
AVENGERS & CHAMPIONS. WORLDS COLLIDE. ***1/2
THE ASPHALT JUNGLE. BURNETT. ***1/2
BAD STORIES. ALMOND. ****
BEFORE BROWN. FELDMAN, ED. ****
BODY WORLD. SHAW. ****1/2
BOLIVAR. RUBIN. ***
BOOKS THAT MATTER: DECLINE AND FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE. DAMROSCH. ****1/2
BIZARRE ROMANCE. NIFFENEGGAR & CAMPBELL. ***1/2
CARTHAGO: FIRST CYCLE. BEC. ****
CHARLEY’S WAR 1-10. MILLS & COLQUHON. *****
THE COLLECTED SHORT FICTION OF BRUCE J. FRIEDMAN. ****
COOL TOKYO GUIDE. DENSON. ***1/2
THE CURRENT CLIMATE. FRIEDMAN. ****
DANGER GIRLS. BODY SHOTS. ***1/2
DREADFUL BEAUTY. MOORE & BURROWS. *****
EVEN THE RHINOS WERE NYMPHOS. FRIEDMAN. ****
A FATHER’S KISSES. FRIEDMAN. ***1/2
FINDER. VOICE. MCNEIL. ****
GRAND CENTRAL WINTER. STRINGER. ***1/2
GREEN LANTERN: EARTH ONE. vOL. 1. ***
IRON MAN: ENTER THE DRAGON. ***
IS THIS GUY FOR REAL? BROWN. ****1/2
JOSIE & THE PUSSYCATS 2. **1/2
JUSTICE LEAGUE: THEIR GREATEST TRIUMPHS. ***
JSA: THY KINGDOM COME 2. ***1/2
LITTLE CAESAR. BURNETT. ***1/2
THE LONELY GUY’S BOOK OF LIFE. FRIEDMAN. ****
THE MANY WORLDS OF KRYPTON. ***1/2
A MOTHER’S KISSES. FRIEDMAN. ****
NUMBER OF THE BEAST. ***
PAPER GIRLS 4. VAUGHN. ***1/2
PHOTOGRAPHIC. QUINTERO & PENA. ***1/2
PROVIDENCE ACT 3. MOORE & BURROWS. *****
QUANTUM TEENS ARE GO! ***1/2
THE REACTIONARY MIND. ROBIN. ****
REDLINE. HOLMAN. ****
THE RUB OF TIME. AMIS. ****
SABOTAGE IN THE AMERICAN WORKPLACE. SPROUSE, ED. ****
SAGA 1-7. VAUGHN. ****
SCANDALS OF CLASSIC HOLLYWOOD. PETERSEN. ***
THE SEASON OF THE WITCH. HERLIHY. ***1/2
THE SLIGHTLY OLDER GUY. FRIEDMAN. ****
STERN. FRIEDMAN. ****1/2
THE STRAIN. LAPHAM, ET AL. ***1/2
TEEN TITANS BOOK ONE. JOHNS. ***1/2
TEEN TITANS/THE OUTSIDERS. THE INSIDERS. ***
TEEN TITANS 2. THE RISE OF AQUALAD. ***
TOTAL JAZZ. BLUTCH. ****
TROOP 142. DAWSON. ***1/2
TRUMP’S FIRST YEAR. NELSON. ****
UNCANNY X-MEN. SISTERHOOD. ***
UNCANNY X-MEN FIRST CLASS 1. HATED & FEARED. ***
UNKNOWN SOLDIER. HAUNTED HOUSE. DYSERT. ****
THE UNSTOPPABLE WASP 2. ***1/2
VIOLENCIA! FRIEDMAN. ***1/2
WRONG MAN & POWER GIRL. **
X-MEN GRAND DESIGN. PISKOR. ***1/2

12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE

I Wandered Lonely as a Clod

I wandered lonely as a clod,
Just picking up old rags and bottles,
When onward on my way I plod,
I saw a host of axolotls;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
A sight to make a man’s blood freeze.
Some had handles, some were plain;
They came in blue, red pink, and green.
A few were orange in the main;
The damnedest sight I’ve ever seen.
The females gave a sprightly glance;
The male ones all wore knee-length pants.

Now oft, when on the couch I lie,
The doctor asks me what I see.
They flash upon my inward eye
And make me laugh in fiendish glee.
I find my solace then in bottles,
And I forget them axolotls.
http://holyjoe.org/poetry/anonU.htm

MODERN WISDOM NUMBER 235 MAY, 2018

MODERN WISDOM: AMERICA’S ONLY HUMOR MAGAZINE
NUMBER 235
MAY 2018

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

1. NOIR MISFORTUNE COOKIES: SECOND SERIES

401. Jobless one, the only skills you have mastered are no longer in demand.
402. The only advanced degree you have is in the third degree,
403. Blow, Crumb.. the Big man doesn’t need another squirrelly punk.
404. You were all thumbs–until the Big man had them broken.
405. Crazy Bohunk, your racial insensitivity offends sullen minorities.
406. Why don’t you get wise to yourself and get a haircut, old hippie.
407. No woman will ever marry an unemployed bass player.
408. You think you look sharp but you are actually very dull.
409. Your jokes are only understood by a very small minority.
410. Those goofballs you are gobbling will permanently addle your mind.
411. You are so frightened you keep 911 on speed dial, craven one.
412. What woman will ever love a midget with bad breath?
413. Fatty, your days of athletic glory are completely forgotten.
414. Too much brown acid at Woodstock has left you a gibbering wreck.
415. Your father taught you to trust no one. He isn’t even your real father.
416. Your wife is a natural beauty who does unnatural things.
417. Whores say you’re handsome but they only want your money, foolish one.
418. You should be grateful for anything th mob allows you, short of death.
419. Fifty dollars for a hat? When you owe the loan shark twenty large?
420. Fool, they will take your pension away and give it to worthless loafers.
421. People will learn from you–how not to live.
422. You are so lazy you would oversleep your own funeral day.
423. Your childhood friends were wrong. Sniffing glue does not give you super powers.
424. Pretty women can all tell you have a jailbird face, felon.
425. Sarcastic whore all laugh and call you “Pimp Hand Weak”.
426. Sometimes an outlaw is a noble man. But you are not.
427. The hard cons and new fish all call you “Fraidy-Cat O’Fear”.
428. You are weak flesh and weaker will. Your time has come.
429. You peaked at age five. It’s been all downhill ever since.
430. You are not who you say, or even who you think you are.
431. Bookie, you have pocketed the dough and the long shot has come in.
432. You are all thumbs. Soon, you will be no thumbs.
433. You are too fat to cut your own toenails. Soon infection will set in.
434. Your father pissed away your college fund on the ponies.
435. You are the last son of a long line of old fools.
436. You are growing numb. And your days are numbered.
437. A wiseacre in a Cadillac will seduce your youngest daughter.
438. Even your mongrel dog has more friends than you.
439. A benign cancer. Your diagnosis…and your social status.
440. You’ve fallen, and you can’t get up. You’re a felon, and you can’t get off.
441. You have had all the life lessons and have flunked every one.
442. Your agent cannot eat on ten per cent of nothing.
443. Even your nightmares are more pleasant than what you will awaken to.
444. You bring into every room the evil opposite of joy.
445. Your next General Tso’s chicken my be your last, obese one.
446. Proud one, you will lose your job to a servile robot.
447. The only person talking about love is the preacher–and he hates you.
448. Benjamin Franklin’s ghost is laughing at the money you squandered.
449. Once the voices are gone you’ll have no guidance at all, will you?
450. Card sharp, they will break your fingers. Then what will you do?

2. 15 things you really shouldn’t say after the judge tells you to swear on the Bible.

1) No, Judge Nazi!
2) You can’t handle the truth!
3) Where I come from a fat pig like you could never be a judge.
4) Viva la revolution!
5) I just do what the gun tells me to do.
6) I see you bear the mark of the beast. Truly, these are the end times.
7) Do you ever get a boner under that robe, or are you too old to have sex?
8) I am not subject to your petty laws.
9) What are you, on the pipe?
10) Bite my crank, baldy.
11) You don’t know it yet, but you’re dead.
12) You are one weird Mama Jamma.
13) Are you talkin’ to me?
14) It smells like pork in here.
15) Meow?

3. HOWARD STERN
Radio impresario Howard Stern speaks his “mind” in the same way that
an incontinent sprat expresses itself by dribbling its ropey poppycock
onto a bare mattress.

How Stern chooses to express himself–as a sort of avatar of the moron
zeitgeist–places him in a long line of blabbering jackleg global
village idiots beginning with Jerry Lewis and devolving through Sammy
Petrillo, Soupy Sales, Jim Carrey, Adam Sandler, and Rosie O’Donnell.

The pratings of this self-styled Peck(er)’s Bad Boy constitute a
veritable olla podrida of dreck.

He combines an intimate examination of the contents of a moral sewer
with the turgidly decadent maunderings of an unusually precocious and
uncommonly depraved adolescent, and tops it all off with the
mercifully hitherto unexamined Id of a mongoloid adult child.

The sounds that gratingly emanate form his ceaselessly churning maw
may well provide soothing lip music to appease the burning infantile
longings of hemorrhoidic fatsos and lacklustre constable-manques, but,
for anyone with any appreciation of the subtle workings of wit, Stern
is a painful spectacle.

Whenever I feel the urge to listen to Stern I simply draw up a mental
picture of a baboon with a shiny red erection pleasuring himself amid
the blare and sawdust of a satanic circus entirely populated by
flouncing, mincing, singing and bawling devils.

4. SPIRIT LIFTING THOUGHTS FOR EVERY DAY OF THE MONTH!
I must keep a travel diary. Soon Messiah will come.

No! I am not worthy! When we stand before God we are all Judas!

The Joy of the Lord is my strength.

When I picture what God looks like, I see a tall, Galactic feller.

God sees all. Even the dark side. Especially the dark side.

Jesus is the number one fella in my life, and I am nothing but
worthless number two.

From now on I must laugh. A lot.

The Lord tastes good.

Without God my life is a lonely whistle-stop on the way to nowheres.

Who will rid me of these turbulent thoughts?

Consider the ant. The audacity of that creature. We are that creature!

Use me, Lord.

Idolatry is the idleness of idiots!

Yesterday I prayed for the courage to live. Tomorrow I will pray for
the courage to….

Lord, recharge my thoughts like a teeny tiny battery.

God is my rose. Lack of faith is my thorn.

A man is what he chooses and I chose to be a man.

I don’t feel cold when I pray to My Lord.

Whenever I want one of Daddy’s hugs I think of Our Father In Heaven.

My hands may be frozen and bleeding, but HIS Wrists were nailed upon a cross.

Lord, free me of memories from my profane past that keep me from
thinking of You.

I’m coming up rich in my search for Jesus, and I didn’t even know I
was digging for treasure!

Even a ten dollar chicken dinner feast without Jesus is like ashes in the mouth.

Only God is perfect. I can be less than perfect and still get God’s work done.

The Lord God is with me wherever I go. Even the bathroom!

Give the program thirty days to work! Christ was resurrected after three.

How am I? I am how God wants me to be.

The geography of heaven is a strange land.

God loves us all, even the rough old bullies living next to a
patched-up furnace.

The Lord restores antique people.

God’s work is manifest, even in a football game. Especially football!

Job one is that I get along well with the man I call Mr. Jesus.

God, like time, will work His Healing Wonder.

On earth, no. In heaven, maybe. In paradise!

Lord, point the way, and when You walk away, I will follow.

I have kissed the lips of hell and they are cold.

I distinctly heard the boiler laughing at me as I said my daily prayer.

Whenever you check off the items on your list of things to do, make
sure The Captain is on board.

The voice of the universe is warning me that this is my final chance!

Trust that God the Comforter has a delightful Rest in store for all of us.

5. CHICKETTE’S DAY OFF

At precisely 8:59 AM Chickette called in sick to work, even though she wasn’t. As she hung up the phone, she looked up and admired her framed G.E.D. It hung haphazardly from a coathook attached to the wall of her closet-sized living space. She shared a cramped studio apartment with four girls (one of whom slept in the kitchen). She then went back to sleep and awoke at 2PM.

Upon waking, Chickette hugged herself into an ecstasy contemplating the December 26th sale at Wal-Mart. After talking to her Bonsai Tree (How is ‘oo, pitty Mistah Twee?””) she did half an hour of Jazzercise to Chick Mangione’s “Feels So Good.” She then thumbed through her scrapbook for awhile while sucking on a zinc lozenge and sipping Coke Zero (‘so much better than Diet Coke!”).

After scribbling for awhile in her Transformers Coloring Book, she
debated whether she should read the latest Holocaust memoir, but
instead decided to watch the Very Special Episode of “Life Goes On” in which Corky wrecks the Driver’s ed car.

For dinner she decided to eat a Reduced-fat muffin, then, as a treat,
resolved to pop in her favorite movie, Fran Drescher starring in ‘The Beautician And The Beast’, during the course of which she devoured an entire large bag of ranch-flavored Doritos, half a bag of Lay’s salt-and-vinegar flavored potato chips, six ounces of wasabi peas, a pint of Americone Dream ice cream, and three Soy Joy snack bars.

At the end of the film, she exclaimed, “I just love that wisecracking
Fran! What a pity ‘The Nanny’ was cancelled!”

Hugging her scrapbook, Chickette lay on her puffy quilt (which
she had nicknamed “Mr. Velvet”) and dozed off
to visions of Timothy Dalton tickling her no-no place with his
Stalinesque mustache, then, forthwith, fell directly asleep to dreams
of unicorns, carnivals, cotton candy, and Weezer.

Weezer!

6. JOKES ABOUT CANCER
Uggggg….

But, you know, there is a fertile field of humor to be found, even there.

I once made a joke about how, since Happy Rockefeller and Betty Ford
both had had mastectomies, they were “an interlocking directorate.”

And a girl I’d known for a long time ran crying out of the room.

Her Mom, you see….

Cancer is intrinsically absurd.

Like leprosy.

Only there aren’t very many lepers nowadays.

Conclusion: Comedy = tragedy plus time.

In 1963 you could joke about the Lincoln assassination, but JFK was off-limits.

As both Lenny Bruce and Malcolm X discovered….

SEE:
“Jackie hauled ass”
http://www.law.umkc.edu/faculty/projects/ftrials/bruce/bruceaccount.html

ALSO SEE:
“Chickens Come Home to Roost”
http://www.malcolm-x.org/speeches/spc_120463.htm

7. WORST ITALIAN RESTAURANTS EVER
Penguins Go Pasta in Hyannis, MA was a top contender. (I am assured
that it is long gone, though it morphed into Penguins Sea Grill after
that.)

The food was fine.

But….

I mean, some places just give you an…ooky feeling, OK?

And WHAT KIND OF MANIAC WOULD CALL A RESTAURANT PENGUINS GO PASTA?

What do penguins have to do with Pasta? WHAT?

What was the logic behind this?

Pasta is white. Antarctica is white. Penguins live in Antarctica.
Penguins Go Pasta!

There was an Italian Restaurant in Pittsburgh called Penguini’s.

Not half bad.

That I can almost understand.

The Pittsburgh Penguins.

Penguini’s.

But…Hyannis, MA?

Then there’s this report about the late Augustine’s on Route One in Saugus, MA.

“Augustine’s, also now closed, sported the world’s oldest woman
playing modern pop songs on an out of tune organ. Her playing Beatles
songs on that decrepit keyboard set music back many years, and perhaps
helped create what we now know as acid reflux. Augustine’s had some
excellent Italian food until they started featuring a buffet table
about five times the size of that stupid lime green dinosaur and with
every known tv dinner specialty. Like the dinosaur, Augustine’s and
the organ player soon became extinct.”
http://www.visitingnewengland.com/routeone.html

Another now-closed establishment was the awful chain known as East
Side Mario’s, with the faked-out faux-L’il Italy decor and the
all-you-can’t-possibly-eat salad. It’s the sort of place your
non-Italian friends figure you’ll probably like, but to me, it’s like
inviting your black friends to a place called “Fried Chic’m ‘n’
Hog-maw Tyrone’s”. What self-respecting Italian would choose to eat
there? It would be like a Black man who voluntarily patronized “Uncle
Buck’s Shuck ‘n’ Jive Jook Joint”.

Now, Black folks love our Italian food.

I only know this anecdotally, from having worked at Del’s on Liberty
Avenue in the Bloomfield section of Pittsburgh.

Liberty Avenue hooks up at 40th Street in Lawrenceville, and the Black
folk lived below 35th, so they had to come quite a ways to get there.

Well, apparently, Del’s has seen better days….

http://pittsburgh.citysearch.com/review/8622550

If one must patronize an Italian chain, I suppose Vinny Testa’s is not
as bad as some (though they used to be better).

I sometimes go to the one in Seekonk, MA.

It’s better than The Olive Garden and East Side Mario’s.

But not by much.

And mostly because they give you a whole head of roasted garlic.

I’d much prefer to eat at home.

Legend to the contrary, the best pasta sauce does not take two days to make.

At best?

12 hours, maybe. Tops. I’d say more like six or eight.

The DiMennos and the Giulianos would take tough cuts of meat and
simmer them in the sauce for six to eight hours. Nothing quite like
it.

But for a marinara, as opposed to a meat sauce, less is more.

Not one of them would ever put sugar in a marinara sauce.

The whole point of a marinara is that it should be cooked quickly. No
more than half an hour. If it’s bitter, it’s because you didn’t strain
the tomato seeds out.

Every member of my family has their own culinary peculiarities.

Aunt Lucille still uses only canned tomatoes.

Uncle Joe and Uncle Phil still eat tomato sandwiches. (White bread,
tomato, a little salt.)

My father says add onion to the tomato salad, never vinegar.

I don’t add vinegar, but I still prefer it without the onion.

The recipe:
Four fresh tomatoes sliced into cubes. (Peel them if you like. I
don’t. Some do.)
Two fresh cloves of garlic, sliced fine.
1/8 to 1/4 cup good olive oil, to taste.
Two pinches of salt.
Mix.

Refrigerate 1 hour or freeze 1/2 hour.

Dip bread into it.

“We used to fight over the juice,” says Paw.

Anyway, my point is, finally, that taking an Italian to a mediocre
Italian restaurant is like inviting an Irishman to try the Lucky
Charms cocktail at Trotty McBogtrotter’s “Genuine” Irish Pub.

Don’t do it!

8. THE INTERNET RUMOR MILL HAZ IT

I hear Ubama is a Wasabi Muslim who stings the soft palate of elderly Gringos.

I hear Ubangi is an Araphoe whose ancestors took pioneers captive and reared them in the ways of the Aborigine.

I hear Yomama is so old he gave caveman lessons to Fred Flintstone.

I hear Jumanji is so low he was butt boy for Robin Williams.

I hear Hussein Bin Laden gave a buffet in his warren for the Russian Castronauts.

I hear the phrase “the content of their character” was plagiarized from the incitelopedia by Doc Marten and Lucifer King.

Let me pull your coat, my brother: I hear Dreams from My Father: A Story of Race and Inheritance is an coded esoteric text of the end of the whole world in 2012 as predicted by my oracular pal Quetzalcoatl.

Let’s get somethin’ straight here, Panama Red: Marion Barry, Barry Obama and Oprah throw annual crack parties in Great Barrington in honor of W.E.B. DuBois under the aegis of the AIER.

Snap out your Obamamania and lend me your ears: Who’s sane? Not Barrack. Rumor has it he inhales quart-size blobs of quiescent industrial solvents from a glad garbage bag wrapped around a whitewash-contaminated pannier.

I hear BHO is actually the chemical symbol for Boron Hydrogen and Oxygen, and that his presidency is a plot to supplant and eventually destroy all petroleum based fuels, in the process creating global financial chaos, and all plotted from the aerie of the ACLU and the CIO.

I hear Ohusma Solo is a Japanese Secret Agent provacateur dedicated to the destruction of the cosmos under the sponsorship of the decadent old Gods worshipped in Ninevah and Tyre.

I hear Ojama sprinkles sofrito on his favorite Loisaida delicacies and was actually there with me and Julio down by the schoolyard.

I know for a fact that in every one of his speeches Osama transmits double-tracked husky whispers in double-dutch Amharic so his boys in Giza and Kabul can manipulate pork futures, with the ultimate aim of driving Piggly-Wiggly out of business. I heard it in the media and my father says that if it’s in the Times it must be so.

Barry O’Bama? Sure and ’tis a foine Oirish name. Sure and any b’hoy who can scare the bejasus out of Senors and Senoritias must be A-OK with the Pope, and a likely Laad. “We love him not for the friends he has won, but for THE ENEMIES HE HAS MADE!” Ye may speak all ye wish o’ chaotic tramps and the criminal element, but t’wasn’t so wurra long ago, me fine bucko, that there were signs that said NO DOGS AND IRISHMEN ALLOWED. Mark well!

The rumors that Obama is pussywhipped and addicted to Peruvian marching powder; that he geezed white horse with Sammy Davis Junior and Sonny Listen in a sleazy Reno no-tell motel; that he downed hot sterno grog with Boxcar Willie and hypnotized Donna Douglas to be his pliant and complaisant sex slave–all of these tales either have absolutely no foundation in fact OR they are based on lies, half-truths, and exaggerations, and, futhermore, whatever his sordid past, ever since he found Muhammed and was saved Barack Obama has, in fact, been clean, and, currently, he even abstains from Pork, fried chicken, razor blades, dice, watermelon, and other insidious tokens of white devil tricknology. FACT!

Have you not pondered the similarity of the initials BHO…to that of the dreaded HOBO? Although bleeding hearts insist upon croaking that these gap-toothed refugees and urban campesanos be referred to by pity-inducing cognomens such as “the homeless”, such sententious sentimentality has no place in our modern polity and I simply must persist in maintaining that a President Hobo is utterly unacceptable to 98.6 per cent of Klansmen, Mormons, former alcoholics, and Shriners; that criminal writs should be written out posthaste contra vagabondage; and that even those unacquainted with the extreme seriousness of the hobo menace should lobby the national government to attempt the solving of the tramp problem, ere the nation’s most powerful agency will be forced to acknowledge that the stamping out of voluntary vagabondage, or at least the elimination of the undesirables from the ranks of our floating population, has assumed the status of a hopeless undertaking. How likely is PRESIDENT HOBO to accomplish such a deed? The probabilities are so insubstantial as to be floccinaucical.

9. RESPONSE TO A JAGOFF

I have long suspected that those who cannot respond in kind often resort to vague threats.

Thank you for validating my suspicions.

You respond to a hydrogen bomb with a damp squib.

You remind me of a booking agent who decides that following Hendrix playing “The Star Spangled Banner” is best accomplished by fronting a Mongoloid essaying “Three Blind Mice” on a broken toy piano.

You and your idiotic friends and allies who refuse to identify themselves merely show that they do not even have the courage of their convictions.

When it comes to intelligence and breeding, such fanatics as yourselves skew towards…let us be charitable…the sub-par. I can tell from the ice cream stains on your foreheads. From the roseate hue of the bite marks on your arms which you inflict with your own teeth whenever you are frustrated in your desires. And most of all, from the gurgling, insouciant chortle you emit after satisfying yourselves in a gents room stall.

Contemplating your behavior actually encourages me to conceive of a surprising new respect for residents of the Juggalo belt.

The best you can do by way of rejoinder is to merely mock my own resume of your mental qualities, evident to all, with a biased summation of my physical and financial situation, apparent only to you. Rife, furthermore, with spelling errors and a syntactic structure which indicates that you gave up on English prosody after the eighth grade.

You are, indeed, an autochthonous rube micturating in a gutter of your own finding and fouling.

You write like your name is General Zod, and your first language is Kryptonese.

Put down the TV Guide and take a course in expository writing, witling, then get back to me. For the time being, I’m done with you.

Of course, if you’d prefer to persist in playing handball with your own shit, that’s entirely up to you.

I am painting here a portrait of a vindictive soi-disant oracular quasi-literate. You remind me of a spiteful monkey ladling down hot pitch upon hapless passersby from a high tree occupied by a rabble of similarly autocoprophagous baboons of your despicable tribe. Apparently my assessment of your intellectual capabilities (slender) and accomplishments (none) have so addled your already fevered brain that, like a garden-variety sneak who stands at the edge of an unsuspecting crowd, hurls a bottle, then calmly walks away, you continue to decline to make your name or avocations known to the world at large. And fittingly. For, judging by your recent behavior, you are as fond of depraved and corrupt practices as the devil himself is fond of snatching away from God’s ultimate mercy theoretically repentant sinners.

By now, an intelligent person with a bare modicum of self-respect would have realized just how very outclassed they are. Or would have at least attempted to respond in kind.

Never fear. I quite understand your inanition.

Let’s face it, small fry. You come from a world where ugly illogic is a way of life. In your vile atelier, the soup du jour is happy horseshit, the main course is inarticulate ad hominem blustering, and for dessert you dish up a heaping helping of inexplicable rodomontade.

Too bad.

Because I just rolled a seven.

Result: You’re faded, fucked and forgotten.

10. DYING IS EASY; COMEDY IS HARD
I just got hold of a book titled Execution: The Guillotine, the
Pendulum, the Thousand Cuts, the Spanish Donkey, and 66 Other Ways of
Putting Someone to Death, by Geoffrey Abbott.

I turn to a page at random.

Torn Apart by Boats.

Then there is the Cave of Roses. (Victim confined to a cave full of
“snakes and poisonous reptiles.”)

Sewn in an Animal’s belly.

Broken on the Wheel. (Invented 202 A.D.)

Hanged at the Yard-Arm and keel-hauled. (Yarr!)

Necklacing (Pere Lebrun). Aristide said, “If you catch one, give him
what he deserves. What a beautiful tool! It’s lovely, it’s cute, it’s
pretty, it has a good smell; wherever you go you want to inhale it!”
He was referring to a car tire set alight around a victim’s neck. I
think Mrs. Mandela was also fond of this practice….

Infalistation. Thrown from a cliff.

Defenestration. Thrown from a window.

Torn apart by two trees. AKA “The Pine Bender.”

The Spanish Donkey. (Victim seated atop a “V” wall with weights,
slowly increses, attached to the angles until victim’s body splits in
two.)

Iron Chair. (Victim tied to iron armchair which is pushed closer and
closer to a blazing fire.)

Under “Miscellaneous.” Forced to walk over glowing coals while molten
lead was poured over their heads. (That’s gotta hurt. That’s
definitely going to leave a mark.)

“Literally, there is no end to man’s fiendish imagination.”

Then there’s the section on criminal slang.

“He’ll piss when he can’t whistle.” (He’ll be hanged.)
“He Danced the Newgate hornpipe.” (He was hung.)
“He’ll have an artichoke (hearty choke) and caper sauce for last meal.”
(He was sentenced to be hung and will convulsively twitch as he is dying.)

And lest the English have all the fun, there’s “National Razor” (The
Guillotine).

I think the worst death, one not described in the book, would be torn
apart by mules. Or tortoises. Or snails.

And the greatest happiness would be not born at all. Into this vale of
tears! This feast of fools!

No, I like to kid life. But seriously.

Hey, wait. This’ll kill ya!

When’s the best time to meet Dracula?

Suppertime. So you can treat him to a hot stake dinner.

11. LETTER TO THE EDITOR
(Reprinted from THE WEBSTER (MA) TIMES.
I couldn’t believe what I read in Monday’s paper. They are taking all
the good heroin out of the clubs.

If they would let the musicians play outdoors instead of
sitting in the clubs for eight hours a day, they wouldn’t be dope-starved.

Let musicians snort whatever they want. I would rather snort no-doz
than be without.

There are reasons that musicians ought to pack heat. So they don’t get
burned in a dope deal!

You know, I wish the government and the licensing board would mind
their own business.

The club owners will have more hypes skipping out on gigs to score
some real dope instead of this methadone crap.

Did you ever taste methadone? There’s no buzz. The department of health
better let us musicians know before they substitute anything
that has to do with my buzz.

They say to take two doses a day. I snort heroin seven or eight time a
day, and I’m not an addict!!!

I am really upset because they test for drugs. I didn’t
say they could do that. That is between my God and me.

Doctors don’t even know what addicts are because they have no experience.

When I was little, I drank codeine cough syrup for breakfast, which is codeine,
syrup, water and food coloring. That was a swell breakfast and I felt great.

There is nothing wrong with a musician taking codeine, dilaudid,
morphine or heroin, unless the scene says otherwise. Doctors need to
shut up and write scripts.

I think an emaciated musician is hip. When I hug someone, I like some
bones to hug, not fat.

12. CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
MY WHITE POWDER
(To the tune of my blue heaven)

Life is ending, bats are wending
Back to the belfry of
My little head they love

Deadly nightshade, quaaludes calling
What makes me leave my bed
Nothing but drugs

When the pusher man calls
And evening is high
I hurry to my White Powder

I dodge all the heat
A little black light
Will lead you to my White Powder

An open vein, a hit of smack, oblivion,
A little rest from living here or living there

A junkie, that’s me
And psychotically
I’m happy with my white powder

13. JAPANESE MONSTER MOVIE TAPS
Day is done.
Gone are the gorillas.
Gone the monsters.
From over the hills.
Death from the sky.
All must die.
Sleep forever.
Judgment is Nigh.

THE INFORMATION #991 MAY 4, 2018

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

“Baby cries, Mama buys.”–slogan

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

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

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

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

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

“You mean a son of the old sod?”

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

“What’s that?”

“A chippie off the old block.”

“I don’t understand.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What a sweet guy!”

1* SALUTATION
JULES & THE POLAR BEARS
SHADOWS BREAK

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

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

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

Dames, huh? Who kin figger ’em?

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

4*NOVELTY
BIRCHER RANTS NOW SOUND LIKE MAINSTREAM REPUBLICANISM

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

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

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

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

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

10* LAGNIAPPE
AZTEC CAMERA
PILLAR TO POST

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

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

THE INFORMATION #990 APRIL 27, 2018

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1* SALUTATION
THE SALVATION ARMY
SHE TURNS TO FLOWERS

ALSO SEE:
THE THREE O’CLOCK
BAROQUE HOEDOWN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

9* RUMOR PATROL
THE SINISTER AND TRULY TERRIFYING ARISTOCRAT TOMATO

10* LAGNIAPPE
FRANK SINATRA
(THEME FROM) STINKFINGER

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

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

THE INFORMATION #989 APRIL 20, 2018

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

sebpearce.com/bullshit/

3*HUMOR
THE LONELIEST BOXCUTTER
a book for children

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

10* LAGNIAPPE
ROY HARPER
I HATE THE WHITE MAN

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

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