THE INFORMATION #937 APRIL 21, 2017

THE INFORMATION #937
APRIL 21, 2017
Most of the appearance of mirth in the world is not mirth, it is art. The wounded spirit is not seen, but walks under a disguise. –Robert South

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER ELEVEN: PART TWENTY: DAYS OF WRATH
 
“A wise old Jew goniff as was a friend of mine once gave me the best advice of my entire life.” Count Justin Victor was in a typically expansive mood, and as they walked the cobblestoned and rain-slicked streets of early evening Blowtown in the early spring, he even looped his arm through that of Cadger Tandy, as though they were boon companions. 
There ensued a long pause. “When you get to be my age though, you have so many memories to draw from that things tend to get tangled up a mite, so I’m going to have to think a few minutes afore I can recall precisely what it was he said to me that left such an unforgettable impression. It wasn’t that old wheeze about polishing the back of your shoes as well as the front. But I will say this. You should always buy the best pair of shoes you can afford, and make sure they fit. They shouldn’t be too short and they shouldn’t be too narrow, or your toes will become deformed. Plus, you won’t be able to run away from the Rozzers. Also, a sturdy pair of shoes can be used to clobber a refractory Yob but good, once you’ve knocked him sky west. And women tend to notice things like shoes. So do military men. And other single-minded folk. Me, personally, I think it shouldn’t matter what you wear. But the world will have a long party knocking the snot-nose out of you if you try to go up agin in. So better you mind your ps and qs.
“Whether you’re in it for the short con or the long, it always pays to dress up, or down, as the occasion demands. You won’t be dining at Delmonico’s with clothing that looks like you stole it off’n a scarecrow. Nor will you get very far in the hobo jungle with a top hat and a tux. Apatetic coloration is what the double-domes call it. In order to survive, you is got to learn how to blend in. Learn which fork is used to eat a lobster. Learn which knife is best to stab a bindlestiff. You surely do not want to dress in such a way as to attract the attention of the nebby-nosed constabulary. Nor do you ever want to make a fuss in any crowded place, whether indoor or out. Unless, of course, you’re shilling for a cannon.
“You always want to be well-shaved. A man with straggly chin whiskers always looks like a bum. People won’t think very highly of you if they see that you’re that careless in attending to your personal appearance. You may say to yourself that you don’t give a good god-damn about what the world thinks, and that attitude is just fine–if you’re poor white trash and intend to stay that way. 
“Let me tell you something about white trash. There are about fifteen million weeping hillbillies roaming the mountains of Appalachia and points south and west, and as far as I’m concerned, not one of them is worth a good goddamn. They are poor, and they are stupid, and they were born that way, and they will stay that way. At least the negro of the southland is servile, and always knows his place, and is industrious when he can’t get away with loafing, and he can generally be trusted not to fuck things up too badly. The same can’t be said of the mountain man. He is surly, and illiterate, and stubborn as a mule, and proud of it. He always spends what few pennies he owns on trifles, and he don’t give a good goddamn what you think about it–but then he’ll turn around and try to borrow a sawbuck off of you. Money he has absolutely no intention of ever paying back to you. Because he is a moke. Call him what you will–a savage, a brawler, a brute, a mongrel–he is a cast-off; a moron; a lousy off-scouring of the land. And that’s because his germ plasm is of the lowest sort. He is descended from the lowest riff-raff of the English shores–cut-purses, counter-jumpers, common cheats, and cannibals.
“Of course, down south they have a very different notion of what constitutes a gentleman compared to what passes muster up hereabouts. In these parts, a gentleman has his nails manicured and wears a starched collar. His hat is of the very latest fashion, and he likely has a cane with a gold head, and a stickpin for his silk necktie, and cufflinks, but nothing too extravagant. The only rings he wears are a wedding band–and possibly a class ring or a Masonic ring. Whereas down south, a gentleman is more likely to sport a starched white shirt, and a bowtie, or a string tie, and a vest. He may favor a straw boater, and his suit is likely to be of a cotton weave, rather than heavy wool. He is also likely to have chin whiskers. And his tastes in attire tend slightly more toward to extravagant and gaudy. He is more of a Dandy, as befits a strutting cock of a Cavalier. He bids fair to light up a horse race, or a fancy hotel lobby. 
“Now I remember what the old Jew said! He said that whether you have the dosh or you don’t, when staying in a halfway decent hotel, the one thing you always do is tip your bellboy extravagantly well. It is fine to be thrifty, said he, or even frugal, but there’s no need to be stingy. There are many reasons to tip your bellboy, said he. The Yobs who work in a swell hotel get wised up fast, and soon know as much as the House Dick, and even more. The bellboy knows where all the best booze and whores and drugs are to be had. Tip him well and he’ll steer you clear of bad hooch and panel houses. Tip him well and you won’t be getting raw alky spiked with kerosene; you’ll be getting a bottle of the best bonded; the real McCoy. Tip him, damn you, and you won’t be getting some cheap clapped up floozie who reeks of milk puke and mildew; you’ll be getting a top-drawer Zook who looks and smells like peaches and cream. If the gendarmerie are snooping ’round the premises, he’ll make sure you’re the first to know. He can keep a confidence if you tip him well; everything you ask for will be between he and thee and certainly not the parson.  Fact is, if you give him a tip that’ll make his eyes pop open, he’ll figure you for a grand sport, and he won’t be able to do enough for you. Plus, he’ll feel as though you’ve taken a personal interest in him, and that there might be more where that came from. After you leave, he might even talk you up to the Bell Captain, and the next time you set foot in the place there will be dozens of servile lackeys waiting to fulfill your every depraved whim. Of course, it goes without saying that you never slip them the queer, any more than you would a rozzer. Those little monkeys with the caps are older heads than most coppers. No one ever got fat pitching fast balls past those Yellofs. Savvy?
“Maybe you’ve heard, Yob, of the most famous bellboy of all?  None other than Saint Peter, his own self…standing watch at the pearly gates of Heaven.”  
1*SALUTATION
STEELEYE SPAN
ALL AROUND MY HAT
 
ALSO SEE:
THE WEAVER AND THE FACTORY MAID

2*REFERENCE
ILLUMINATI SELLOUTS EXPOSED
 
ALSO SEE:
PROFESSOR GRIFF EXPOSES WILL SMITH AS HOMOSEXUAL
3*HUMOR
So Don Rickles is dead. He was the first comedian I ever admired. To think–he must have been at least 40 when I first saw him. 
 
He went through a phase of wild popularity in the early 1970s. Jack Kirby even used him in the pages of Jimmy Olsen:
 
The late Mr. Rickles had a bit of the schizophrenic about him. He blurted out the truth compulsively, due to his unique world-view. 
 
Not that he was actually schizophrenic, or even schizotypal. He just latched on to Texas Guinan’s gimmick of treating people like suckers, for laughs.
 
(Plus, as Gershon Legman informs us, there is a great old tradition of insult humor known as Water-Wit, which even Samuel Johnson allegedly indulged in.  “Sir, your wife under pretence of keeping a bawdy-house, is a receiver of stolen goods.”  Johnson’s summation of Lord Chesterfield’s letters to his son is hilarious: “They teach the morals of a whore, and the manners of a dancing master.”) 
 
But seeing is believing:
Don Rickles Roasts Frank Sinatra
 
Don Rickles Roasts Jerry Lewis
 
Don Rickles and Michael Landon on Carson’s Tonight Show 1974
4*NOVELTY
11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA

The Paragraphs. By Rick Berlin. Cutlass Press, 2016. Paperback. 248 pages.

The memoir form is a strange and wondrous beast. It tends to be less comprehensive than an autobiography, and therefore also tends to be impressionistic rather than concrete; terse rather than prolix; luminous rather than opaque. Impressionistic, terse and luminous is largely what we are given here; this book is mostly sweet, sometimes tough, and never, ever stuffy. All the verbal fireworks are expelled and exploded in short squibs rather than in ponderous earthshaking volleys. The Paragraphs is a memoir which is full of sentiment but seldom merely sentimental; the author is grandiose, but also humble; garrulous, but with a good sense of when to end a story or an anecdote or a thought exercise. Berlin indulges in solipsism, but manages to be entertaining at the same time. This memoir has the feeling of a series of miniatures, loosely strung together under a set list of thematic headings (“family”; “music”; “booze/drugs”). Berlin touches briefly on certain high points in his life: A movie to be shot in Grenada which he dropped out of Yale Drama School to participate in (culminating in the arrest of the entire cast and crew). His glory days as a performer in Orchestra Luna. His 29 years of “waitress” work at Doyle’s in Jamaica Plain. He also talks a bit about topics which appeal to his eccentric fancy: His cat, his new Kia, farts, asses, zits. I get the impression that Berlin has gathered up a series of his ruminations and jottings over the years and compiled them all together. It probably shouldn’t work as a memoir, but mostly it does. This is due almost entirely to the fact that Berlin is a keen observer with the instincts of an artist, as well as a flair for a certain type of (uncapitalized) bop prosody which is likely to be familiar to those who are fond of the works of Ginsberg, Corso, Kerouac, et al. However, even though this memoir may partake of the Romanticism of the Beats (as well as that of the Romantic poets) his voice and insights are entirely his own. In fact, one gets the sense, after reading The Paragraphs, that one has just enjoyed a long leisurely chat with the author. This is not necessarily all to the good; in the hands of a less gifted raconteur the reader might have on numerous occasions been tempted to put the book back on the shelf and leave it there. As it stands, the memoir, brief as it is, might have benefited from a few judicious elisions.(There are, to my taste, just a few too may anecdotes about Berlin’s unrequited boyhood crushes on boys.) However, it would be a shame if a ruthless editor had laid hands on this manuscript; he or she might have felt constrained to cut out some of the best chapters, simply because they are peripheral to the through-line. For instance, the chapter on “Band Parents” is cutting and incisive and just a little bit brutal. The ruminations in “College?” are both cynical and wise. The section on “the Grim Smile” reads like a stage-ready Performance Art piece.

There are many passages which stand out for their lyricism and prosody.

From “Performing”

if you give it all you got, if you ‘leave it all on the stage,’ you occasionally inhabit an ego-vanishing dimension. your ‘you’ vaporizes. you transmogrify into an energy that is not from, but through the Self. your ‘muse’ Ouija-boards an art wave. this is intoxicating and, let’s face it, you love the love even as you wonder how to win the anonymous art. you invent reciprocity.

From “Is the Grass Really Greener? (Redux)”:

we lie in bed, heavy with the weight of the not done, the ‘all’ we may never be, the relationships that are missing or too much with us, the families that drive us crazy, the cars that won’t start, the jobs that don’t pay enough for the shit we take, the books we never write, the plays we’re not in and the races we’re too scared to run. we’re charged so many debits and collect so few credits.

But Berlin can also be gnomic

From “College?”: “…to spend that much money to learn all the places you fail is false advertising….”

From “Neverland”: “did Peter Pan have it right, or did Dorian Gray?”

From “O Tannenbaum”: “pretty loses out to truth.”

This last quote is as good a place as any to conclude. Berlin’s style is sometimes lyrical and sometimes vulgar, but you always get the strong impression that he employs few, if any filters in this memoir. If you favor such wild, unalloyed Romaticism, then you might decide to read this diverting memoir in one fell swoop.

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.

933. PIT BULLS: “THIS NOBLE BREED”
934. THE MUSIC MAP
To find bands of related interest

I suspect that this application was not designed with the discerning cognoscenti in mind.

And the algorithm is probably based on some sort of citation analysis.

I guess it is more a tool to guide you toward other similarly good bands than it is a tool to guide you to other bands which sound alike.

 
But sometimes the results are a little…off.

“If you like Fabian you might also like Mingus.”


“If you like Noel Coward you might also like Corky and the Juice Pigs.”

THE INFORMATION #936 APRIL 14, 2017

THE INFORMATION #936
APRIL 14, 2017
Women cannot receive even the most palpably judicious suggestion without arguing it; that is, married women.–Mark Twain

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER ELEVEN: PART NINETEEN: DAYS OF WRATH
“My vision of hell,” said Count Victor Justin, “in case you’d care to hear it, is to be everlastingly dominated by women. Do this; don’t do that. Faugh!  Women!  O, the Minxes! First they’ll mother you, then they’ll smother you. That’s no kind of life for a freebooting manikin.

“I don’t even know why Yellofs even bother with women, most of the time, other than for the pokey-pokey, and the perpetuation of the race. Zooks have absolutely nothing in common with us, or with any of our interests. We like the smell of the tavern; they fawn on the aroma of the tea parlor. We grow hair all over our arms and legs; they just as assiduously shave it off. We reek of manly scents like sweat and horseflesh, while they slap themselves all over with perfumy water that makes them stink like the denizens of an International Whorehouse, or the inner courtyard  of a despicable Seraglio. We like to eat steaks and sausages and whole chickens, while they confine themselves to watercress sandwiches and other rabbit food. We drink from buckets brimming over with good reeb straight from the barrel, while they sip on sickly-sweet sherry and other bastardized concoctions. We men will eat most anything when we’re hungry; the womenfolk, however, are picky, and nothing will do other than some gigolo furriner with a fancy white hat be put to work making them exotic dishes–rubbish which no self-respecting he-man would touch with a barge pole.

“All women care about—all they really want to do—is to spend our money. The more of our ooftish they can get their diggers on, the happier they be. And it’s not like they ever put a penny or two aside for a rainy day, like most Yobs who have any sense at all are inclined to do. No! They spend it on getting their hair snipped, scorched and dressed by some poufter in a fancy-ass ‘shoppe,’ or they blow it on cheap, worthless costume jewelry, or fancy dresses that they wear once and bury in a closet, or on carriage rides which suit no need other than their desire to expose their vanity to the admiration of rude yahoos and other low-born Yellofs.

“And God help you if you scorn them! Hell hath no fury like a woman thwarted. Once they figure they got you twisted right around their little finger—and, believe it or not, Yob, but there actually are men like that—weak sisters, the lot of ‘em—I wouldn’t piss on ‘em if they were on fire—once they figure you’re a slave to what they got between their legs—some call it ‘The Wound that Never Heals’—why, then you’re just as good as completely sunk. You might as well give up all your fancy schemes and dreams of making something of yourself. Because that there is the very last thing she wants for you to do. If you become an esteemed citizen, then where’s the room for her? What’s the need?

“Because, you see, once you ‘Make It’, all the womenfolk will be throwin’ themselves at you. They will not be able to resist your charms. You’ll be the subject of admiring glances wherever you go. When you are a big man in the estimation of the world, you can try out all kinds of experiments. You will say that you will be showing up at the Scandahoovian Embassy at 8 sharp to feast on a smorgasbord of Kottbuller and Lutefisk, and, by the Neddy Jingo, you will meet up there with a crowd of loochers all in their fancy dress proclaiming the merits of smoked salmon and marinated herring! And, the very next day, there will be a Scandanavian ‘craze,’ and all the stores will experience a run on rutabagas and lingonberry jam!  

“But that’s only if you’re famous. That’s why your average women with whom you have an affair will want you to be a workaday drudge so that forever ever after you will be shackled to her ever-loving apron strings. Once she knows you’ll do anything to please her, if only to keep the peace, she’ll have you precisely where she wants you. Then the nagging will begin. Trust me, Yob—I know whereof I speak.

“‘O, you brute male! How dare you fart in my presence!’ That’s the kind of song you’ll hear from the likes of Dolly Birds, p’ticularly when they think they’ve got the upper hand. ‘How dare you belch? Don’t you have any manners? Where is your napkin! Don’t be so rough with the baby!’ It’s never ‘Congratulations on your big score, O Lord and Master.’ It’s always, ‘You need to earn more money.’  Note the operative word: ‘You’.

“Not all women are so blatant. But I’ve known more than a few who were. ‘I don’t want to go with you. You ain’t got no money. I thought you were a man—but you’re just a boy.’ There’s nothing like a woman, Yob, for twisting the knife. A man can insult you, and that’s all well and good. If it’s worth your while, you always have the option of pummeling him, or, at the very least, doing him some dirt when he’s got his back turned. But Lordie help you if you strike a woman! Mind you, I’m not recommending it. But that’s simply because it simply isn’t done. Not in perlite society.

“’The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world.’ No truer words were ever spoken! But that’s only true if you allow yourself to be led around by the nose by a Zook. Need a shoulder to cry on? Get a dog. That’s my advice. A dog won’t spend your money; nor will he fuck your best friend or get drunk and hurl dishes at your head.

“It’s like Mark Twain says: ‘A dog will not bite you if you make him prosperous.’ Would that you could say the same about a woman—any woman—any woman–other than me own sainted Mother.

“Of course, certain dogs–like certain women—are known to attack and not stand down—not even if commanded to by God. And that is why you have got to be careful. My advice? When you go amongst women–go by more than one name!”

 
1*SALUTATION
SPIKE JONES
THAT OLD BLACK MAGIC
FEATURING BILLY BARTY
 
THAT OLD BLACK MAGIC
ALSO SEE:
Spike Jones
Ugga Ugga Boo Ugga Boo Boo Ugga
 
ALSO SEE:
BEST OF SPIKE JONES
ALSO SEE:

Freddie Fisher & the Schnicklefritz Band – Tiger Rag

ALSO SEE:
Liberace
Tiger Rag
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cyOp1eYis7o&list=RD4jdLN1WjK1Y
6* DAILY UTILITY
100 RECORDS THAT SET THE WORLD ON FIRE (WHEN NOBODY WAS LISTENING)

fastnbulbous.com/wire100/

 
ALSO SEE:

20TH CENTURY’S MOST FAVORABLY CRITICIZED ROCK ALBUMS

www.rocklistmusic.co.uk/20century.htm

8*PRESCRIPTION
ALL NATURAL CALMING PRODUCT
9*RUMOR PATROL

Louis CK: Donald Trump Is a ‘Lying Sack of S–t’
www.rollingstone.com/tv/news/louis-ck-donald-trump-is-a-lying-sack-of-s–t-w475047

10* LAGNIAPPE

MODERN LOVERS
ROADRUNNER
https://youtu.be/BgRYncR1Nog

SEX PISTOLS
ROADRUNNER
https://youtu.be/yl-y6rLj58Q

ugh ugh duh duh / duh duh / I dunno * laughs* the words / I dunno how it starts I’ve forgotten it / old on stop a second / stop stop stop / shout out how it starts whats the first line / Cook shouts 123456 / alright can you start at the begining we are / Roadrunner Roadrunner not half / I cant ear yer Paul / Roadrunner Roadrunner / Go one thousand mile an hour / er lala lala lah / with the radio on / Roadrunner Roadrunner / Go one thousand mile an hour / oh gawd I dunno it / I drove past the stop n shop / and I walk by the stop n shop / and I fed her past the stop shop / had the radio on / in touch with the modern world / I fell in love with the modern world / fell in love with London Glasgow / had the radio on / Roadrunner Roadrunner / Go one thousand miles an hour / felt in touch with the modern world / in love with the modern world / here we go now / im gonna walk twenty eight miles of barbed wire / so cold there darlin / fifty thousand watts of power / we go one thousand miles an hour / with the radio on / Roadrunner Roadrunner / oh gawd I dunno it / its far kin ridicu-larse / wish I had the words / Roadrunner Roadrunner / notice how Cook and Jones pick up the excitement here – fantastic / I go one thousand miles an hour / I felt in touch with the modern world / I felt love in the modern world / I love the sound of the pass around I know / Roadrunner I run one thousand miles an hour / running a charge an Im radio on / I dont breathe your world / Roadrunner Roadrunner / er get her get her her /jones solo / do we know any other people’s songs / oi brrrrrrrrr / oi do we know / oi do we know any other far kin songs that we could do

SEX PISTOLS
HOLIDAYS IN THE SUN
https://youtu.be/2Ah1JM9mf60

I gotta go over the wall,
I don’t understand this bit at all
Please don’t be waiting for me.

11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
MARIE CALLENDER’S ® DINNERS

Marie Callender’s dinners are made with “scratch gravy”.

I thought that was a 1960s garage band from Petaluma.


CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
931 ALWAYS ELVIS WINE

Perhaps you have heard the sales pitch for Always Elvis Wine: “The wine that Elvis would have drank–if He drank wine.”

THE INFORMATION #935 APRIL 7, 2017

THE INFORMATION #935
APRIL 7, 2017

Here is the difference between Dante, Milton, and me. They wrote about hell and never saw the place. I wrote about Chicago after looking the town over for years and years. –Carl Sandburg


WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER ELEVEN: PART EIGHTEEN: DAYS OF WRATH
“Now, listen real good Yob, and let me tell you something about hell,” said Count Victor Justin to Cadger Tandy.
They were walking outdoors town the slimy streets of Blowtown during a Spring drizzle that had resolved itself into a suspicious mist which hovered a full nine inches off the ground. 
“If such a place as Hades even exists. I’m not saying it does, and I’m not saying that it doesn’t. Now, as far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t take much of an imagination to picture heaven. The hobo spends half his time dreaming about cigarette trees and fucking rivers of whiskey, whilst the truly devout Yellof no doubt thinks it’s all about translucent Yobs in sissy white robes farting around on clouds and playing harps.  
“But all the wise Gees know that hell is where the action is. Sky-pilots and Bible-pounders can preach themselves hoarse about how it be a place of eternal hellfire, where the damned congregate with the even more damned, if such a condition can even exist. But I’m pretty sure that they’re full of horse apples–on this point as on every other. 
 
“Like I said before, I think the devil is little more than a vindictive old man. He hates to feel the sunshine. he hates to hear the chirruping birdies. he hates to look at pretty girls all dressed up in their spring finery. And, if you’ll pardon the expression, he cares not one hoot in hell for the doings of athletes, and politicians, and vaudeville performers. He glories instead in moss, and mildew, and cobwebs, and dust. He has a racking cough which never quite goes away. And he very seldom smiles. Hell is a serious business to the father of lies. I think that the devil is a proponent of  Culpae poenae par esto.  He always suits the punishment to fit the crime.  I’m with Dante on this one. Of course, to the devil, every normal impulse is a crime. Is spring when a young man’s fancy turns to love? That there is a crime. Does the ancient nobleman revel in an evening of learned talk, with copious draughts of Falernian wine? That too is a crime. Does a jolly old friar drink his Reisling and devour his roasted capon with great gusto? That’s a terrible terrible crime, for it means that the otherwise blameless monk is secretly a notorious tosspot and gluttonizer. 
 
“I suppose that even the Pope his own self is not exempt. Does he ever take his beanie off in front of the mirror and notice his thinning hairline, gone completely white? That right there is the sin of vanity, of which we are told there is no greater. I suppose that when he goes to hell he will be set upon by agnostics and beaten with fists. And all the while he’ll be saying ‘May Jesus Christ, the author and finisher of our faith, be with you by His power; and may the Immaculate Virgin, the destroyer of all heresies, be with you by her prayers and aid.’ And the devil will raise a great big haw haw haw at that. 
 
“Because I suspect that the sole pleasure that the devil gets down is hell is seeing Yellofs get their eternal come-uppance. That’s the devil’s sense of humor–those who had it bad on earth will have it even more lousy rotten down below. Right now, down there in hell, Cinder Dicks and Railroad Bulls are no doubt repeatedly being beaten by squadrons of angry hobos. Shyster lawyers are being buried under their weight of their law books, and the massive bundles of lying depositions from expert witnesses. 
 
“And that’s not all. I’ll bet that whores are forced to read edifying literature. Illiterates are trapped in rooms full of books, and no pictures. And bookworms are only allowed to read government documents pertaining to the agricultural output of New Caledonia in the year 1860.   
 
“Oh, I’m imagining that hell is actually a jolly old holiday destination, just so long as you’re not the one on the receiving end. 
 
“There is a genuine city street replete with a filthy alley where garrulous biddies who defile the early morning calm with their empty-headed chatter are forced to listen to a wax cylinder recording of their own cracked voices for all eternity.
 
“There is an infernal trolley car where rude fatsos who push their way ahead of the boarding line get dumped on their asses onto the freezing cold railroad tracks.
 
“There is a fancy first-run theater where Yellofs who cough, titter and belch during performances are forced to endure the sound and smell of a fat man ceaselessly eating and ceaselessly regurgitating rotten eggs and sausage.
 
“There is a perpetual carnival where vindictive Negroes pitch hardballs at the heads of dignified southern gentlemen.
 
“Laconic sign painters and unscrupulous bill posters are forced to swallow vast quantities of their own wheat paste and gold leaf.
 
“There’s a music store where tone-deaf youngsters play the all latest sentimental ballads–on the piano tuner’s teeth.
 
“There’s an office building, where dried-out little junior Clerks go to the pencil sharpener–and the sharpener grinds their heads to a fine point.
 
“There’s a grocery store where enormously fat swindling butchers and unscrupulous starveling shopkeepers grow thumbs so enormous they can no longer stand upright.
 
“In the lobby of Hell’s Hotel, furious baggage handlers and louche hotel bellboys are flung about and mauled by filthy snorting gorillas and savage mandrills. 
 
“In the St. Hell hospital, crabby sick nurses and clumsy candy stripers receive endless enemas and pinpricks from disinterested interns.
 
“And quack Doctors are compelled to swallow so many of their sugary placebos that they get sick to their stomachs.
 
“Out in the country, over t’ West Hell, traveling salesmen face the business end of a shotgun again and again and again, even though they never did get to fuck the farmer’s daughter.
 
“Itinerant Gypsies cheerfully while away the hours hammering twopenny nails into the hapless heads of vulgar carpenters and shiftless tinsmiths.
 
“And down on the farm, egg candlers and chicken sexers have bright lights shone in their eyes while they are roughly manhandled by spiteful ogres.
 
“And fruit pickers and chicken pluckers have every hair on their heads tweezered out–one by one.
 
“And that’s just in the part of hell where the tourists are allowed to go!”
 
1*SALUTATION
SPARKS
AMATEUR HOUR (1974) 

She can show you what you must do
To be more like people better than you

Amateur Hour goes on and on
When you turn pro you know she’ll lets you know
Amateur Hour goes on and on
When you turn pro you know
She tells you so

 
ALSO SEE:
SPARKS WITH ERASURE
AMATEUR HOUR
 
LES RITA MITSOUKO & SPARKS
HIP KIT
2*REFERENCE
HOPE IN A MAN NAMED TRUMP

www.bostonglobe.com/metro/2017/01/21/forgotten-forlorn-mass-town-finds-hope-man-named-trump/6yW2mXgV7ZmvBHnOcFwujJ/story.html

3*HUMOR
LENNY BRUCE
STRICTLY REVOLUTIONARY MIX
6* DAILY UTILITY
SUPERAMPHETAMINE BEAR
https://youtu.be/UhLbuuxr0cg

7*CARTOON
THE WORST COMIC BOOK OF ALL TIME

doctor-k100.blogspot.com/2010/09/worst-comic-book-of-all-time.html

8*PRESCRIPTION
THE NATURE OF KRISHNA CONSCIOUSNESS
9*RUMOR PATROL
MISSION: IMPEACHABLE

 

10* LAGNIAPPE
HELEN SHAPIRO
WALKIN’ BACK TO HAPPINESS
11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
LITTLE MARCY
“DOWN IN MY HEART”
The ghastliest puppet spectacle you’re ever likely to witness.

*11A BOOKS READ AND REVIEWED

AMERICA IN BLACK, WHITE & GRAY. FISCHER. ****
APPARAT: THE SINGLES COLLECTION. ELLIS. ****
ATMOSPHERICS. ELLIS. ****
AVENGERS: ENDLESS WARTIME. ELLIS. ***1/2
BATMAN 1. I AM GOTHAM. ***1/2
BIOGRAFIKTION. ***
BLACKGAS. ELLIS. ****
COMICS GONE APE. EURY. ***
COMPLETE POGO VOL. 1. KELLY. ****
CRIMINAL. BRUBAKER & PHILLIPS. ****
DECELERATE BLUE. RAPP & CAVALLARO. ****
DESOLATION JONES. ELLIS & WILLIAMS. ***1/2
DOWN. ELLIS. ****
THE EXTINCTION PARADE. BROOKS. ***1/2
EXTRAORDINARY X-MEN 2. APOCALYPSE WARS. ***1/2
THE FADE OUT. BRUBAKER & PHILLIPS. **** 
FELL. ELLIS. ****
FRANKENSTEIN’S WOMB. ELLIS. ****
GRAVEL 1 & 2. ELLIS. ****1/2
HARLEY QUINN 6. BLACK, WHITE & RED ALL OVER. ***
HOTWIRE: REQUIEM FOR THE DAD. PUGH & ELLIS. ***1/2
IGNITION CITY. ELLIS. ***1/2
INJECTION. ELLIS. ****
JUSTICE LEAGUE 1. THE EXTINCTION MACHINES. ***
MOCKINGBIRD 1. I CAN EXPLAIN. ***1/2
MOON GIRL & DEVIL DINOSAUR 2. COSMIC COOTIES. ***
THE MURDER OF SONNY LISTON. ASSAEL. ***1/2
NEWSPRINTS. XU. **1/2
ONE PUNCH MAN 11. ONE. ***1/2
THE OTHER PARIS. SANTE. ****1/2
THE PARAGRAPHS. BERLIN. ***1/2
PEPPERMINT TWIST. JOHNSON ET AL. ***1/2
RAINBOW’S END. KLEIN. ****
THE SECRET GARDEN. BURNETT. ****
STOP FORGETTING TO REMEMBER. KUPER. ***1/2
STREET POISON: THE BIOGRAPHY OF ICEBERG SLIM. GIFFORD. ****
SUGAR SKULL. BURNS. ****
SUPERMAN 1. SON OF SUPERMAN. ***1/2
THE THING ABOUT LIFE IS THAT ONE DAY YOU’LL BE DEAD. SHIELDS. ***1/2
ULTIMATE GALACTUS 1-3. ELLIS. ****
USERNAME: REGENERATED. SUGG. ***
WOLVERINE: ORIGIN 1 & 2. ***1/2
YOUNG AVENGERS: THE COMPLETE COLLECTION 1. ***1/2

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
929. ALI AND HIS GANG FIGHT MR. TOOTH DECAY
Said to be one of the worst records ever recorded. Hear for yourself.
 
930. ELVIS’ GREATEST SHIT
 
ALSO SEE:
HAVING FUN WITH ELVIS ON STAGE

MODERN WISDOM ​​NUMBER 222 APRIL 2017

MODERN WISDOM: AMERICA’S ONLY HUMOR MAGAZINE

​​NUMBER 222
APRIL 2017
Copyright 2017 Francis DiMenno
dimenno@gmail.com
http://www.dimenno.wordpress.com
 

1.THANKS A LOT, IMAGINARY DEITY–MY UNIVERSE IS RUINED

Evil won again today, leaving Good only five matches ahead for
domination of the universe.

Maan, like, The Lord really sucks, man!

I used to think Jhwh was schmart, but now I think he’s schtupid.

I used to think J. Edgar Jehovah was watching me from heaven.

I used to say ‘Yahweh or the Highway’.

I used to say, “You’d better show respect to Jehovah’s Fist/ Or he’ll
burn your messianic ass to a crisp.”

But, once again, my favorite God has let me down.

Douche-God has fucked up again.

I can’t believe I used to pray to that Guy.

I mean really–what has He done for us, lately?

Except coast for the last 1,980 years?

I can’t believe I give $500 a year to that Guy!

And to think that at one time I ate of His bread and drank of His wine!

I was even married in His church!

Well, I’m sick of being a sap.

I’m going to throw away all of my God memorabilia, including my poster of World Championship Lions v. Christians from 70 A.D.

I guess I should have paid closer attention to the disclaimer on the
crucifix: “Belief in the Divinity of Christ does not automatically
entitle user to experience eternal bliss in Heaven.”

OH–AND ANOTHER THING–What the fuck is/are Sauron/Abhorred doing pairing up Gandalf the Gray with Frodo Baggins in single coverage?


2. THEY LIVE
“THEY have infiltrated the system for so long that every word,
intonation, tone, meter, rhythm, melody, numeric measure has its
subterranean meaning and symbolism. Correspondingly, every operatic confluence of symbols, whether in a parade, play, movie, sporting event, political convention, anything televised, radio-waved or printed, commands a complex array of perverse forces of sex and death to concentrate power to the masters and weakness to the slaves.”
 
3. THE WORK OF DOGFISH GINGERY: AN ANNOTATED BIBLIOGRAPHY

Professor Gingery has spent nearly the whole of his career on his monumental and controversial work titled “Adacalypsis: An Attempt to Draw Aside the Veil of the Modern Household Gods; or An Inquiry Into the Origin of Ad Figures of all Languages and Nations, but Principally Restricted to the United States.”

To quote one critic, “Professor Gingery [is] convinced that a high civilization will someday be reconstructed out of the classic tropes of what modern civilization has utilized to replace the “household gods” of the ancients; namely, the ad figures which flourished at the height of the “commodity culture” of the United States, particularly between at the high tide of its empire, ca. 1914-1973.”

Gingery believed that these figures flourished during that era because they all expressed some compelling need of the American people for a fleeting sense of security in “a world gone seemingly mad with its proxy wars between leviathans” who, for the most part “merely fought in defense of the perpetuation of their own ‘national brand’.” (In this he was probably influenced by the work of English Formalists.) He controversially identifies some of these as “The fasces; the eagle, the rising sun; John Bull, mother Russia; Marianne, and that ancient symbol, the swastika (inverted).”

His research has lasted some 40 years. Another commentator has noted, “Influenced by the thinking of the Russian formalists, [Gingery] attempted to (1) establish the existence of a universal thematic “deep structure” of this peculiar, commodity-based quasi-religion, (2) to trace its development, and (3) sought to definitively limn its significance to the development of contemporary mores.” Gingery further believed “the evolution of these ad figures [gave] the scholar piercing insights into the knowledge of archetypal phenomena, which wholly held neither media nor commerce as intermediary in man’s perpetuation of the institution of the nuclear family.” (For instance, during any given era, characters such as the “Ajax Pixies” [ca. 1948-59] could, owing the changing circumstances, be entirely superseded by the powerful and omnicompetent “Ajax Knight” [1963].

Gingery significantly noted that such ad figures (or “devices”)–often taking form as a “fabulous half-man and half beast,” or as “powerful demigods,” or even as “golemesque animated commodities,”–all had in common the perpetuation of a form of “linguistic dislocation” which was “more characteristic of poetry than of myth, per se, although mythic elements provided a superstructure for the meaning embedded within [both the form and the “device”.]”

This highly sought after book is extremely rare. Three volumes (to date). Partial Contents:

VOLUME ONE
ORIGINS: TOWARD A GENERAL THEORY
Probable Origins of Commodity Branding in the Rome, France, the United Kingdom and later, the United States.
The First Rules of the Ancient Copywriters.
Symbols and Ideograms.
Palindromes, Puns, and Assonance, and their use.
Phallic and Yonic Simulacra.
Nature Gods.
The Use of The Cosmic (Sun, Moon, and Stars).
The Great God “Buy”.
Origin of the Adoration of the Brand.
The Word, the Press, and the Printer’s Devil.
Character of the Type-heavy Testament
Orthography and the Use of Space
The Onset of the Age of Advertising.
Meta-commerce–The Conversion of Commodities to Cash and Cash to Commodities

VOLUME TWO
MULTIPLICITY: TOWARD A FLUID TYPOLOGY
The Great Ur-ad Symbols (Michelin Man; Laughing Cow; Gold Dust Twins; Quaker Oats Man; The Dutch Boy, et al.)
Duality, Tension and Complexity (Buster Brown and His Dog Tige, Sailor Jack and his dog, Bingo; The Coppertone Girl)
The Satanic Influence (Underwood Deviled Ham Devil; Proctor & Gamble; Arm & Hammer; The Green Giant)
The Pagan Sprite (Speedy Alka-Seltzer; Snap Crackle & Pop; The Keebler Elves, The Ajax Pixies; The Campbell Twins)
The “Hero’s Quest” (Captain Tootsie; Man From Glad; the Ajax White Knight, Choo-Choo Charlie; Mr. Clean)
The Wise Counselor (Madge the Manicurist; Josephine the Plumber; Rosie the Waitress; The Man With The Texaco Star)
The Bountiful Mother (Chicken of the Sea Tuna; Land O’Lakes Indian Maiden; Mrs. Butterworth; Betty Crocker)
The Animal Friend (Laughing Cow; The Budweiser Clydesdales; Elsie the Cow)
Mythic Protectors (The Esso Tiger; the Eveready 9 Lives Cat; The Energizer Bunny)
The Omniscient Loki (Bozo; Ronald McDonald; Burger King; Mickey Mouse; Chuck E. Cheese)
The Mad Fool (Sonny the Cuckoo Bird; Trix Rabbit; Toucan Sam; The Quik Bunny)
The Self-Extinguishing Device (Ol’ Lonely, The Maytag Repair Man; I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter; Volkswagen)
The “Product Martyrs” (Mr. Whipple; Charlie the Tuna; Lucky Charms Leprechaun; Fred the Baker)
The Self-Abnegating Servant (Rastus the Cook; Aunt Jemima; Uncle Ben)
The Wandering Savant (Popeye; The Old Spice Sailor; Sugar Bear; Mr ZIP; The Marlboro Man)
The Maiden Harlot (Erin Esurance; The Swedish Bikini Team; The Starbucks Melusine; The Sun-Maid Raisin Girl)
The Sirens (Poppin’ Fresh, the Pillsbury Doughboy; The Snuggles Family Softener Bear; The Pine Sol Lady)
The Agon (The Hamburglar; the Cookie Crisp Crook; Frito Bandito; Punchy and Oaf)
Disease and Disgust (Dirty Sludge, Sticky Valve, Gummy Ring, Blackie Carbon; The Raid Insects)

VOLUME THREE
GENERALITIES: PARADOXES, CONUNDRUMS, INCONSISTENCIES
“Cover Their Faces With Shame, That They May Seek Your Name” (Psalms 83:16).
The Manichaean Paradox of ‘Brand X’
The Chosen Brand Versus The Leading Brand
Crossovers From Other Mythologies
The Ephemeral Nature of Branded Consumables
The Infant as the Adoration of All Stations
The Descent Into and Return From Hell
The Omnicompetent Sponsor
Advertisers Acknowledge More Than One “Sponsor”
The War of All Against All
Advertising Follows the Season(s)
Advertising Effaces Time
Disingenuous Conduct of Ad Creators
Dramatic Irony in the Commercial
“The People Shouted With a Great Shout, And The Wall Fell Down Flat” (Joshua 6:20)
1,432 pages, ISBN 1-67560-382-1, $79.00

 
SELECTIONS FROM THE ADACALYPSIS

Insights about trivial things are not always trivial insights.

To the man of discernment, subsidiary works are both fascinating and irritating.

Advertising now forms the mythopoeic superstructure of art, politics,
and narrative.

All advertisements bear political content.

All advertisements stand for any one advertisement.

The purpose of advertisements is to generate money where none
previously existed.

In advertising, the end justifies the means, making it the one art
form that is completely amoral.

Advertising is hardwired within ancient consciousness.

Advertising causes the neuroses which psychoanalysis arose to assuage.

Advertising undermines myths.

Advertising always dissolves the tropes of high literary expression into a mythopoeic much accessible to the lowest common denominator.

Advertising does not approach the truth—not even within a confidence interval.

Advertising is always closer to being a total lie than it is to being
the total truth.

Advertising is a tragic, self-defeating comedy constructed of hubris
and illusion.

The classic ad is a sophisticated chimera of sub-verbal assurances.

Modern advertising is a blatant perversion of the accepted meaning of
the commonplace sign.

The protagonist of all advertisements is a Greek hero-figure whose
fate is always resolved within a formula of circular logic.

Older advertising narratives recapitulated the Fichtean
Thesis-Antithesis-Synthesis formula. Newer ads use a systolic/dystolic
model.

Advertising is ancient, appearing at least as far back as Greek
inscriptional epigrams.

Advertising is not an art form. It is the burial and final interment of art.

Advertising follows the principle of the big lie: brazen falsehoods
leavened with enough truth to create an atmosphere of plausibility.

Fascism is impossible without propaganda, which is simply a more overt
form of advertising.

In advertising, the information which is left out is always more
significant than the information is which bundled into the message.

No ad ever includes even an obfuscating footnote unless the law demands it.

In public service advertising, it is always the message which would
ordinarily be footnoted which is foregrounded.

In 1984 I coined the term anadvertising to indicate the opposite of
advertising based on oppositional research. Perhaps now its time has
come.

The purpose of anadvertising is to rectify the language, abolish cant,
and, ultimately, to destroy advertising altogether.

Advertising is the symptom, but human nature is the cause of our credulity.

All competing brands are, at best, well-meaning thieves.

If you are not for the brand, you are against the brand.

Whosoever does not bear the mark of the brand can neither buy nor sell.

Babylon is alive and well.

Brand X is a false idol.

That which is not branded should not be consumed.

Brands are “nice things”.

There is no entity so big or so small that it cannot be branded.

All mass gatherings are branded.

A brand was formerly a mark of shame; it is now a mark of distinction.

An item which has not been branded does not exist…in the world of commerce.

Brands inhabit a hierarchical geography.

Previously undistinguished items take on a totemic significance once
branding has been applied: e.g., bottled water.

In the world of branding, there is no such thing as a distinction
without a difference.

Humans are merely mortal. Brands abide.

Brands, in the form of corporations, have the same rights as humans.

Brand wars inflict commercial casualties.

All choice is simply a matter of choice between branded commodities.

Generic brands are themselves grim parodies of brands.

Brands will only negate themselves in the interest of moving more
product, and thereby ensuring the viability of the brand. E.g., store
brands.

Brands recapitulate phylogeny.

Brands metastasize.

Health is a brand—and on the brand’s terms.

Brands are the biggest tent.

To question the primacy of the brand is at best, an agnostic heresy
which can be countenanced only in the context of a preferable brand.

Brand atheism is verboten in the theology of Mammon.

The ammunition may be generic, but the gun is always branded.

Brand fetishism is the hallmark of a degraded mythos.

A word will mean what a brand decides it will mean. “The question is
which is to be master—that is all.”

The brand experience is totalizing in that it presupposes membership
in a clan that abides by the verities of consumer culture.

In consumer culture, all physical activity is sought out rather than
constituting an organic condition of living.

Physical exercise is best experienced in the context of shopping for brands.

The making of a family of consumers is the only recognized and valid
form of artistic expression.

If you forego the family experience, you can nonetheless become a part
of the family of brands.

Brands abhor cognitive dissonance unless it is utilized in the service
of promoting the brand.

Hunting is a primitive throwback to an archaic state–unless it is
bargain hunting.

Wealthy people bargain-hunt, but they prefer to say they hunt for quality.

A philanthropist brands himself as charitable.

Half a brand is better than none.

Participating in the world of brands has an etiquette all its own.

In the branded economy, a refusal to waste disposable goods is
regarded as a neurosis.

Ad characters are nearly always happy.

Ad copy encoded in a non-intuitive tongue harms the brand.

It’s not what a commercial says but how it makes you feel that is
important. And what you feel and what that feeling makes you do is the
ultimate result-based outcome.

Meaningless statistics are a primary weapon of all marketing strategy
and forms the basis of all logic which it imposes upon the consumer.

The Old Fishing Hole and other archetypal American places are now brands.

Money establishes a nation’s brand profile.

Cereal boxes are the most eagerly devoured text of the schooled society.

Advertising worships children as future customers while at the same time treating them as transitory, fugitive commodities.

The prototypical ad-man was probably a donkey-driver.

Christ rode a branded ass into Jerusalem.

If ad-men had the chance to rename all our major cities they would do so in a heartbeat.

Nicknames are just another type of brand.

Rosy-fingered dawn and other Homeric epithets could easily be used to describe branded products; e.g., “Enzyme-active Axion”; “self-styling Adorn”.

The poet who becomes a copy-writer has a head start; rhyme and rhythm are nothing new or strange to him.

If it can be commodified, it can be sold. If it can be sold, it can be commodified.

Prostitutes in ancient times embedded ads in the heels of their shoes. If we are not utilizing dead space for advertising, we are not advancing.

You can lead a man to market but you mustn’t make him think.

Cash is the color that goes with everything.

Ads would always use exclusively non-verbal copy if they could.

Advertising is the Stalinization of commodities.

Someday, all people will become acutely anxious in the absence of advertising and branded commodities. Until that day finally arrives, there is work to be done!

Ad language is totalizing in the manner of Orwellian Newspeak. Once it becomes ubiquitous, no non-commodity related thoughts will even be possible.

Celebrities who sin will fall from brand heaven and enter brand limbo until they may be safely restored to the brand pantheon.

Typefaces are runes.

The Old Testament in one word: Obey. The New Testament in one word: Love.

Not all weirdoes ignore brands, but all who ignore brands are weirdoes.

The brand is not bad in its place, but its place is now everywhere.

There is no escaping the brand: only the attempt to escape, and the illusion of success.

The smell of home is more and more becoming the smell of familiar brands.

Aren’t you glad you use dial? Don’t you want to kill all those strangers who do not?

All communists, terrorists, anarchists and insane people are Brand X.

Seasonal variations ultimately serve the purpose f brands.

After the revolution, the French sought to rebrand the months of the year.

Notice that to this day, August is branded a de facto Vacation Month.

Toward a Branded Year:

January: Theraflu. February: Hallmark March: Nike. April: H&R Block. May: United. June: Viagra. July: Uncle Sam. August: Crayola. September: Bic. October: Libby’s. November: Perdue. December: Santa.

Occupations are brands. You either work for a corporate brand, you are in a branded occupation, or both.

Hate god, but never hate the real God: Money.

A sound-bite is a bullet point is a still-frame.

A spoken lead is a paragraph is a panel sequence is a seven-second series of frames.

In a post-literate society, a picture makes you feel more than a thousand words ever can.

Television, movies, the internet are streams. Still-frames are a pool of still water.

The comic book page, usually consisting of no more than nine panels, is the basic unit of all graphic literature; the individual panel is the irreducible building block.

You are where you eat.

There is something to be said for certain restaurants as locales for consumer power.

The condition of food before it reaches the plate is also a brand choice. To the discerning palate, there is a difference; to the subconscious semiotician, there is a distinction.

All tourist locations are branded.

Advertising is effective because the great mass of men are haunted every day by magical thinking.

Magical thinking is a form of obsessive-compulsive disorder. Branded products are magical charms and amulets which our conscious minds may disbelieve but our subconscious minds draw comfort from owning.

Advertising makes thinking into a conditioned response.

Neuro-linguistic programming existed long before there was a name for it. Its prototype is the hieroglyph. The oral tradition, the stage play, and the rituals of religious worship are all precursors to modern advertising.

Advertising relies heavily upon neuro-linguistic programming—as do movies, television, the internet, and most print media.

The discoveries of zero and of the vacuum were revolutionary in their implications for control.

Neuro-linguistic programming subjugates human thought just as surely as animal strength subjugates weaker prey.

Jokes, proverbs, and church bells are three of the most potent forms of neuro-linguistic programming.

The sun which lights our world is always one. It is the gold standard of neuro-linguistic programming.

The sun was the first neuro-linguistic programming, followed by the moon and stars, and eventually by the “god” who “created” them.

The surveillance state is as old as Tiberius, but never until the last 50 years have states had the technology and the will to exploit the potentialities of the surveillance state to their fullest.

The occult is everywhere. Occult simply means hidden, and, as we all know, nature loves to hide.

Light and dark: Our second binary code. Being and nothingness: The first.

Advertising is the key to the inhibitory forebrain.

Dying is the only legitimate means of opting out of brand preference.

Monogamy is simply brand loyalty by another name.

Modern parody is a reward for distinction. It does not tear down; it builds up. Call it what it is: Travesty.

The more imaginary the distinction between products, the more elaborate the superstructure of distinctions constructed to differentiate between them.

Nowadays, tattoos and piercings are merely self-branding.

Handsome is a brand.

Orphan commodities seek branding from their retail outlets—for instance, a package of ground beef, which might be from dozens of cows but which is sold under the name of the store.

Dog breeds are among the earliest brands.

The comic book hero is a brand.

In any given era, comic books will either sell social change or social stasis.

Weeds are Brand X.

If the people could speak as with one voice, they would say “Let Us.” If the law could speak as with one voice, it would say “You may not.”

The law is a branded commodity.

All the best brands outlive a lifetime.

There are no heretical brand practices. The advertiser’s motto is “whatever works”.

Look on my works, ye mighty…and buy.

Scholarly apparatuses and peer review are a branding process like any other.

Such is the fine fancy of the world that we lay our faults upon…a brand.

Where there is brand ignorance, let us sow brand awareness.

Every newly-arriving ethnic group is Brand X until it proves itself otherwise.

Brand X is false brand consciousness.

The promise of instant wealth is the most seductive ad gimmick of all.

In the ad world, wealth is happiness, and unearned wealth is the supreme goal.

Advertising signs are now the signs that truly matter.

Florida is the perpetual sunshine brand. Vermont is the winter brand.

We once tracked animals. Now we track bargains.

Even a schizophrenic society cares about its brand of medication.

Buying day old bread is the modern version of tracking antelope in the heat-baked tropical plains.

Limited-time bargains are like coyote tracks in the desert. Beware the shifting sands of deceptive time.

Hallucinogenic Siberian mushroom piss was probably the first branded drug.

Dumpster diving is the modern version of gathering animal scat to burn for fuel.

Aliens might easily mistake the human brand for the baboon brand—we both share opposable thumbs. Nor would they be far wrong.

Signs and signals are among the earliest forms proving that it “pays” to advertise.

What were petroglyphs if not early billboards for the tribal brand?

A child will paint the outline of his own hand. A man will trace the outline of his own brand.

Advertising communicates to us with the outline of our own blood.

The first branded products were possibly the clay envelopes in which counting tokens were sealed, circa 3400 B.C.

Pictographic writing seems to betoken cultures at the beginning and end of their historical cycles.

An alphabet is a trans-national brand, so the Russians, Chinese, Arabs and Americans will always be in an ill-disguised competition.

Writing arose simply as a means to enable commercial transaction to be encoded.

Chinese script arose from use in divination, to use for religious purposes, to use for proclamations, for use in official text, to general use. So we may also trace the rise of branded advertising itself.

The first numeric systems evolved some 30,000 years ago to keep track of animals killed. Nowadays, numbers are nowhere so useful as when they advertise body counts.

The UN is the ultimate generic brand.

Avant-garde music is not only unpredictable, but it doesn’t sell beer. Strike two.

All ads say the same thing: “Live it up.”

All ads also quote Shakespeare: “Question not the need.”

Why should Americans be scornful of corn? It is their totem vegetable.

Brand X can also serve as antagonist to a heroic product in a scripted drama., e.g., coffee nerves and Postum; insect pests and Raid; mucus and mucinex.

The product is always the hero of the narrative, but it is the consumer who must embark upon the hero’s quest.

Southerners require different products. That’s why they’re Southerners.

True art is made by artists. Commodified art is fashioned by craftsmen.

An architect’s delays are less objectionable than the contractor’s.

In a commodified world, dead flowers say more than live plants.

Thanksgiving for the puritan, Christmas for the civilized.

The advertising hall of fame is full of ingenious fiends.

Enabling addiction is not only the guiding rationale of advertising; it is the only rationale.

One way or another, we always pay for what we get.

The Mohawk and the facial tattoo date back to the late Minoan period. Nothing new under the sun.

Unlike the writers of hieroglyphs, the designers of advertisements make few arbitrary decisions based solely on aesthetic grounds.

Advertising always displays the same distinctive body language as ancient pictographs.

Ads that promise everything will take everything way. That is their occult power.

The crocodile is a symbol of democracy.

Ads promise us a love beyond words.

We look at ads for the same reason that we like to look at ourselves.

Ads are simply a commodified form of divination.

Advertising is not quite a heretical sect, but something more than a simple cult.

The ad is the gnostic crucified serpent as magical charm.

Advertising is simply human alchemy.

Like alchemy, advertising uses esoteric codes to represent certain elements: e.g., white teeth signify sex appeal.

Newton died from mercury poison. So, too, will the mind of the consumer perish from these alchemical practices.

In Kabbalistic advertising there are two facets of the product: The product as manifested in creation, and the product as ineffable brand beyond all human comprehension.

APPENDIX

“A magazine is simply a device to induce people to read advertising.” –James Collins

“In the factory we make cosmetics; in the drugstore we sell hope.”–Charles Revson

“You can tell the ideals of a nation by its advertisements.”–Norman Douglas

“Mass demand has been created almost entirely through the development of advertising.”–Calvin Coolidge

“Advertising is an environmental striptease for a world of abundance.” –Marshall McLuhan

“Advertising degrades the people it appeals to; it deprives them of their will to choose.”–C. P. Snow

“Advertisers in general bear a large part of the responsibility for the deep feelings of inadequacy that drive women to psychiatrists, pills, or the bottle.”–Marya Mannes

“Society drives people crazy with lust and calls it advertising.” –John Lahr

“History will see advertising as one of the real evil things of our time. It is stimulating people constantly to want things, want this, want that.” –Malcolm Muggeridge

“I can not think of any circumstances in which advertising would not be an evil.”–Arnold Toynbee

“Advertising – a judicious mixture of flattery and threats. “–Northrop Frye

“The art of publicity is a black art.”–Learned Hand

“Advertising is ‘an evil service’.” —Aneurin Bevan

“Time spent in the advertising business seems to create a permanent deformity like the Chinese habit of foot-binding. ”
–Dean Acheson

“Advertising has annihilated the power of the most powerful adjectives.”–Paul Valéry

“Advertising is the modern substitute for argument; its function is to make the worse appear the better “–George Santayana

“If we define pornography as any message from any communication medium that is intended to arouse sexual excitement, then it is clear that most advertisements are covertly pornographic.”–Philip Slater

“Advertising is the rattling of a stick inside a swill bucket.”–George Orwell

THE INFORMATION #934 MARCH 31, 2017

THE INFORMATION #934
MARCH 31, 2017
Copyright 2017 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com

Heaven goes by favor. If it went by merit, you would stay out and your dog would go in.–Mark Twain

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER ELEVEN: PART SEVENTEEN: DAYS OF WRATH
When Cadger Tandy next met up with Count Victor Justin, it was at Holly Park, in early spring. The orange sun squatted like an old gold coin on the cold horizon. Squirrels as black as soot were scampering high in the bare and overarching branches of blighted trees. The Count seemed somewhat the worse for strong drink, and his usually meticulous clothing was somewhat mussed, as though he had narrowly escaped a barroom brawl (as indeed he had).
 
“Mr. G. God Almighty must be laffin’ his little ass off, Yob, to see his Jewish Messiah being worshiped–by folks as hates th’ Jews,” said Count Justin Victor–seemingly apropos of nothing. Except that the Count seemed curiously disinclined to let the thread of the previous conversation devolve further into mere carny anecdotes, which he considered unworthy of a man of his demonstrated intellect. 
 
“In fact, there’s a lot of things about this stupid old world that most likely set Big G. to chuckling to Hisself. I’m betting that jolly old Jehovah laughed like hell during the siege of Jerusalem. “Come on out,’ says what’s his name, the one after Vespasian–shit, I always forget his name–Titus! ‘Come on out, says old Tight-ass, and we’ll spare your life.’ ‘Nothing doing,” says the Jews. And so he starves them out. And even after that, old Tight-ass, he says, ‘Now don’t you go burning down their temple.’ But some Roman soldier gets to playing with matches and 6,000 Jews burn up in the twinkling of an all-seeing eye. Now, what kind of God would countenance those kinds of doings? I’ll tell you, Yob–a God who likes to laugh at the queerest things. 
 
“Not to be sacrilegious or like that. Lordie knows I set a bad enough example as it is to a green sprout such as yourself. You still be saving that money I’ve been handing to ye? Good-o. Where are you hiding it, Yob? Not under your mattress or anywhere like that, I hope. No? Good. Bravo. Bravissimo. Burying it somewhere out-of-doors is best. No, I don’t want to know where you’ve squirreled it away. If I want to borrow me some, I’ll ask you straight out. ‘There is honor among thieves.’ But don’t you believe that lie. Never take the word of a thief. ‘Nor thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor extortioners, shall inherit the kingdom of God.’ Haw! That’s because they’re all having one hell of a swell time right here and now–in the kingdom o’man!
 
“Like I told you before–trust no one. Given the right circumstances, even your ane Mammy might sell you out and cut you dead–in the shadow of the Gallis Pole. It sounds pitiless, and hard, but always remember this, Yob–chances are that if it sounds hard, why, then, it’s God’s own truth. So don’t let ’em kid you, kid. Don’t let ’em kid yuh.
 
“Now, you would think that an all-knowing God would protect the most humble of his critters, but all ye have to do is look out in the street and see that life is hell for horses, and pushcart merchants, and icemen. And coal-wagon drivers and streetcar conductors and virtually any drudge who earns his bread through the sweat of his brow.  Why do some men get to laze the afternoons away while others are under the lash? Maybe it’s due to the fact that God isn’t good, but merely great. Maybe God throws trouble our way so we’ll have something to pray to him about. Or maybe God simply has a peculiar notion of what’s funny. You do know that in the Amazon, babies are routinely eaten by soldier ants. Stripped clean to the bone in forty seconds. And what can you do about it? You can’t shoot an ant. They don’t give a shit. They’ll swarm all over you and eat the wooden stock of your gun even as you’re shootin’ at them. Did you know that in Saudi Arabia they still buy and sell slaves? That in deepest darkest Africa there’s all sorts of awful worms that it would make you sick just to hear about? And if you visit the Ganges River, you’re sure to come home with cholera. Life is cheap in the Orient, they say, but it ain’t worth a damn in Russia, neither. It’s the law of the knout in that rotten icebox, where Cossacks will rape your daughter and laugh in your beardless face. Nor are you safe at home in Serbia nor Bosnia nor Herzegovina. To say nothing of Montenegro, Macedonia, and Albania. Or any other of them bohunk countries. What does it say about Europe when a man would rather eat out of garbage cans here–than try to raise a family over there? 
 
“As a matter of fact, though, we Americans needn’t be so smug. There’s probably places in old Mexico where you can buy a baby girl for the price of a bottle of Mescal. And Eskimos are well-known for their habit of shipping old granpaw out on an ice floe when he starts to become forgetful and has lost all his teeth. And down south they got hookworm and pellagra and all sorts of other delightful diseases–not to mention lynching bees. Meanwhile, up north–well, our own good old Captain John Smith said it best: He who does not work shall not eat. 
 
“All this makes me think that man had something to do with the creation of God. How could it be otherwise? A God as arbitrary and cruel as any savage? No–wait–nowadays even a savage doesn’t go around bashing out the brains out of pore innocent babies. Unless provoked. And people always say “This was God’s will, and while we don’t always understand why God does what God does, we must accept God’s will, or else he may smite us.” Haw! He sounds like a real bully-boy to me! 
 
“Me, I think the answer is relatively simple. God is playing the long con. He’s conditioning us to put up with awful stuff so as to make us stronger and more fit to face the challenges of this brave new world. Sorta like the strongman Sandow, only with machinery and dynamite instead of dumbbells and medicine balls. 
 
“I’m telling you, Yob, that kingdom of God must be one hell of a place. What with all the dead cats and dead dogs mewing and barking up a storm, and all the dead horses leaving enormous turds on the streets that are paved with gold, and all the dead babies a goo-goo-ing and shitting every which where, not to mention all the martyrs having a good old time with some wine that Jesus made out of a barrel of rainwater, and all the cripples throwing away their crutches and trusses. And all the dead virgins indulging in orgies. I’m telling you, heaven must be a place of wickedness. I’m betting that hell is a bit less rowdy. Austere, even. From what I know of the Devil, I’m betting he’s a conservative. A real stuffed shirt. Doesn’t believe in fun. Doesn’t know what fun is. Then again, most men don’t–when they get to be a certain age. The Devil is an old man, and he runs his plantation like an Oriental despot. That much is certain. 
 
“Whereas heaven? Heaven is most likely run…by anarchists. Celestial nihilists–with a real crazy sense of humor.”
 
1*SALUTATION
THE OUTLETS
CAN’T CHEAT THE REAPER
2*REFERENCE
GREAT BARRIER REEF R.I.P.
3*HUMOR
JIM BACKUS
THE DIRTY OLD MAN
4*NOVELTY
SEARCH WIKILEAKS
 
5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
6* DAILY UTILITY
10* LAGNIAPPE
HOLY MODAL ROUNDERS
HAPPY SCRAPPLE DADDY POLKA
11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
ACTION ITEMS ON YOUR RADICAL PROFESSOR’S LIBERAL AGENDA by MARIKA SEIGEL
https://www.mcsweeneys.net/articles/action-items-on-your-radical-professors-liberal-agenda
CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
927. MARVIN JELLO; THE COMIC STRIP IN WHICH HE DEBUTS AND DIES
928. Don’t Plant Those “Bee-Friendly” Wildflowers Cheerios Is Giving Away

THE INFORMATION #933 MARCH 24, 2017

THE INFORMATION #933
MARCH 24, 2017
Copyright 2017 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
 

I love the name of honor, more than I fear death. –Julius Caesar

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER ELEVEN: PART SIXTEEN: DAYS OF WRATH
Young Cadger Tandy, a relative innocent at the age of 14,  saw that Count Victor Justin was in (what passed for him as) a jovial mood, and so made bold to ask of him a question which had been plaguing him since the two of them first met.
 
“‘Count,’ what’s your real name?”
 
The Count gave him a long blistering look and then countered with, “What’s your real name, Yob.”
 
“Don’t rightfully know. Jack, I guess. But everybody’s called me ‘Cadger’ ever since I can remember.”
 
“Well, the same goes for me. Everyone’s either been calling me ‘Count’–or ‘No-Count,’–ever since I started into being with it and for it. Mooch around with hoboes long enough and they’ll always hang some kind of monicker on you. Most of them are kind of lazy, you know, or else they wouldn’t of become hoboes in the first place. Nature’s natural-born anarchists are what they really are, as they are dedicated, first and foremost, to the great ‘I,’ and they therefore choose the life of a traveling bummer because they can’t stand to be penned up and forced to live in any other way. Y’see? And men like this, they don’t want their real names to be spoken out loud, ever, or even known. Chances are, they are on the run from a wife and kiddies, or, even more likely, from John Law, and are wanted for innumerable depredations. Y’see, ‘Jack,’ knowing a Yellof’s real name gives you some sort of unearthly hold over the Yob. I’m not prone to believing in most superstitions, but I do believe that knowing a person’s actual name is a key to owning his soul. Why, look at Rumblestiltskin if you need an example. 
 
“Y’see, once you have his true name, you have the individual’s essential nature. Once you have his true name, you can dig deep into the person’s skull and get him or her to divulge all sorts of personal information. Things that they done that they never told nobody about before–not even their sainted white-haired Mammies. My cellmate in prison, for instance–Bob ‘Snorky’ Papke. He wanted to impress me with all his bad deeds, assuming that on that basis he’d win my respect. So he confessed to blowing sky high a ‘soulful’ circus clown in Cincinnati. It goes almost without saying that he attempted to exonerate himself. He was not the kind of guy who went around killing clowns for fun. At least, not most of the time. ‘It was either him or me,’ he said. 
 
“Y’see, my cellmate ‘Snorky’ was traveling with the Circus when he saw this Yellof who billed himself as Bumbo the Wonderful Clown get into a big argument with the Calabrian Strong Boy, who started yelling insults at him from across the lot, which Bumbo answered back in a harsh, braying voice. 
 
“Weakling!” says the strong boy.
 
“Jolthead!” says the clown.
 
And back and forth like that.
 
“Scavenger!” says the strong boy.
 
“Whoremonger!” says the clown.
 
“Sachelmouth!”
 
“Bullethead!”
 
“Vagabond!”
 
“Jailbird!”
 
“Ragpicker!”
 
“Mountebank!”
 
“Simp!”
 
“Invert!”
 
“And then the strong boy stroked his mustaches and purred that the clown was a ‘Finnochio.’
 
“At which point, Bumbo then offered to fight the strong boy, who only laughed. He started slapping at the strong boy’s face, and the strong boy only laughed some more. But then he picked up a big wooden piledriver and took a swing at the strong boy’s noggin, and in the process nearly took off his head, and the next thing you know, the Strong Boy is got him in a chicken wing and Bumbo is lost the fight. The strong boy was a chucklehead–a good natured sort of sap, and little more than a big kid himself. But that Bumbo was a mean one. An innocent-looking whiteface Joey, all sweetness and light on the outside, and especially when he was performing in the circus ring to amuse the kiddies, but a man with a truly evil temper whenever he wasn’t in the limelight. When he was backstage, whenever he spoke, all he would do is grumble and curse, and you would swear his breath was made of acid and that where he spat the grass didn’t grow. He had a midget butler–a Negro who he used to lash with a horsewhip whenever the shrimper didn’t move fast enough to suit him. And he had a cigar-smoking turtle–the only cigar-smoking turtle in the world, and the only critter in the world he ever loved–and he ended up EATING him. Like I said–he was a mean, mean man.  
 
“Bumbo sat and stewed for a few weeks after the strong boy had bested him. Eventually, he left the Circus and got a job with a carny, but later on he came back to the lot on a moonless night after everyone was asleep, and bushwhacked the Calabrian Strong Boy with an iron crowbar, and stove his head in. He killed the Strong Boy, dragged his body to a deserted part of the lot–and then he took a butcher’s knife from the cook shack and stripped him right down to the bone, like a barracuda. And he fed the meat to the big cats. How’s that for twisted, eh?”
 
“Now, somehow, my cellmate saw most of what transpired, and the Clown caught him peeping and knew who he was, and so his life wasn’t worth a plugged nickel until he dispatched the clown. The way he went about was actually quite straightforward. He went to the carny one night and dropped a stick of lit dynamite under the clown’s trailer. It blew both the clown and the trailer to kingdom come. The police was called in and asked him why he done it. He played dumb, and said he only did it to get back at the Clown for playing a practical joke on him, and he didn’t mean to kill poor old Bumbo. Surprisingly enough, the police bought it, or pretended to, and Bob Papke went down the river for five years on a charge of involuntary manslaughter–instead of pulling twenty-to-life for cold-blooded murder. Which it actually was. Though a good shyster with all the facts probably could of argued self-defense. But Bob Papke was a person of no special accomplishments, who had no connections–in fact, if he wasn’t a Carny, he probably would have been a bum, and probably is now, if he ever made it out of stir withouten being carried out–in a pine box.  
 
“Bob Papke told me all about the murder right off the bat, but what he didn’t tell me about, until much later, is that he was a Jewish anarchist, and a morphodite, and that him and the Clown were getting drunk and tickling each other’s fancy, so to speak. I suppose you’re old enough to know the barefaced truth about men who like to–err, who like to–umm, who have a hankering for men instead of women. Lots of tough guys go in for that. You see, Bumbo the Wonderful Clown had probably been having an affair with the Calabrian Strong Boy, but the Clown broke it off for some reason, maybe because the Strong Boy had trouble getting it up, but, anyway, the Strong Boy was plenty steamed. This is just a supposition on my part. You never really know with those Calabrians. They’re just a half step up the ladder from a Sicilian–who in turn is a mongrel barely a half step up from a Greek or a Turk, or even an ape. But don’t quote me.”
 
1*SALUTATION
3*HUMOR
WORST ROCK STARS EVER
Jobriath’s album: “like a statue of a retard carved out of white gold.”
 
SEE ALSO:
THE SEVEN MOST IMPOSSIBLE ROCK STARS TO DEAL WITH
 
TWENTY OF THE MOST DRUGGED-OUT ROCK STARS
4*NOVELTY

The Pope once called for all cats to be killed.
esoterx.com/2014/02/20/nine-lives-are-not-enough-inquisitions-cat-massacres-and-the-black-death/

8*PRESCRIPTION
WINTER DE-ICER

You can make your own de-icer fluid at home by mixing three parts vinegar to one part water in a spray bottle. Another option is to mix a bottle of rubbing alcohol with three drops of dish soap in your spray bottle.
http://www.yourmechanic.com/article/how-to-get-ice-off-your-windshield-by-jason-unrau

 9*RUMOR PATROL
DR. WERTHAM ON WONDER WOMAN

“The Lesbian counterpart of Batman may be found in the stories of Wonder Woman…,” [Wertham] observed. “The homosexual connotation of the Wonder Woman type of story is psychologically unmistakable. The Psychiatric Quarterly deplored in an editorial the ‘appearance of an eminent child therapist as the implied endorser of a series . . . which portrays extremely sadistic hatred of all males in a framework which is plainly Lesbian’.”
arstechnica.com/tech-policy/2010/08/papers-of-the-dr-evil-of-comics-now-open/

10* LAGNIAPPE
FLOWERS
AFTER DARK

“He fumbled through my bra strap/While I prayed for whispered nothings/He was working on his technique/While I tried to be a vamp//He tried to be a playboy/And I tried to be a playgirl/But he couldn’t stay hard, no/Couldn’t stay hard no … SO … PUT … ABBA … ON … INSTEAD!!!”

https://youtu.be/xhVbmcOM8Sw

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

BEST AND WORST TIPPERS (ACCORDING TO QUORA)

The best tippers:
Single parents
Drug dealers
Drunk people of any nationality
Police officers
Military personnel
Paramedics / fire fighters
 
The worst tippers:
Blacks

Asians (both far east and southeast, although Indians have gotten the worst reputation)
Christian church goers
Women in a group
Teenagers
Jews
Europeans

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.

925. SENATOR RALPH SHORTEY (R-OK)

“The only way I can lose this election is if I’m caught in bed with either a dead girl or a live boy”.–Edwin Edwards

THE INFORMATION #932 MARCH 17, 2017

THE INFORMATION #932
MARCH 17, 2017
Copyright 2017 FRANCIS DIMENNO
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
 

Klieg, Klieg, Klieg-Du bist a Nar. You are smart, smart. smart – but you are not so smart! – a Yiddish saying

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER ELEVEN: PART FIFTEEN: DAYS OF WRATH
“It recently occurs to me Yob,” said Count Victor Justin to Cadger Tandy, “that I haven’t visited the Seven Stars Saloon in quite a spell.”
 
It was about 11pm, and the two of them were walking around the unlit cobblestoned streets of Blowtown, illuminated solely by a pale three-quarter moon and innumerable stars concealed by clouds. In spite of the dim lateness of the hour, the Count feared no robbers; he carried with him not only a gun, but also a stout walking stick with a razor strategically embedded in the tip.
 
“So tell me–how are the Loochers there still getting along? Is Coughy McFatterson still spreading his cold germs? Is Tipsy Smith still watering the drinks and mopping the glasses with a filthy rag?”
 
Cadger Tandy informed him that Tipsy Smith no longer bothered washing the beer mugs, so that each had a rime of dried beer froth along the lip.
 
“Haw haw haw! Is that so? How about Adam O’Day–is he still cutting his shines and capers, with his corny jokes and childish pranks? Is Mayor Lobhar still slumming there, in search of rough trade?”
 
Cadger Tandy answered in the affirmative on both counts. 
 
“And how about old Musky Dan? Is he still making new friends? Cursing the Nigras and the Hunkies and the Polacks and the Spanish Wops and the Eye-talian Wops? And especially the Chosen People? I swan, that man sees Jews Jews Jews everywhere. Typical superstitious Irishman, him. Always ranting on about how Christ Himself was no Jew; rather, he was one-hundred and five per cent a ‘Hwite Man,’ and if he didn’t speak perfect English, he surely could of.
 
“It always tickles me pink to hear him ranting about loving Christ and hating the Jews all at the same time–just think of it–a Jewish God whose worshippers persecute the Jews and screw them in the ground every chance they get. The irony is delicious. If you’ll pardon the expression.
 
“Of course, there’s always the infinitesimal possibility that Musky Dan is right–maybe Jews are everywhere. I don’t really care one way or another. I’ve been injured by many a Jew, sure; but I’ve also been injured by many a gentile. 
 
“Jews–everywhere? I rather doubt it. That’s the kind of fevered talk you hear from people who also see anarchists under every bed; and who are convinced that McKinley was laid on his bier as a result of some vast mysterious conspiracy; and that the San Francisco earthquake was actually engineered by the Army and the Navy to drive up the price of real estate. 
 
“Nay–if’n  the Jews were really so powerful as he and others like him like to say, wouldn’t they band together to forbid such talk? As it happens, Jews the world over are constantly being physically attacked, so I don’t ken how they’re supposed to be so powerful. If they were, in fact, the sneaking heathen devils and Christ Killers they’ve been portrayed as, then why don’t they go to Russia and free their oppressed brethren from the lash and the knout? Or why don’t they go to France and do something about the Frenchies as gave pore old Dreyfuss such a hard time? Or why don’t they go to Ireland and–well, do SOMETHING? 
 
“Of course, old Musky Dan would say that the Jews have brought it on themselves–pretending to be a religion, when actually, all they are is a tribe. He claims that even if you baptize a Jew, he remains a Jew. Why? Because he’s a Jew by race and not by religion or temperament.  According to Musky Dan, the Jew could be from one of the finest old families who came here generations ago–and he would still be nothing more than a Jew. 
 
“Me, I don’t care about such distinctions. It’s all the same old poppycock. A Jew can be swindled just as easily as a Gentile, and that’s all I’m concerned with. Of course, when you try pointing out to old Musky Dan that there are a lot of Jewish philanthropists, then he’ll grunt that all of them are little better than robbers, and that they regard such so-called public generosity as merely a cost of doing business, and that they give out pennies so they can steal thousands of dollars more, with their shoddy merchandise and sharp business practices, and hoarding lint. You try telling them that there are plenty of gentiles who engage in the same shenanigans, and he’ll say that they’re merely doing it in order to be competitive with the thieving Jews. Every argument he manages to muster always circles back to the perfidy of the Jews as being the reason behind everything that’s wrong in the world. Who writes the cheap pulp novels that encourage youngsters to become stagecoach robbers? The Jews in the newspaper publishing industry. Who writes the pornographic literature that encourages young men to adopt a life of dissipation and lechery? The Jews in the book publishing industry. Who prescribes the infernal pain-killers, cough mixtures, women’s friends, and consumption cures that get their hapless victims hopelessly hooked on the dope? The Jewish doctor, pharmacist, grocer, etc. And who defends the most desperate criminals whose minds have been scrambled by all the suspect literature and opium eating? The Jewish lawyer, of course.
 
“Now, Musky Dan is a liberal, in that he will go so far as to admit that the Jew is a human being. But he’s a dyed in the wool curmudgeon in that he is unwilling to concede that they are no different from anybody else. He says that he can smell one a mile away. I do rather doubt Musky Dan can smell much of anything, actually, with that busted up honker of his, all spidered up with gin blossoms. But that is neither here nor there. ‘Any excuse will serve a tyrant.’  Anyway, you try to convince Musky Dan that Jews is mostly is no better and no worse than anybody else, and he’ll practically roar his answer: ‘That’s what the swine would like us to think–the better to swindle us all! And kill our babies while we sleep, if we ain’t circumspect!’
 
“And when I try telling him that hating Jews is the last resort of a fool, he accuses me of engaging in sophistry! He says that the Jews have engaged for centuries in murder, usury and fraud, and that someday they’re all going to get what’s coming to them. Well, you can’t reason with that kind of logic. It’s one reason I don’t go there much anymore. I suspect that it’s the Gib Yellof who’s been spreading such slanders, probably in league with certain members of the yellow press. There are some fools who will believe anything they read in the newspaper, and there are some foolish scribblers as will repeat in print any wretched lie that springs into their head.” 
 
“I suppose, however, that  there would be one great advantage to getting rid of all the Jews.”
 
He looked at Cadger Tandy to gauge his reaction. There was none. The fourteen year old boy was as sedate as an old brown owl.
 
“One great advantage of getting rid of them–there’d be more loot for you and for me!”
 
And Count Victor Lustig laughed a good hearty laugh, which eventually died down into a slightly guilty chuckle.
 
This was new. Cadger Tandy had seldom ever seen the old man even so much as crack a smile.
 
1*SALUTATION
THE FEELIES
 
THE GOOD EARTH
2*REFERENCE
3*HUMOR
MY KINFOLK
Source document for the powerful hillbilly meme.
4*NOVELTY
NAKED CAME THE STRANGER
7*CARTOON

TEN GREATEST ALL-NUDE FIGHT SCENES IN COMICS

“All-nude fight scenes” in comics is kinda redundant. All superheroes are actually nude. Insofar as the art is art at all, it is the art of anatomy in a graphic format. Endless redundant fight scenes are a hallmark of soup-a-Nero comics to this very day–and it’s all about the fascination that pre-adolescents have with the nude or semi-nude body–hence, the popularity of wrestling, boxing, et al.
8*PRESCRIPTION
 
9*RUMOR PATROL
A BESTIARY OF STALINS
10* LAGNIAPPE
11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA

MEDICARE
Medicare was flawed from the outset. In 1965, when passing the legislation, the Congress could have regulated health care costs as well. They chose not to. And health care costs have increased exponentially ever since.

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
922. I WAS A TANTRIC SEX SLAVE!

923. THE MADNESS OF ADAM ANT
 
924. HATE FACE 
The face of a Devil
The Soul of an Angel
He rescued millions,
Yet none could bear
His revolting visage
Some say he died in battle
Others say it was his broken heart
That killed him!