When history writes of great flops,
"The Birth of a Nation" is tops.
A movie so foul
it'd poison an owl;
it ought to be met with wet mops.
Monday, October 10, 2016
Samsung to Halt Galaxy Note 7 Production Temporarily
When using a Samsung cell phone
make sure that your ear's made of stone.
Cuz otherwise you
might just barbecue
your head like it was a t-bone.
make sure that your ear's made of stone.
Cuz otherwise you
might just barbecue
your head like it was a t-bone.
Sunday, October 9, 2016
Sunday Morning Breakfast
Amidst the hurly-burly and hubble-bubble of the modern American Lebensstil, there is nothing quite so satisfying, so quenching to the existential stomach, as Sunday breakfast.
This was my homey thought as I peeled back the white butcher paper from a flitch of bacon and began laying them, like railroad ties, in my frying pan this morning.
The menu was simple and classic: bacon and eggs, with toast slathered in apple butter. Not for this true blue patriot the intricate and decadent repasts of the hoity-toity elite, such as Swedish pancakes with lingonberry sauce, or eggs Benedict. No, I hankered for nothing more than the homespun basics that have given Americans pleasure, sustenance, and towering blood pressure for generations past.
Carefully monitoring the sputtering bacon slices, I noticed for the first time that my stove top was speckled with grease, giving it a leprous appearance.
"I'll have to get out the holystone and swab things down presently" I muttered to myself, in a brilliant imitation of W.C. Fields giving one of his inimitable asides. It is a thousand pities that there was no one else there to enjoy my bon mot, as my apartment walls never respond to the japes and jests I often throw out at random.
Once the bacon had attained its proper condition of carbonized brittleness, I cracked two eggs into the fry pan, using the one-handed method often demonstrated by French chefs in the movies. Casually lifting out the larger pieces of egg shell and flipping them into the sink, I sprinkled the eggs with Lawry's Seasoning Salt and put the lid on, simultaneously turning off the heat (or so I thought--actually I turned the dial all the way up to High).
I then set the bread in the toaster, poured myself a glass of milk, and was about to go shave when the loud crackle of incendiary eggs, accompanied by a cloud of black greasy smoke, led me back to my fry pan, where my breakfast lay in ruins. I removed the pan from the stove with a deft hand and a few mawkish curses, and made one of those quick executive decisions for which I am known from Baraboo to Bimini -- I would sprinkle a few drops of red wine vinegar over the mess to redeem it from the dustbin.
My thought, based on sound culinary principles, was that the vinegar would deglaze things and allow me to lift my repast out of the fry pan as easy as kiss my hand.
Alas, the crisped remains of my breakfast remained glued steadfastly to the pan until I chiseled them out with a wooden spoon and a large spatula.
By now the toast had popped up and turned as cold and dry as a bill collector's heart.
Still and all, I determined to eat my simple breakfast on a TV tray as I listened to something intellectual and soothing on Public Radio. Ever health-conscious, I added a few cherry tomatoes to my plate by way of giving it some freshness and tang.
But the radio station gave out nothing but some soporific nonsense about two tin horns named, I think Clefton and Schlump, running for some insignificant public office -- so I turned it off.
And then my TV tray collapsed on me, sending the cherry tomatoes rolling around my apartment like marbles. I stepped on two of them in my bare feet before getting them back on my plate.
So I had a bowl of Cheerios for breakfast, instead. Still a good, solid American meal in my humble estimation.
And then I did go and shave -- thinking all the while how easily I might dig the blade in a bit deeper across my throat and end the whole farce once and for all.
But I decided to keep soldiering on instead. After all, there was that grilled cheese sandwich I was planning for my Sunday dinner . . .
This was my homey thought as I peeled back the white butcher paper from a flitch of bacon and began laying them, like railroad ties, in my frying pan this morning.
The menu was simple and classic: bacon and eggs, with toast slathered in apple butter. Not for this true blue patriot the intricate and decadent repasts of the hoity-toity elite, such as Swedish pancakes with lingonberry sauce, or eggs Benedict. No, I hankered for nothing more than the homespun basics that have given Americans pleasure, sustenance, and towering blood pressure for generations past.
Carefully monitoring the sputtering bacon slices, I noticed for the first time that my stove top was speckled with grease, giving it a leprous appearance.
"I'll have to get out the holystone and swab things down presently" I muttered to myself, in a brilliant imitation of W.C. Fields giving one of his inimitable asides. It is a thousand pities that there was no one else there to enjoy my bon mot, as my apartment walls never respond to the japes and jests I often throw out at random.
Once the bacon had attained its proper condition of carbonized brittleness, I cracked two eggs into the fry pan, using the one-handed method often demonstrated by French chefs in the movies. Casually lifting out the larger pieces of egg shell and flipping them into the sink, I sprinkled the eggs with Lawry's Seasoning Salt and put the lid on, simultaneously turning off the heat (or so I thought--actually I turned the dial all the way up to High).
I then set the bread in the toaster, poured myself a glass of milk, and was about to go shave when the loud crackle of incendiary eggs, accompanied by a cloud of black greasy smoke, led me back to my fry pan, where my breakfast lay in ruins. I removed the pan from the stove with a deft hand and a few mawkish curses, and made one of those quick executive decisions for which I am known from Baraboo to Bimini -- I would sprinkle a few drops of red wine vinegar over the mess to redeem it from the dustbin.
My thought, based on sound culinary principles, was that the vinegar would deglaze things and allow me to lift my repast out of the fry pan as easy as kiss my hand.
Alas, the crisped remains of my breakfast remained glued steadfastly to the pan until I chiseled them out with a wooden spoon and a large spatula.
By now the toast had popped up and turned as cold and dry as a bill collector's heart.
Still and all, I determined to eat my simple breakfast on a TV tray as I listened to something intellectual and soothing on Public Radio. Ever health-conscious, I added a few cherry tomatoes to my plate by way of giving it some freshness and tang.
But the radio station gave out nothing but some soporific nonsense about two tin horns named, I think Clefton and Schlump, running for some insignificant public office -- so I turned it off.
And then my TV tray collapsed on me, sending the cherry tomatoes rolling around my apartment like marbles. I stepped on two of them in my bare feet before getting them back on my plate.
So I had a bowl of Cheerios for breakfast, instead. Still a good, solid American meal in my humble estimation.
And then I did go and shave -- thinking all the while how easily I might dig the blade in a bit deeper across my throat and end the whole farce once and for all.
But I decided to keep soldiering on instead. After all, there was that grilled cheese sandwich I was planning for my Sunday dinner . . .
Saturday, October 8, 2016
The only clowns we ought to fear
The only clowns we ought to fear
are those who from Congress do leer.
When they go hah-hah --
Their jokes become law,
and we get a kick in the rear.
Friday, October 7, 2016
Homeless sleepers in the sun
are you having any fun?
Do you hope for better things?
Has the world clipped off your wings?
Homeless sleeper, no cash I
have to make your lullaby.
No relationship will spring
up between us; not a thing
can I do for you but say
"Have a nice and cheerful day!"
And for this I think that God
will someday label me a fraud.
Wednesday, October 5, 2016
A tantalizing trifle
A tantalizing trifle for retired folk like me/is often of more value than a colonoscopy/for as the years pile on my head and squeeze my tired brain/a bit of fluff and fancy helps me sanity maintain/A chuckle and a grin are all I ask of my existence/they help this poor old bookworm to keep going all the distance/Heavy tomes are not for me; I'm done with old Tolstoy/I'd rather read a taradiddle meant for hoi polloi/Trifles from a kindly clown who writes with airy pen/are better for my health than anything from stern Wise Men.
Tuesday, October 4, 2016
The Toe Monster
When I am eight and ten I join the circus.
One of the first circus families I meet is Otto Krippen and wife Shirley, with their son Kevin.
He is the elephant boss; she's one of the showgirls; and Kevin is a little boy with a mop of straw hair. Nice traditional family.
Otto brooks no nonsense with his assistants. They show up late or drunk and he minces no words with them but gives them an immediate knuckle sandwich, so they either quit or learn to behave. His temper, except with his family, is formidable. Facing a Sherman tank would be preferable to facing Otto when he's in a huff.
Shirley is rather homely; one of those girls that 'have a pleasant personality'. The only reason she gets to be a showgirl is because Otto won't work for any circus that doesn't use her as a showgirl. He's still madly in love with her after eight years of marriage. She is also blind as a bat without her glasses, which of course she can't wear when performing. So she always grabs a hold of the chorines to her right and left during the dance routines to keep from getting lost and wandering away.
And Kevin nearly gets me murdered after I introduce him to the toe monster.
There's very little private showering with the circus. We play sports arenas which feature half a dozen locker rooms with showers. The stars get their own locker rooms to themselves, but the rest of us share locker rooms and showers. So Otto and Kevin are in the same locker room as I am. One evening after the show I jokingly tell Kevin to watch out for the toe monster that lives in the shower drain. Get too close to it, I warn him, and it comes out to bite a toe off. The other clowns, sadists all, back up my fanciful claim with a chorus of affirmative moans and groans. Then I go about my business, thinking nothing more about it.
Until I overhear Otto a few days later telling someone that when he finds out who's been scaring his kid about some damn toe monster so much that now he won't take a shower at all, he's going to push his face into his buttocks. Or words to that effect.
Ulp. That's me.
Kevin is bound to rat me out sooner or later, I'm sure. So instant action is called for. Gathering my clown cronies that evening, I take the blunderbuss we use in the show out of the prop wagon. We wait for Kevin to come into the locker room, where I solemnly announce that tonight we will hunt down and kill the toe monster. Kevin's eyes get as big as pizza platters. I caution him to stay well behind us as we begin to scour the locker room.
When we get to the showers I give a yelp, which cues my pals to bunch up around me so Kevin sees nothing.
"I got him!" I cry, and then let loose with a blast from the clown blunderbuss -- which is loaded with black powder and wadding. The explosion is deafening and produces enough smoke to birth a modest cumulus cloud.
We all proudly march away, clawing each other on the back with bloodthirsty bonhomie and saying rather loudly that that is the end of the toe monster for sure.
The hardest part is to keep a completely straight face as Kevin looks searchingly at me and the others to make absolutely sure he is rid of this nightmare from the drains. Clowns are not good at poker faces, but we all manage to stay solemn enough until he runs out to share the good news with mom and dad.
Whew! That's over with.
But it's not. The next day Kevin seeks me out and asks shyly to see the carcass. He wants to show it to his dad.
Oh oh. The jig is up. Otto will now undoubtedly beat me to a pulp with his bull hook as the prime instigator of his son's nightmares.
I mumble something about how the creature dissolved into a dirty froth and slid back down the drain after I ventilated it, which seems to disappoint the child. He runs off to inform dad, and I sit down to calmly await my doom
Otto shows up a few minutes later, with Kevin in tow. Otto's face is grim, looking like five miles of bad road, before he suddenly begins to laugh, saying "Boy, you clowns never stop with the jokes! That was a good one on Kevin." I give a watery grin and nod agreement, wondering if this is how homicidal maniacs lull their victims into a false sense of security. But Otto just gives a few more barks of laughter, tips me a wink, and leads Kevin out to help him water the pachyderms.
And that, boys and girls, is how I first learned that circus clowns can get away with anything. After that, I was unstoppable -- pulling gags on all and sundry with complete impunity.
One time I even . . .
But those stories can wait for another day . . .
One of the first circus families I meet is Otto Krippen and wife Shirley, with their son Kevin.
He is the elephant boss; she's one of the showgirls; and Kevin is a little boy with a mop of straw hair. Nice traditional family.
Otto brooks no nonsense with his assistants. They show up late or drunk and he minces no words with them but gives them an immediate knuckle sandwich, so they either quit or learn to behave. His temper, except with his family, is formidable. Facing a Sherman tank would be preferable to facing Otto when he's in a huff.
Shirley is rather homely; one of those girls that 'have a pleasant personality'. The only reason she gets to be a showgirl is because Otto won't work for any circus that doesn't use her as a showgirl. He's still madly in love with her after eight years of marriage. She is also blind as a bat without her glasses, which of course she can't wear when performing. So she always grabs a hold of the chorines to her right and left during the dance routines to keep from getting lost and wandering away.
And Kevin nearly gets me murdered after I introduce him to the toe monster.
There's very little private showering with the circus. We play sports arenas which feature half a dozen locker rooms with showers. The stars get their own locker rooms to themselves, but the rest of us share locker rooms and showers. So Otto and Kevin are in the same locker room as I am. One evening after the show I jokingly tell Kevin to watch out for the toe monster that lives in the shower drain. Get too close to it, I warn him, and it comes out to bite a toe off. The other clowns, sadists all, back up my fanciful claim with a chorus of affirmative moans and groans. Then I go about my business, thinking nothing more about it.
Until I overhear Otto a few days later telling someone that when he finds out who's been scaring his kid about some damn toe monster so much that now he won't take a shower at all, he's going to push his face into his buttocks. Or words to that effect.
Ulp. That's me.
Kevin is bound to rat me out sooner or later, I'm sure. So instant action is called for. Gathering my clown cronies that evening, I take the blunderbuss we use in the show out of the prop wagon. We wait for Kevin to come into the locker room, where I solemnly announce that tonight we will hunt down and kill the toe monster. Kevin's eyes get as big as pizza platters. I caution him to stay well behind us as we begin to scour the locker room.
When we get to the showers I give a yelp, which cues my pals to bunch up around me so Kevin sees nothing.
"I got him!" I cry, and then let loose with a blast from the clown blunderbuss -- which is loaded with black powder and wadding. The explosion is deafening and produces enough smoke to birth a modest cumulus cloud.
We all proudly march away, clawing each other on the back with bloodthirsty bonhomie and saying rather loudly that that is the end of the toe monster for sure.
The hardest part is to keep a completely straight face as Kevin looks searchingly at me and the others to make absolutely sure he is rid of this nightmare from the drains. Clowns are not good at poker faces, but we all manage to stay solemn enough until he runs out to share the good news with mom and dad.
Whew! That's over with.
But it's not. The next day Kevin seeks me out and asks shyly to see the carcass. He wants to show it to his dad.
Oh oh. The jig is up. Otto will now undoubtedly beat me to a pulp with his bull hook as the prime instigator of his son's nightmares.
I mumble something about how the creature dissolved into a dirty froth and slid back down the drain after I ventilated it, which seems to disappoint the child. He runs off to inform dad, and I sit down to calmly await my doom
Otto shows up a few minutes later, with Kevin in tow. Otto's face is grim, looking like five miles of bad road, before he suddenly begins to laugh, saying "Boy, you clowns never stop with the jokes! That was a good one on Kevin." I give a watery grin and nod agreement, wondering if this is how homicidal maniacs lull their victims into a false sense of security. But Otto just gives a few more barks of laughter, tips me a wink, and leads Kevin out to help him water the pachyderms.
And that, boys and girls, is how I first learned that circus clowns can get away with anything. After that, I was unstoppable -- pulling gags on all and sundry with complete impunity.
One time I even . . .
But those stories can wait for another day . . .
Monday, October 3, 2016
The law is an ass, Dickens said
The law is an ass, Dickens said,
and Iowa leads by a head.
Felons aren't serving
what they are deserving;
the loopholes are really inbred!
and Iowa leads by a head.
Felons aren't serving
what they are deserving;
the loopholes are really inbred!
Yearning to be great again, rural Iowa turns to Trump
Here in Union County, it’s not hard to find people like Kretz who are weary of the Obama years. She plans to vote for Republican nominee Donald Trump in November because she thinks he’s better suited to address the needs of the average American than Democratic nominee Hillary Clinton.
from the Des Moines Register
The normal American thinks
the reign of Obama sure stinks.
In rural retreats
they get out the sheets
to ride 'gainst his awful high jinks.
Saturday, October 1, 2016
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