‘Pushback’: the ‘Elephant in the room’ whom you ‘Threw under the Bus’ has escaped ‘Into the Tall Grass’. ‘So, how’s that working out for you, Snowflake?’

Someone could rightly call this ‘ A post about nothing’, like Seinfeld, but I differ; it’s a post about ‘discussions about nothing’. A level above (or below?) the froth and foam.
I wish I had a shekel for every instance where I avoided using a currently (this week) en-vogue catch-phrase. Something so disgustingly sheep-like, so pathetically ‘needy’ about adopting trends.
The scene described(?) in the post’s title here could involve just about anything, know what I’m sayin’? In my daily perusal of at least 50 articles from news and commentary outlets, I’ve developed somewhat of a pass/fail attitude to style. To the point where one ‘pushback‘ (ugh!) kinda auto-triggers the ‘click-out’ reflex. Sorry, hacks, nothing personal. And my 40 or so favorite writers each have blemish-free records in the cliche department. Warms my heart to have them agree with me. (or more likely, the converse.)
 Actually, I’ve been a jargon/slang war-resistor since the early ’60s. I might have called something ‘groovy’ or ‘far-out’ once each, before starting to put them in ironic quotes.
So, to conclude: what’s a fellow to do with a rambunctious elephant no one mentions, a beast who needs to be un-ceremoniously sacrificed, but who somehow evades the quiet ignominy decreed upon him and camps out in an un-approachable thickly-vegetated base camp, from whence to taunt you, yea unto causing you Emotional turmoil? Yup, that’s the question in this post. Kinda.
I say, use him at airport departure ramps to elegantly guide the 767s backwards toward their take-off runway start positions. Last I heard, that was called ‘pushback’! But then, me ‘n the pachyderms both have long memories.

Nothing Rhymes with ‘Orange’ but ‘Stupid’

Hey, you learn something new (or remember it) every day:
1) The classic, repeated claim that no word rhymes with ‘ORANGE’ is almost true, however, I was able to quickly prove to myself that it needn’t be a death-sentence. Check this poem; a new style. One sentence, make yer point, and leave ’em begging for more:
I saw her at the BAR ‘N Just went
nuts on all that ORANGE, musta
took a ton of pigment, or like,
mebbe it’s all a figment of my
chroma-magination, like that
sexpot little Hatian who wuz
rainbow-hued at night, but
in the morning, black an’ white.

2) One could as easily say that the current yellow-peril (oops, ‘ORANGE’ menace’ defiling our nation’s capitol rhymes only with ‘STUPID’ , at least metaphorically. ‘STUPID’ was the subject of a song I wrote a while back and never published. The thesis was that nothing rhymes with ‘STUPID’. It took yesterday’s Valentine’s Day for me to realize that ‘CUPID’, duh, was , like, born to rhyme with Stupid. Let’s all hope for a speedy demise of the rotten tangerine comb-over.
Onward to the Song:

I wrote this one for a ‘female-of-the-species’ whose bare-bones intellectual ‘operating system’ has provided me no end of fascination for going-on 40 years now. She is still, as we speak, perhaps the most beautiful woman God has ever created, physically. But it is a continual learning-process to admit that a head so gorgeous can contain within it such a paucity of cognitive assets. Still, I would have voted for her for President in a heartbeat. No government experience, (just like her opponent) but at least I wouldn’t have to disable photos in my News Feed for 4 years.

‘Nothing Rhymes with Stupid but ‘Stupid’. J Solberg all rights reserved

They told me I was wrong..
Yes they told me I was wrong
I wasted every night
They told me I was wrong
tryin’to put you in this song
Cause nothing rhymes with STUPID but STUPID

When I look into your empty face
My heart’s still sinking
An’ I know I got nobody to blame
What was I thinking?

They told me I was wrong..
Now I know they’re right
Yes they told me I was wrong
I wasted every night
They told me I was wrong
to try to put you in this song
Nothing rhymes with STUPID but STUPID

You got lucky with a mind like yours
You can never lose it
Times I worry ’bout the space you take up
Somebody else could use it
Started the melody, you said hello; we were
off on the road to goodbye
Started the verse but it only got worse
When it ended I finally knew why

Who’d ever believe a girl like you could have so much to say?
Ya just keep on talking
Maybe I can learn to live without your information
Just keep on walking..

They told me I was wrong..
Now I know they’re right
Yes they told me I was wrong
Looks like I wasted every night
They told me I was wrong
to try to put you in this song

Nothing rhymes with STUPID but STUPID

y’know I tried to put you into words
Tryin’ to make it rhyme
I been working like a maniac since Thursday
Just a waste of time

Started the melody, you said hello; we were
off on the road to goodbye
Started the verse but it only got worse
When it ended I finally knew why
Told me I was wrong
Now I know they’re right
Told me I was wrong
Looks like I wasted all the night
Told me I was wrong
to try to put you in this song
Cuz nothing rhymes with STUPID but STUPID

Told me I was wrong
Now I know they’re right
Told me I was wrong
Looks like I wasted all the night
Told me I was wrong
to try to put you in this song
Nothing rhymes with STUPID but STUPID

Told me I was wrong
Now I know they’re right
Told me I was wrong
Looks like I wasted all the night
Told me I was wrong
to try to put you in this song
Cuz nothing rhymes with STUPID but another STUPID

‘NO TED?!’, I noted

“Ted?’ I called out plaintively, there in the darkness of the woods compounded by clouds of black smoke.
*crickets* Or in other words, no reassuring sound or sign of life so far.
Ever the scientist (and word-fiend) I quickly spoke into my cheap Radio Shack pocket voice recorder; “NO TED, I NOTED”.
And knowing full well that I had some major amends to make, I wasn’t surprised to hear my phone’s assistant (I call him ‘SSV’ for ‘Still small voice’) tear into me at once:
‘HE’s ED now!’
Not immediately grasping the implications, and of course justifiably in shock since the explosion, I added to the tape:
‘Yeah, missing the top of his head!‘, SSV added accusingly, as if it was my fault.
‘So the ‘T’ was that boyish top-knot he’d worn for the last couple weeks back at the plant?‘ I asked SSV, stalling for time.
‘Big deal, no problem, I’ll call him Ed.‘ I added, convinced of my generosity.
“Um.. call’ IT’  Ed, guy; take a look at what’s left of him… Or don’t.”
I’d liked Ted a lot since he started to work under me. Thirty-something, clever, curious, and adventurous. Guess it was the last two adjectives there which, like, destined that this ‘bad thing’ might happen, like, sooner or later.
Ok, whom am I kidding, it wuz all my fault. I’m the one who said ‘Yeah, probably.’ when he asked if we could make something ‘awesome’ out of the dusty cabinet of chemicals back in the corner which Inventory never seemed to give a shit about re-stocking.
To make matters worse, I’d done the net research on the TNT synthesis path using the reagents there. (Since deleted). And frankly, both of us beginners were overwhelmed by the power of the blast, just like at Los Alamos. (Although there will need to be an Afterlife, and both of us in the same ‘wing’ someday, for me to hear Ted’s side.)

Such a cute kid; I’m starting to feel real remorse. He’d carefully carried the Device from the back seat of my Subaru to the tree stump there in the woods, and kinda surprised me by intoning, mock-momentous his Oppenheimer-quote: ‘I am become TED, Destroyer of Worlds.’
Well, in a way, I suppose he was right. And I helped him to achieve his dream…
Jezuz, what a crock!  SSV is right. His voice, still small but conscience-searing will torment me whatever happens at the trial. I could blame our murderous work-hours at the Plant: (we called it the ‘doppler-shift’, cause you never knew whether you were coming or going without listening to the ringing in your ears.
But still, I should have known. I DETONATED TED. It’s right there in front of us… or in back. I’m actually near tears just typing up this post. As if it weren’t in fact 100% Fiction.

‘It is, right, SSV?’ …Don’t look at me like that!

It’s all-right Ma, I’m only joking

I’d thought to title this Hi, Ma“, I spoke calmly into the phone; you won’t believe what happened next!!
But on second thought, any clickers I prefer to bait would be just as likely to respond to Bob Dylan.
At any rate:
‘Hi Mom’, I said calmly into the phone.
“Vo-fon husht du meine Nommer?”
Oy, looks like I’ll have to translate half of this; (‘Where’d you get my number?’) Guessing that in Heaven they speak whatever language comes most naturally, and the angels just ‘grok’ it, or wing it.
“Directory Assistance, Ma. Don’t ask; they play Barry Manilov for like, ages”
‘Oy grundt!’ A good sign, she sympathizes with my frustration.
“Coulda been worse; the 666 area-code puts you on hold for, like, an eternity!”
First joke here, and I’m still not sure she ‘got it’, although she did react:
“Ve viest du?” (So how did you know that?)
“Oh, saw it on the net”, I said, giving her an out.
“Anyway, Ma, I got two problems.”
This seemed to lift her spirits. As I’ve learned down here on earth, some folks are much better at sympathy than at congratulations; Read on…
“Yeah, one’s health-related, and the other’s financial.”
“Oy, ve langa ve schlimma!” she co-miserated. (‘The longer it goes, the worse it gets’). I decided to go right to the punch-line:
‘Yeah, I got money coming out my ears, and I can’t decide how to spend it all.” (rim-shot)
Silence. Didn’t know they had crickets in Heaven. She did recover, after a pause, from the horror of having to express congratulations. Seems Pennsylvania Dutch has no words for it, much as Inuit lacks descriptives for snow-free sidewalks.
“Chonny, this is long-distance!” she reminded me, stuck in the 50s. “So, who died?”
In those days phones were for deaths, or marriages (a slower death?)
“Nobody, Momma. I just had this joke I wuz dying to tell someone, and I’m, like all giddy, and forgot about, you know, sense of humor being kinda un-equally parceled out at birth an’all..”
“So good of you to call”, she eventually regained composure, adding, “Call anytime if you need help.”

And dat wuz dat.
Hey, I do need help, I thought. How to quickly blow thousands of bucks before Drumpf slams the door on even yids who want to visit his white-power paradise. Or raises the retirement age to 70 to finance his worthless pathetic Wall.
Oh well, at least I have my Mom to chat with. She left us under a Bush, woulda prolly voted for the ‘schvartze’ and now is safe from the ‘es ludert’ (‘it stinketh!’) of the present Impostor.
Like they say: ‘The living will envy the Dead’. Never really ‘fershtehst’ (‘unnerstood it’) it till yesterday.

Slouching toward Limerick?

Who knoweth? Read on…

Still time for ‘all good men’
To come to the aid
Of a country in peril;
‘the Catastro-Goth Raid’
‘Turn the lights on!’, for the bombers,
their flight-time be brief
To the target, to the Lair
of the Virus-in Chief
Let us end this Beginning
Go to ‘Start of the End’
We shall fight on the beaches
for the lives which depend
This time, on the many
who will say to a few
Usurpers of Fredom:
‘This bullet’s for you!’

OK, the Editor just red-penned ‘Oof! TMCR!’ on this first one.
Had to look it up: “Too much Cultural Reference” Thanks, WIKI.
But ‘Still’, I replied, ‘what wuz I supposed to refer to, chopped liver? What, the Blitz is now ‘so, like, last century’?’
Oh well, like Zappa wisely sniped ‘He can edit, but he can’t create!’

Anyway, I seem to be writing these short-subjects in my sleep these days. As if they will ‘End the War’.
More accurately, ‘start one’: As in: ‘What this country needs is a good 10 cent coup d’état ‘
I’d originally planned this post as a defense of the Limerick form:
Starting with this-here:

Solberg, from the Word-Press ‘bad hoods’:
No one dreamed he’d ‘deliver the goods’
But his ‘Art of the Limerick’
(Though penned by a ‘schlimmer-nik’)
Found the Po-e-tree out in the woods.

But then I realized that the form is just one tool toward the real goal:

All Hail!: the desire to be Clever
For some, it’s a lifetime endeavor
While prosaic men vomit
He’s hitched to a Comet
Whose tail will shine-on, like, forever

Yes, how to excise the orange Cancer, but poetically?

Folks who thought: ‘Can’t happen here’
Now need more than five per cent beer
To handle Reality,
Evil, banality
Four days, and the message seems clear

Meanwhile I was reminded of the perils of identifying too much with the ‘wing-nut’ crowd. We need a ‘Willing coalition of the Rational here. This fellow? Read on:

A man with expenses to cut
Made ‘F’s out of ‘E’s in his hut
Also ‘I’s out of ‘T’s
Oh, and ‘P’s from old ‘B’s
Loved ‘W’s: “Two ‘V’s!”
Yes and ‘C’s from dead ‘G’s
Made ‘O’s out of ‘Q’s
‘L’s and ‘I’s from the ‘U’s. but…
In the end, as expected, this Nut
Couldn’t literally ‘WIPE’ his own ‘BUTT!’

And I’ll conclude with this last one, an alphabetic ‘morality-tale’, which also clarifies a bit of Latin.

A brute named ‘A-B’ thought he’d strong-arm ‘C-D’
But ‘E-G’ for example, quickly came to their aid
‘A-B’s now been exiled, south-of X, Y, and Z
Thanks to ‘I-E’: In other words: Progress was made:

I’ll be delighted to hear if any of   these were worth the bytes they took up.

“You-unz want fries with that?”: My Wet Dream

Hearing this question will answer any doubt: ‘Yer in rural PA again, big guy!’
 I‘m giddy about even that possibility, having yesterday received word of a possible windfall cash input to my sad Bank bottom-line.
In a celebratory mood, I ran out, rashly, to our local MacD outlet, five miles up Highway 4, in a town (Pardessiyya) best known for the mental-health institutions it hosts. But all I wanted was a hamburger…

Oh, and a chance to chat with a sweet frizzy-haired girl, coulda been my daughter (grand-daughter?). Bless her heart, she did actually ask me what size fries (here: ‘chips’) I ‘desired’. A perfect opening for a discussion of product-naming in today’s fast-food racket.
I told her elegantly that I was interested in ‘a purchase of the largest portion-size legally obtainable.’
And contrary to my whimsical fantasies, this menu item is currently called merely ‘Giant’. Somehow I’d anticipated ‘Unbelievable!’ or, in our Israeli slang-de-jure ‘Haval al Ha’zman!’ (‘A waste of time to even try to describe!!’)

Looking back from a now-3-day vantage point: It  t’wuz da right thing to do! Heart-burn all night, but then, I can suffer from that for a simple candy-bar.
Someone advised me to cut back on the beer? He might have a point. But then what would I drink? Old habits die hard, and Alcohol, as someone wisely observed millenia ago, is ‘Both the Cause.. and the Solution.. to many of Life’s problems.’
Of course now, with bucks in da bank, I have no problems. (?) Pay all yer bills, rejoin the human rat-race, and order a ‘Goddamn WTF?’ size burger, with fries to match, whenever you half-feel like it. The meaning of Life, if I ignore, for a few idle seconds, Art, Culture, and my status as a Guru.
Oh, and ‘this just in!’   I WIKI: “What the hell is this here ‘snowflake’ that everyone is talking about lately?‘ Just when I learned where ‘under the bus’ is…
It never stops!

Somewhere, a band rehearses ‘Nearer My God to Thee’.

Sean Spicer, in his unenviable role as Press Secretary to the failed Drumpf Administration excoriated the Corrupt Press for their reporting on the Comb-over-in Chief.
“Mr. Donald”, he maintained, “was misquoted as saying ‘honered -sic-‘. In fact, he cleverly twitted: ‘I wuz ‘Hohnered’…, a reference to the gift harmonica he received from the German firm noted for their fine quality musical instruments.”
Wags in the press corps wasted not a beat in retorting:
‘Great, playing the blues is a skill we fervently hope he will need shortly.’
Drumpf, not to be ‘trumped’ twat back: ‘Evil Bill Clinton can have his-monica and a sax and that’s just fine? Sad’
Music lovers are now hoping, in the words of one I contacted, that “he sticks to the white notes, as is likely, and avoids over-blowing, and the resultant out-of-tune cacaphony typical of neophytes.” I’ll add that neither of us were over-optimistic on that score.

And speaking of the arts; a few short poems. (I apologize for the varying meters/line lengths among them. They hang separately, but not as an ensemble.
Let us deal with this faux Yamamoto
But wisely at first, take a photo
It’ll capture his Soul
Which we’ll pour in a hole
Stomp it down; less than 1 gram ‘in toto’

So the US is ‘Tombstones’ un-varnished?
And the shvartzes live in hovels, with ‘gor-nisht’
Not to worry, comes a Hero
With Experience: zero
He can sweeten all the carnage.. with garnish

I am ‘honered’ to ‘recieve’ this recent mention
It’s ‘Un-presidented’; got my short attention
In the latest Strunk & White
Where they deal with ‘speling rite’…still-
On my toilet, I’m a Master of Invention

And for presumptive Sec of Education Devos:

To preserve our academic might:
Yes, a twit; can’t right a sentence wright(!)
In an earlier day
They’d have shown her the (am)-way
To ‘remedial’, somewhere out of site

ADD: I just knew there wuz one Poem, forgot to include:
On the question of tactics to battle this crude
aberration; this consummate dud of a dude;
the political version of Automat-food
We search through the tool-bag: ‘Try Zen?’
Remember that once, way back when:

The Truth was an admirable weapon of choice:
You just stated the Facts in a confident voice.
But lately that gun seems to jam in the barrel
Silver bullets un-shot, while delusions go viral

So yeah, we’ll try ‘No mind’, chant ‘Wu!‘, clap one hand.
Warm bodies, in place of The Pen.

Oy, can’t seem to stop; mebbe one of these will hit a nerve?

On the ‘Great-again’ menu, for White House occasions
For shame-less Europeans and envious Asians:
It’s Velveta cheese-balls in fake-orange Jello
Topped with plenty of Dream-Whip, for the gourmet-type fellow

No more Julia Child here; this is Father Know’s Best
All the entrees are styled, at the Master’s request
Sing a swan-song for Swanson’s; here’s yer new Twitter-Dinner
‘N if it falls in the toilet-bowl, you’ll be that much thinner

So get over it, diplomats, sad Heads of State
We won, I’m in charge now; oh and ‘finish your plate!