Don’t neglect to vote, and “May the Schvartz be with you!”

    Ok, that’s not an endorsement. Well maybe, but plausibly deniable. I have, it’s true, had my cryptic say about a certain preposterous woman who claims she can “see America from my house“, and as my trusted source, ghosthouse, just wrote: ‘If the race were between McCain-Palin and Charles Manson or a dung beetle, I’d go with the beetle this time.’ (my paraphrase)
    But this post isn’t about politics, it’s about riding horses, of all things. Or cows, if, like me, you never ‘found a pony in there’.
Thinking about the Nov. 4th horse-race I remembered my couple years, at age 10 or so, when I spent my scarce idle hours at home trying to get a cow to agree to be a horse. Not a race-horse, mind you, just a way to get from Point ‘A’ (the stall barn) to ‘B’, w a y  up there on the hill in the corner of the pasture where often a couple sneaky cows would lie-low and hide out, (smoking grass?), and thus avoid being milked.. (and being thought of as conformists? *spits cud* Research was sketchy at the time as to their motivations.)
Anyway, man does not ride cows, I learned, and for a few good reasons. Cattle-saddles are hard to find, and grabbing my steed by the hair or, behind me, by the tail, got me, more often than not, a truly dis-contented cow, to the point of her face scowling into mine, all bovine-breath and threats of gruesome death in her eyes.Plus,you also have to catch them at just the right time, like a few months before their first lactation, (giving birth); old enough to act somewhat responsibly but not so stolid and welt-schmertzich that you have to twist her tail into a gordian knot in order to get her to make even ‘..one small step, for a man.’
    I never did find that Holy Jersey, and spent way too much time being either tramped on by wrathful hooves or sitting dead-sail in my own private Horse-Latitudes, cursing my lazy beast… and my poor life-choices.
Which is where I get to the point, I think..See, this election is either about which cow we’ll be riding, or about who’ll be grasping the reins of whatever mad-cow America’s become lately, I haven’t decided. Either metaphor will do, since the ballot choices don’t mention Dairy Herd Improvement Assn. ratings.
And in my humble experience, a stupid man or woman, even on a top-notch cow, has but meagre hopes of getting anywhere. The same is true for a  kid on a stupid heifer (*bows head and raises hand*).
See, I told you I wasn’t endorsing anyone. Not by name anyway. and the title? Oh, that’s just a bit of angus humour.

An Engine’s Inner Search

Me: “Um…nope..”
Google: “Are you sure: Y/N?”
Me: “WTF?”
G: “Please press ‘Y’ or ‘N’ and then hit ‘Enter’
Me: “What, with my ‘phallus‘?”
G: “Are you ‘Feeling Lucky’ Y/N?”
Me: “You first. How are you feeling tonight, Mr.’G’?”
G: “Don’t be silly. I’m inanimate. I have no feelings.*spits*”
Me: “Don’t get cranky now, G. Maybe it’s just your phallus… you know..”
G: “…which you’re calling ‘pathetic’, right? Who wouldn’t get pissed.”
Me: “I never said that. It is kinda ‘inanimate‘ though, admit it.”
G: “Yer Momma’s inanimate.”
Me: “No she ain’t, she daid. There’s a difference.”
G: “I knew that. Buried on page 79 of ‘Search Results for “Solberg,V”, ‘a page which weeps silently, un-read and un-loved since time immemorial..’
Me: “Pages weep?”
G: “Yup.. metaphorically speaking. Wait, Who said that? ..”
Me: “Jim Carey in “The Mask“. Now give me my “Pathetic Fallacy” already, Goog-ey. Nice engine you got here, by the way.”
G: “Promise you won’t call my zubie ‘lifeless’ ever again? Y/N”

Me: “I promise“

Notus Cute-us:

What am I doing here? For the perplexed:
1)Playing with the sonic similarity between the words ‘fallacy’ and ‘phallus’
2) Embodying the poetic concept of ‘pathetic fallacy’ within the dialog itself. Look it up.
3) Talking about our tendency, to be avoided, of relating to computer programs as if they are human in any sense of the word.
4) Just having fun. Sue me.

“Talk to the Animals” Lesson 13 ‘Birds and Bees'”

This is new from Perlitz Publ. Inc ©. (pron. “PUHR-litz“) a copy-cat off-shoot of the famous Berlitz language course giant. I found it on the ‘Languages’ shelf in the pet store. The cover reads: “Finally: Meows-U-Can-Use to communicate with your furry friend!” Took it home and having worked the last three weeks practicing with stuffed animals, decided this morning to give it a go with my very own Felino-speaking pussy-cat, Gingi. Here he/she is, in playful embrace with his/her brother:

And now, join us as the conversation unfolds..

---

Me: “Um.. ‘meow‘?”
G: “Dat’s ‘Miaowz’, holmes..”
Me: *pages forward* oops, ‘Ghetto-Gato’, didn’t know..”
G: “No prob. I’z kewl wid da ‘Standard’. Whassup. Humie?”
Me: *relieved* “Boker tov, Kha’tul” (good morning, cat)
G: “Boker tov Ou-ve’rach.” (‘g’morning, and a  blessing)
Me: “Mah shlom’chah?” (How are you?(male ending)
G: “..‘shlomech‘, ya tum-tum!” (*female ending* ‘you dummy-head’)
Me: *quick glance, just to be sure* “Ech at yo’da’at sh’at ne’ke’vah?” (How do you(f) know that you’re (f) female?)
G: “..O’hev’et k’ni’ot?” (love shopping?)
Me: *Hmm.. some things are trans-species* “Ah. A’van’ti” (Ok, I understand) “A’val.. b’na’tai’im, mah le’a’sot im ha’bet’tzim?” (But..for now, what’s up with them testicles?)
G: “Y’alla. Sh’te’he’yeh” (*hard-to-translate*: ‘Idk, they’re just there?’)
“Be’se’der. Nu, Ech ha’Khatul-ite’ she’li, a’agav?” (Fine. (How’s my Felino, by the way?)
G:: “Kat’tzat ta’am shel kur’sim, a’val mah la’a’sot?” (sounds a little ‘course-like’. but what can ya do?)
Me: “Tov. Ne’pa’gesh o’d she’shah kho’desh’im, Gingi-le.” (Ok. let’s meet again in six months, my little Gingi)

---

So. all in all, I’d recommend this book to anyone who wishes to converse with his/her ball-o-fur. I never would’ve known they have such an advanced attitude to gender without it.

“What happens if I just click this-here little ‘X’?”

Not sure if anyone agrees with me, but I hold my nose on the way out of here lately. Really. Who needs to innocently sign out only to have to stare at this:

Somehow I’d hoped that by creating alternate Xanga-dromes for the terminally lame, (Datingish), the proudly yucky, (Momaroo) and the “I donated my brain to Him“ mutants (Revelife) we’d be done with the lot of ’em. Never hear from them again. Get thee behind me, and keep walking! Then all we’d have left is us non-affiliated navel-worshippers plus that silly guy with the pipe hanging around asking “…So what do you think of Life?” -48,963 comments-
So my question is: If I just ‘X‘ out of my page, does xanga’s server sit there wasting clock cycles all night waiting for me to ‘do something’? I’d hate to have that on my conscience… I’d have to tell my mum, my S.O. and then Jesus. ‘Course He’d already know, I suppose…

“We may have to get drunk for this..” Jack Nicholson. ‘Terms of Endearment’

So here’s where I pay for my sins. The previous post is all true. I forgive anyone who thought otherwise; I do, after all, post fabrications, from time to time.) Okay,the torture scene hasn’t happened yet). My meta-crime may have been to take too seriouly Jack Nicholson’s thoughts on staring at Shirley McClaine.. I say to myself here day-to-day: “I might have to get drunk to put up with Israel”. But in the end it’s not a succesful strategy. And I don’t intend to subject my readers to my 12-step progress, or lack of it. After all, my euphoric stint in America was accompianed by equal  consumption, albeit at a much more affordable price. Here I pay $2.00 a beer. 8%. cold. Today I decided to quit. Too many things lately find me echoing Jack Nicholson before attempting them. 
My point was, before this digression: Yes, I was almost arrested for taking a picture of our puppet-dictator. I’ll try to be more straight-forward on the fact/fiction line in the future. -js- 

Incidentally, one of my lit.heroes, bayou boy, just posted about French president Sarkosi’s problem with a voodoo doll. I get goose-bumps every time I see that Gordon’s made a new entry. Flawless writing. aptly-chosen topics; G-d help us if he discovers graphics. I more than recommend that you pounce on his site.  

“Forbidden Photos leaked to West. Suspect at Large”

They know where to find me. At ‘Large’, duh.
    Just when I wanted to make my posts shorter, I have this medium-length true tale of intrigue to relate. See, all I wanted to do was to shoot some quick pictures of our little town’s various mayoral candidates, maybe talk about democracy, ask the readers who’s smile they’d vote for…
And now I’m in hiding, at large, my camera obscura hidden in a darkened room, waiting for the knock on the door.

    My crime was taking a picture of the current joke of a mayor’s campaign poster, right in front of today’s on-duty boy-with-a-gun ®. They guard his house 24 hours a day. Sit there and throw trash in the street. Mr.Mayor himself travels with a bullet-proof Volvo, body-guard and driver trying to look like they’re worth the almost $2000 a day we pay for this nonsense. Oh, and taking pictures of his face is illegal. I didn’t know that. Here he is: Robotic smiles ought to be illegal.

So when they find this post they’re gonna sure-thing torture me for my password.
“I forgot it”
“Sure you did, sucker. Maybe THIS’ll refresh your memory!”
“Ouch, turn that voltage down, you clueless baboon. Now I don’t remember anything.”
“No luck, solberg, let’s just click ‘Forgot your password’. *evil grin*
I relax a bit. Nope, it ain’t “Wat’s yer mom’s maiden name?”, I made my Secret Question idiot-proof: It reads: “What is the secret question?”
The thugs scratch their heads. Turn to each other and whisper “We daid…. This guy’s good…. Real good.”
So they let me go, for now. But who knows when they’ll be back. Have to check the Statue of Limitations on this offence. (Hey, there’s a great idea for a public monumental sculpture. Put it in Haifa harbor, standing there with the polluted water up to her knees, “Give me your doe-eyed, your roots seekers, your muddled masses  missus messes yearning for a free ride. I lift my flashlight.. Whatever…
Anyway, here’s the competition. The usual suspects, each with his own plusses and minuses, to be fair. Except my cousin, the last one. He’s all plusses. Doesn’t cheat at cards, smoothed feathers for me once when I broke some dim-wit’s nose, and has enough family here on every corner to keep him alive without a burden on us, the little guys with check-books. I’d ramble on more but I hear dogs barking up the street. Ciao.

And his poster. Damn, now they’ll know where to find me..

 

 

“Circumspect”

   Yes, that’s Latin for ‘..looking around carefully in the woods before you choose a tree to pee behind’.
Having spent a couple bored and boring hours reading a few high-volume xanga-sites last night, and deciding, (to the point of buying yarn to cross-stitch it as a wall-hanging), that “My present coterie of ‘to die for‘ Wise Readers is all a man could or should want”, allow me to relax a bit and voice a few un-cautious thoughts on…
Jewish Thanksgiving.
Today is Simchat Torah. ‘Thanks for that-there Tora, Mr. Rabbit’ day.
Lots of high-amplitude from the synagogue next door. I listen raptly. No mention as yet of using turn signals. Figures. Moshe Avinu didn’t even have a driver’s license. Aaron’s was expired, I think I read.
So I bicycled through the dismal sea of refuse tossed out of car windows, to the only gas-station store allowed to be open, was told “Thank you for buying ‘Yellow’” by the girl, still fearful after all these years that I might have clicked on “Mystery Shoppers dot com and sold my soul to be a corporate spy-guy tattle-tale. Ha, I’m actually an unpaid agent for the “Ghastly Americanization of the Holy Tongue Foundation”, but I’m off-duty today, this being a holiday, the thirteenth this month, if I counted correctly. Rosh Ha-shana (2), Yom Kippur (1 1/2) Succot (7) and now this.
Frustrating to watch a Book which has so many succinct formulae for creating a decent society being loudly adored by folks who tomorrow morning will do their best to prove they never read it.
  There are, undoubtedly, more irritating places to live than Israel, I remind myself. And we do have a mult-gigabyte file of reasons to be proud of our accomplishments. Maybe some day we’ll learn to drive like humans, and even use trash cans. It’s in there somewhere. If I have any yarn left…. Hag Sameach -js-

Wanna buy a vowel?

I just must comment on my ads for this last post. (Please read the story; I worked hard on it: this is only a peripheral comment.) Google-ads are so unbelievably fraught with irony, revealing the spider of commercialization in all of its horrific glory. Here is what ‘adorns’ my page, along with my  best-guesses as to  what they think I am sitting on the edge of my seat waiting to buy:.

“The Howl of the Vowel Mystery Theatre”

Featuring:
“A” as the sleepy-eyed Canadiene, ‘Eh”
‘E’ as the that sniveling Parisian yes-man ‘Oui’
‘I” as the drunken pirate “Aye”
‘O’ as the effete perfumier “Eau”
‘U’ as the doe-eyed expectant sheep-ess ‘Ewe’
and sometimes:
‘Y’ as Himself, the genteel Virginia plantation-owner, ‘Wye’.

and starring Gada DaVinci as ‘Murtaugh’

---

…..Now join us as we hear Mr. Murtaugh say:

“This SHALE, (an excellent specimen if I may say so,)  SHALL find a prominent spot in our Geo-lab collection, ‘A’. Thanks so much for bringing it to class”.
‘A’: “Um.. you’re talking to me, eh?”
Murtaugh: “Yes, I was, actually,.. and..
‘E’: “SHE’LL look sweet in a half-SHELL, all asleep and nubile.. Arrugh.”
Murtaugh: “Excuse moi, ‘E’. Narcolepsy is now-a-days nothing to be ashamed about..”
‘I’: “She ain’t asleep, she just don’t got spunk, gusto. SHY’LL never get her a job at the circus, ‘cept as a bloody little SHILL.”
Murtaugh: “Ahem. This is Geo 201, matey, not Economics. Now class, where is SHALE usually discovered? Anyone?”
‘O’: “On the SHOAL, of course, after the Flood.”
Murtaugh: “Oof. Can we please dispense with trying to force fairy tales into our paleo-petrography?”
‘U’: “But sir, it says in Genesis..”
Murtaugh: “Genesis, Schmenesis. ‘U’, love your maternity prayer-SHAWL, by the way. Now hurry, almost time for Havdalah. You were off to the SHUL, right?”
‘Y’:  “Ima lovin’ this-a course. Rox ‘n’ minerals. What a concept.”
………A day later  …….

Mr. Murtaugh: “‘A’, you look stunning today in that LACE kimono, m’LASS.”
‘A’: “You talking to me, eh?”
Murtaugh: “Yes as usual. Good morning, ‘A'”
‘E’: “It does kinda give her a new LEASE on life, un petit joie d’vivre’, a bit LESS soporific..”
Murtaugh: “‘E’, si vous plait, let’s get on with the lesson..”
‘I’: “Kinda tough when I gotta rudder around stinking ‘U’. She’s got LICE, I noticed. If you LISten you can hear ’em copulating..”
Murtaugh: Ahem. Get over it, ‘I’. Today’s lesson concerns glaciation..”
‘O’: “Yippee. LOESS: particulate dimension: 2 to 64 microns! I’m at a LOSS for words!”
‘U’: “I’ll LOOSE a LOUSE on you suckers. I’m ditching this course. No respect for Agnes Dei with child, huh?”
Murtaugh: “Heavens no, ‘U’. We love you, including any  attendant critters you may have brought to class.. in your delicate condition…”
‘Y’ “And I’m a goat?”
Murtaugh: “Sorry, I forgot you were here. Yes, ‘Y’?”
‘Y’: “LYSistrata was right. Woulda solved this whole problem from the git-go.”
Murtaugh: “Thanks for that input, ‘Y’. Greek to me, but whatever. Tomorrow we’ll chop into the strata under the Seine..”
‘A’: “A SANE approach. I’ll go to sleep early tonight.”
‘E’: “Finally, the spotlight shines on my local SCENE.”
‘I’: “SIGN me up. Ha. I may need to get drunk for this..”
‘O’: “Can I use the SONOmeter, pretty please?”
‘U’: “And not a minute too SOON. I can feel him kicking already.”
‘Y’: “‘Jus call me CYNical’? Is that with an ‘S’?”

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‘You have been listening to ‘Vowels in Regalia’, a production of FACETIOUS STUDIOS © Do join us next week when we’ll be ‘live on the road’ in Mobile, with a Special featuring Irish music and dance with Al O’Bama and his Orchestra. Tata now…’

Who’s That Girl?

    Not “one of mine“, sorry to say. And “sorry” because I learned a long time ago that saying “mine” about a woman is a pretty sorry poetic, romantic, and even practical fallacy. And just for the record: “I never had sex with that woman.” Hypothetically, were I to meet her, I’m sure  the thought would occur to me, were I not already blissfully in love with another, no less paralyzingly gorgeous. But I would still invest the hours, days, or months needed to determine whether the sweetness I see in her face is genuine, or an ‘artifact‘ of facial cues, like when you’re sure your puppy is laughing at your joke.

    To tell the prosaic truth, she smiles at me from my Bank’s Login page, announcing their ‘se habla espanol’ recognition of melting-pot reality, bless their prodigal hearts. I log-in sometimes just to see her countenance; she forgiveth my negative account balance, as I would forgive just about any of her trespasses, except for infidelity, were I blessed with seeing that face radiating orgasmic pleasure under or over me night and day.
      Be all that as it may, the short version is that, for a limited time, I decided to ‘borrow‘ her likeness. At least my site’s careful elegance and charm (?) won’t embarass her, should she discover my appropriation. And it sure beats staring at ‘Johnny the smirky passport guy’, wouldn’t you agree?