Monthly Archives: March 2010

Product Review: “Placebo Beer”

    Went wild and bought a case of bargain beer in advance of Passover®, when, in the usual reversal of Jeezuz the Vintner’s magic trick at Ka’anan, we simply declare beer to be “bread”, hence forbidden, and yea it is so.
But the Mexican beer I bought is even more perversely unfaithful to His miracle: It is verily ‘Wine made Water’™. I drank enough to drown a purposeful porpoise the first day with no perceptible effect.
(Ok, I did write this poetic epithet, but I can do that sober, when I’m mad enough anyway.)
That’ll teach me to read the label next time. Small print: “cerveza placebo: sólo para la investigación” No wonder it was a buck a can!
    Now I’m searching as we speak for Jeezuz, with 30 shekels and a load of bottled water in trunk of the old Fiesta. He’s gotta be around here somewhere!  Just hope he doesn’t sermonize me: “Verily I told you so.”

This stuff isn’t ‘Near Beer’
It’s not even close.
Yeah it says ‘five  percent’,
‘aber etwas ist los’ (‘but something is wrong‘)

You can drink a whole six-pack
And not feel a thing
No happy, no visions,
No dance and no sing

The only attraction:
Cheapest- Beer in the Land
But it’s a pint of inaction
you can hold in your hand

Says it’s ‘hecho-ed en Mexico’
South of the border.
Yeah, by suckers who’d murder
your Mom for a quarter.

Well I bought twenty four
and now sixteen remain
In disgust I shall pour them all
straight down the drain.


Wu: ‘Requiescat in pace, ya faux cerveza!’ huh? (‘Rest in peace, you fake beer!’-Latin, Arabic, Fr., Sp.
JS: Wu! I knew you’d show up if I bought the beer.
Wu: Looks like I shoulda BYOB-ed
JS: Nah, I saved the day in the last seconds before the Moon rose on the ‘Night of the Long Haggadah’
Wu: Nu, you bought some real beer?
JS: Mebbe yes, mebbe no. You know what thees ees?
Wu: That just a cheap pickle from a cracker-bax jocks!
JS: Not to Audrey Farber..
Wu: Audrey Farber?
JS: Melanie Haber?
Wu: Melanie Haber?!
JS: tell ya what, Rocky, just sit here in the waiting room, or wait here in the sitting room. I’ll be right back.
Wu: Didn’t I hear that on the other side of the album?

Solberg’s Last Krapp? (see obit below)

Oh ‘Paque’, where are you when I need you?
For reasons I won’t go into (and for reasons I shan’t go into), the Universe until its 300,000th birthday party was opaque. Latin for ‘I can’t see shit!’.
I know why, but:
1) It’s complicated; temps and energy-fields too high for photons to travel any distance without banging into something. That’s why I won’t go into it. And
2) I shan’t go into it because as much as I love physics I have the good sense to defer to the wealth of popular writers dead and alive here on our current Planet.

Ok, that off my chest (and onto yours), let’s move on to today’s real subject; and big suprise(!) , it’s vocabulary, not fermions or bosons.
P’, long-‘A’,’K’, (alias, ‘pake’) is the only ‘stamp’ missing in our P-x-K collection. Witness:
PACK, PEEK, PECK, PIKE, PICK, POKE, POCK, PUKE, and PUCK. Most of us in the Vowel racket have tried and failed to get past this sad and depressing fact. One common dead-end work-around is to try one’s luck with SPAKE, etc. Dunna wanna work. Ya got: SPAKE, SPACK(?), SPEAK, SPECK, SPIKE, SPIC(!), SPOKE, SPOCK, SPOOK, and SPUCK(?). Two(2) playas AWOL now. Sure, there’s ‘spackling compound’ in a stretch, but when was the last time you saw anyone get ‘spucked’?
And yes, I could argue till the cows come home that ‘spucked’ is a simply divine verb which ‘oughta exist’. And perhaps it shall, in another oh, 300,000 years, when the Universe, (for reasons I shan’t go into), becomes once again ‘opaque’, and we can do whatever-the-spuck we spucking feel like, cause can’t nobody see us little spuckers.
Ah Physics. All the other sciences are spucking ‘stamp-collecting’.
Wait, it’s Math they said that about, what with particle-physics now resembling a spucking petting-zoo more than anything else.
All in all, I’m kewl with my vials of vowels for now. I’ll even share the Nobel with Chompsky if he ever retracts his spucking opaque opinions on politics.

His Last Words were facetious’ and… ‘and..’

Yes, sadly, amid cries of “A,E,I,and O for you, Bud!’ your trusted compadre, jsolberg, met his Fate last night, defiant to the end.
The convicted word-smith requested to address the crowd, most of whom were already dressed in gala-execution chic, and delivered this short(-ened) speech:

My Friends.. and enemies:
I STAND here, STUNNED,  aSTOUNDed, but un-STAINED, facing a mob, a murder of Cro-Magnons, knee-jerk Neanderthal jerks, gathered to watch me be STONED.
Condemned by a jury of jerries and wallaby-jerries, I watched as a pooch-of-a pouched judge worthy of only four-letter words sentenced me in one paragraph to  die for my Love, the ‘love which dareth not write its name.’
Friends and Idiots, my Obsession with vowels shall yet triumph over your base consonantal cuisine.
I realize I have but a short time to long for a world a little less ambiguous. And so I leave you with only  one thought… Ok, a couple:
‘I only regret that I have but 5 vowels for which to die.’ *hail of gravel from the impatient crowd, mostly the children* *what about ‘Y’ and ‘W’?*
“Half my kingdom for just one more word.”
*shut up already!*
“I still say it moves me.”
*death to the linguist. throw him off a tower*
“Let them eat dipthongs!”
*enough, tough guy*  *off with his head*
And in closing, let it be known that my two, like, totally favoritest words were FACETIOUS AND…
*cut off by a volley of rocks.*
And so the world tonight is a dimmer and dumber place. Buried before sunset in keeping with his people’s tradition, a simple wooden marker bears his epithet:
“SIX feet below you I lie, truth be told. No SOCKS, no SAX, no SEX. Heaven’s SAKES, this SUCKS!”

Press F4 if you want to run, (SETUP).

    Sure I ‘wanted to run’. But where? They’ll stop me at the airport for sure. It’s the Mouse, that goddamn wireless mouse. Who knows whom he rats to about me?
But I was in a panic. Accused of having sex with my own motherboard! That’s ridiculous. Incestuous. Plead insanity? I was running out of time.
    I pressed F4 for details, even though they’d said it was a Setup. F4 acted all helpful but I could tell she was recording my key-strokes.
Wait, ‘Escape’? I banged the ‘ESC’ without thinking it through.
“Are you sure Y/N?”, it taunted me. No, I wasn’t sure of anything by this point.
Check the BIOS? At least I’d know whom I was dealing with before the cops showed up. Jeezuz, what a sordid bunch of bio’s. I sped-read ’em and wept. Should have checked her Facebook before I did what I did.
Not that I did anything…that I can remember. Plead amnesia? Battle fatigue? I gotta get out of here. RESET just laughs at me.
Grabbing a RAM from a slot I smash on the rear case. Nothing. Must’ve been a DIM Ram. Meanwhile cooling fans threaten from all sides. One catches my umbilical cord and winds me up in a tangle of wires. I yank out the moly-connector only to plunge 27.8 centimeters down onto the Hard Drive. Not amused, it gigabytes me, spilling blood all over the screen card. Things are going black. I’m almost out of time.
Calculating my trajectory I jump, landing squarely in the Ethernet. ‘Thank God for the web’, I scream, not noticing at first that it is sticking to my arms and legs. There’s just got to be a way out of here, but how? The power-supply is powerless to help: 400 What’s and no answers. Why me?
All I wanted was to rescue the little Intel D685ELI from the trash-can. Give her a new life. Too many shining knight-meets ex(?)-trash movies I guess.
I could see the keyboard through a crack near an unused PCI slot if I hung upside-down from the CD player. Ahh, letters. I could write myself out of this mess? Nah, just a drunken fantasy. Still, it’d been working before I’d gotten sucked into the case-hardened enclosure.
Sirens, warning beeps. I figured I had milliseconds to live. The on-board clock ticked them off. Ticked me off too, the scrupulously neutral, uninvolved bloody hands of Time. Sliding down a secondary IDE flat cable on a river of blood, I finally reached the desktop. Wow, maybe my problem will indeed have a resolution. The monitor was silent; ‘display but don’t intervene’. Thanks a lot. ‘Unused icons’? ‘We ain’t got time for that now.’
I kicked the mouse off the table, f*cking Quisling. Rapelling down the power-cord like a fireman on a pole I took one last look at the computer. Oedipus Solutions™? Ha, shoulda known. I ran back to bed before the sun came up. The police report got sent to Windows Support, I assume, but I haven’t heard anything yet. They put the computer in the trunk of the cruiser and headed back with her to the station, with a stop at Crisis-intervention, intersection of Silicon and Meat. Just another digital nightmare.

‘You must be frocking nuts!’

      Yes I have a dozen posts here waiting, each with the solberg post-age-stamp of approval, but lately I’m a bit ashamed to murk the Xanga waters. By which I mean that my subs are admirably posting on matters of true consequence, not, as has been my unavoidable wont, little rants on the ambiguity of the letter ‘C’.
Still I feel the need to daily prove that my own modest micro-processor is dutifully executing machine code and not plowing through a data file mistaken as a program. Herewith the proof(?):

    Lots of frocking going on these days. The Anglicans are especially promiscuous. Wiki, suffering from server overload, defines ‘anglican’ this morning as “attempting to catch a fish which may or may not exist within some arbitrary cylindrical container, usually tin.” Hyperlinks on cylinder, tin and fish beckon, but I must not digress.
Specifically, John Henry Albert, ‘E’ Cardinal Neuman is  on the catholic short-list for beautification. Yes, the Catholics engage in frocking too, and without contraception. as per the Holy See! The bone in the ointment is that, no sooner than a candidate, who, to be brutally candid, ate perhaps a few too many communion wafers, is frocked, details rush to emerge on his less-or-more-than Platonic relationships with The Venereal Shepherd’s Sheep. Or lambs, ewes. whatevah. And then the cries ascend to the Heavens for a sober de-frocking.
Latin being the linguistic equivalent of a Kirby vacuum with many sought-after attachments, we do have at our garbage-disposal the  following cognates, I think they’re called:
1) Re-frocking. This is sweet revenge, albeit sometime posthumorous, for the saint previously declared ‘damaged goods’ but exhumed by later researchers and exonerated. (I myself have been re-frocked by ex-lovers multiple times, and recommend the experience hole-hearted-ly.)
2) Mis-frocking. This gaffe happens typically when a prelate(?), usually Serbian, claims too many ‘page-hits’ on a particular apparition of the Virgin Mary on, say, the gas tank of his riding mower. 40,000 towns-people swearing they saw her wink at them may buy the guy a pro-tem frocklet, but ‘He who laughs last laughs best’, (pardon the vernacular) is operative, and a cursory de-frocking is only a matter of time.
3) Under/over- frocking. Look, getting frocked is a one-in a million deal. Arch-bishops need to respect that and be somewhat circum-spect. Look around, and you’ll notice that certain areas are clearly over-represented, and conversely, little back-water towns like Muskegon or Dakar in Senegal suffer from a clearly-visible frock-less-ness.
The role of the Chief Frocker in this escapade is exemplified by:
4) Edipus the Mother-frocker: In power from 1109 to 1187, this cad was infamous for frocking anything with a pulse, his own Mother being the last straw. Wiki says:
“It required over 300 years to reverse this apostate’s frocking of his entire diocese. Many of his decisions were sumararily dismissed on the basis of ‘Sanctus Non Menstruatus’, but others had
to be dealt with through convoluted exigesis,” Wow, where would we be without Wiki?
5) And finally,  Poly-frocked (var: Multi-frocked: the process, since happily abandoned, of bestowing several layers of frocks on a ‘proven'(?) miracle-worker. These  false messiah-nics, some wearing up to seven (7) frocks, needed to be repeatedly de-frocked, at great expense to the Body of Christ, Inc. The epithet ‘This is like, totally frocked-up.’ became a vulgate catch-phrase during the ten-years  of  serially, repeatedly dis-robing St. Ivan the Compeller in 1618. This again, according to St. Wiki.
In closing, I do invite anyone needing to turn in a term-paper by Monday to simply cut-and-paste this entry. Make sure to sign it with ‘your-name-here’, though/ JS, Jerusalem,  
    

What theme parks have you been too? Which was your favorite?

It would seem that the Xanga Team’s copy editor is on vacation, probably at ‘Six Black Flags Over Hoboken’®
Trying to answer this question taxes one’s will to live. I’ve never been even one real  Theme Park, let alone multiple parks, which would allow me to crow about having been them too.
Epcot Spelling World™, in scenic Billings,MT,  has tons of displays of bad grammar throughout history, plus an
interactive diarhea of sentences which use a proposition to end up with. My favorite on their web site was:
“I loved making re-chopped liver from this featured question, and if you enjoyed reading this you’ll probably want to sleep with me right now; know what I’m hinting at?”
Seriously, I seem to be the only respondent who noticed anything fishy about this construction. CYA @ Asleep at the Wheel World,© just minutes off the Interstate.

   

I just answered this Featured Question; you can answer it too!

And here’s Desmond and Desdemona conferring on appropriate attire for theme-parks:


Secrets? What secrets?

I do wish I could come in out of the cold, so to speak. Regale my fondly-remembered and beloved readers with a full disclosure on my absence. “Loose lips sink ships” cometh to mind however, as do national security and various papers I may have signed.
Metaphorically and ambiguiously I’ll just say that I’m busy being scratched and bitten trying to get a deluded and ‘unsound’ cat down out of a tree. An ongoing crisis within the ranks. Working title: Munich II. (Or if they decide to feature what’s left of me, Lillehamer II.
I asked a friend in the service yesterday; “What, do I look like a Morocan waiter?” He laughed, if only to encourage my to stop crying already.
But the whole thing is dead serious, which is why I am typing this by candelight.
‘Oh no, I’ve typed too much… haven’t typed enough…’
The sad and frustrating thing, for a writer, is that I can say no more. Ever. Bummer.
Oh well. Happy days will come again.
Last night I read, also by candelight, windows blacked out with four-ply polyethelene sheeting, Mitch Albom’s exquisite “Five People you Meet in Heaven.” Left here in a corner by the previous occupant, luckily. (Personally, I could only have afforded the Readers Digest Condensed Books version (“2 1/2 guys you meet in hell”) Been ages since I read a book without schematics, and I loved it. Not saying he copies my style; that’s Terry Pratchett’s job. Still, he allows himself to make deep and uplifting points. Something I seem to wanna avoid for some reason.
Maybe because I don’t believe in anything anymore.
Oh no, wasn’t gonna let that slip.
Anyway, thanks to all for the expressions of love, written or telepathic. We’ll be back to nonsense here the moment the cat’s out of the tree, dead or alive./ JS/ Prague (maybe)