Monthly Archives: April 2010

Letter Names: The horror! Smells like..’random’

Wiki’ll probably call this ‘original research‘ and remove it. But hey, somebody’s got to do the dirty work.

A, eh?     A perfect choice. Germans say ‘Ahh’, but then  ‘Artz’ starts with an ‘A’
BEE   Coulda been ‘BAY’ but OK.
SEE   We’re on a run here, even though ‘C’ is either a ‘K’ or an ‘S’ except in cheddar cheese
DEE   Continues the uncanny consistency of the English alphabet-names paradigm
E     Speaks for itself
EF    Uh-oh! What’s wrong with FEE? So much for that ‘uncanny’ thingy
GEE   Back on the horse, and turning in the right direction too
AITCH Jeezuz, we fell off and got under-hoof at that! HAY’s for horses; no good I guess, and HEE might be
perceived as ‘too lighthearted’
I     Often spelled ‘EYE’, for reasons known only to optometrists
JAY   Hmm.. A new Minister of Nomenclature got elected?
KAY   Yup, Sure Looks like it
EL    Hmm…Shoulda been LAY? I’ll turn on the News
EM    Oh well, Guess we got yet another head of state. What is this, Italy?
EN    Yeah, ‘Il Pappa’s got a brand new horse’
OH    As with most vowels, no brain required. A good thing, considering the electorate
PEE   Back on last year’s horse, after a piss-break
QUEUE Fair enough, since ‘Q’ can’t do it without ‘U’. Don’t wait in line for that to change soon
AR    Arrughh! REE, or RAY, or ERR, Choose one(1)
ES    ‘Four more years’ for the FLMN Party?
TEE   Guess not. Good old FDR back at the fireside
U     You need no brain for vowel-names like I said. What, You don’t remember?
VEE   Sweet. And Eleanor was a doll too.
DOUBLE-YOU God help our nation, now and at the hour of our death! WEE, or WAY would work well
EKS  Well yeah, I guess I’ll F-M-N-X, thanks. and an English Muffin, no anchovies
WHY  Why? ‘Because we like you’, presumably
ZEE  And in the end, the love letters you get, are equal to the love letters you send. (Um..approximately)

See Also:
James Brown
The Beatles
Front for the Liberation of Minnesota
Mickey Mouse Club

In which Your Lordness shuts the lights off on the Dark Ages

Note from Littlejohnny Solberg to my fellow serf-ers: I’ll be right back with another probably unanswerable Xanga Question, though  intimately familiar to most of you, but first: this breaking news from Our Lord:

From:  Moi, Most High Lord of Beddsyde Manor
To:  All fiefs, vassals, knights, serfs and pawns
Subject: I quit

Don’t wanna shock you-uns guys out of your armour, whatever, but I’m frankly sick of the feudal system, the constant bickering and feuding, and I quit. Yeah. As of yesterday.
    I do want to say goodbye gracefully though, especially to my pawns, for whom I have a litle suprise right apres the hors d’ouvres (think ’40 acres and a mule) so anywho:
1) Pawns: Be on the lawn by dawn next to the sawn-down Live Oak or be gone. No exceptions, dress humbly, and don’t yawn.  The caterers will be bringing three fat young steers to munch on, followed by a morning showing
of ‘Naked Comes the Afternoon Faun’ starring Goldie Hawn, Robert Vaughn, Juan Peron, and Werner von Braun. We shall then have at least an hour of quality time to relate our feelings, and divide up the realm into parcels.

2) Fiefs: My chief beef is the leafless stump of a tree you fiefs left me. It was an Oak, dammit, not a
‘reefer‘, whatevah. No munchies for you guys. Sayonara. Oh and watch your backs; my  hired Shoguns are hopped up on the real thing, the slanty-eyed little assasins.

3) Vassals: Might be a tad facile to bid you guys adieu, but you tell me; is it worth the hassle just to have a gang of vassals who sit around and arm-wrassle in the castle all day? Just the costumes are killing me. You have any idea what a respectable tassle goes for in this realm?

4) Knights: Don’t think I’m not on to your little game: Prop yourselves up against a tree, close the vizor, and
sleep all day on the job. And you guys on Knight Shift are no better. What does it help to take turns posting
a ‘guard’, watch for when my bathroom light goes on? I can see the Frisbees in the dark from here, even over
the moor. Plus, duh, what did you think was in the little barrel under my St. Bernard’s neck. Think twice;
Think closed-circuit video link. And stop trying to ride him. I wouldn’t send a knight out on a dog like this, not my fav little poochie-poo.
You guys may or may not have heard what the Chinese scrap market is paying for your metal get-ups. Not to worry, I bought a nice flannel pajama-set for each of you on your way home, or wherever. It’s even got toes.
Have a nice Knight. You can pick em up after you turn in your full metal jackets with original sureal number to my Sub-Lord of the Files
Signed/ Lordy Lordy! (relax. it’s pig’s blood.

Anyone else ever seen this hack?

Xanga’s Search’ function is, as anyone who ever tried to use it knows, worthless. Of course I already tried
looking for posters who might have meantioned “BANNER HACK SCRIPT” I got something unrelated about some Lohan creature, 4 spam sites, and that’s all.
    And so I turn to my dear presumed 139 Readers: Has anyone else been victimized by this little wormlet, or seen something similar on a fellow Xangan’s Banner?
I haven’t checked whether it defaces my public page. ADD: Just did, and it doesn’t appear there, only on the private (signed-in) view.
Help could come from someone who recognizes the code, or suggests a way to get rid of it.
I’m not paranoid, even though it is most probably a signal from the flesh-eating, resources-stealing aliens
Mr. Hawking wisely advises us not to try to be-Friend… to identify “What’s for Dinner?”
Here is a screen-capture of the hack. Anyone?

What the ‘F’?: Poetry Challenge # 300,978

“Write a series of limericks which slyly add an ‘F’ to words, creating other no less relevant candidates.
Be sure to mention Flemming, Finland, Lyres, and Ray Stevens. Bonus points for insistence on a uniting theme for the mess of orange forage.
God-speed, loser!”

Amos has it all together. He bought an ‘F’ back when they were cheap as sin, and leveraged it into his present ‘Famous’ status, of which I’m sure you are all aware. All I can do is try to copy the guy. Yeah, pathetic. I’ve highlighted my meagre attempts.

I  wanna be Famous like Amos
Speak French with a wrench in one hand
And a wench in the other
(Don’t mention my mother;
She says I’ve my head in the sand)

Amos is praised as an artist
but I’m only known a ‘fartist’
His etchings are fetching
a fortune for sale
while mine mainly go for the mail

I showed off my phallus to Alice
She said ‘Fair.’ but with-an air  of disdain..
Changed the subject; to ‘fowl
She’s like: ‘Start with an owl.”
So I, ‘luckless’ and ‘f*ckless’, remain…

I’ll be moving to Finland, but ‘inland
Can’t afford a fjord at this point
I’m not a fanatic:
Any  house with an attic
I’m antsy for a fancier joint

I’m a knight in a gawd-awful get-up
A farmer in armour so bright
Just right for my height
and suprisingly light
Though it frightened the crew on the flight

Heard Flemming invented the lemming
Penicilin that ‘runs to the sea’
Lest my memory fail me
It’ll fix up what ail me,
bring back Annie‘s fanny to me

If I prayed for a word from the Trinity:
Roy Rogers, Ray Stevens, and God
Roy’d recomend Freud
Ray’d be v-e-r-y afraid
Yeah, of  God: ‘No one’s fodder is odder

We all need to be more like Fred, so I’ve read
The guy owns like, dozens of phones
But I feel like an eel
with his battery dead
I’m so under-water in loans

“Take a brochure, Bro?” sure
maketh my day
I’m just tryin’ to earn a day’s pay
‘Buy Fast Eddie’s Tires’
Hear ‘Concerto for Lyres
I’ve been handing out flyers, OK?

And playing my oud with a fez on my head
I spit out a Pez on demand
Hey, food is a factor
for an out-of-work actor.
Just nothing worked out like I planned

Freedom‘; the word’s just a synonym
for cards only-a Mother could love
I read ’em and weep
There’s just nothing to keep
Not an Ace nor a face to speak of

If I don’t soon get famous like Amos
I fear I shall chop off my ear
Bitter Fate, but I ate it
My freight‘s under-rated
My van’s goghing out for a beer

A Theft of Impressionable Art

I’d love someday to leave the Louvre
with loaves of leavened bread
Oh, and the jewel of Renoir’s nifty oeuvre
in a can of sandwich spread

Be captured live on cameras
In the lavoratory stall
Then live, like, fifteen minutes’ fame
Till Le Gendarme come to call.

Our pictures in ‘Le Monde’: ‘That Boy with The
Girl with a Watering Can”
‘Die Welt’ writes:
“Wasser’s los?” and “Oy,
That Johnny, he’s our man!”

I’d plead my case to Antoinette
and the ancien regieme
So sure she’d see my side and ‘Let
l’homme eat bread, with cream.’

Then I’d swear to give the pitcher back
(plus ‘Sunflowers’ by Van Gogh(?)
Complete with my improvement-pak
A gift from Miracle-Gro®

My Garden-Girl’s in love now; sings:
‘Je t’aime, merci beaucoup!’
“We’ll always have Paree, and Spring
Here’s looking, kid, at you.”

Wu: You’ve heard of the National Gallery of Art?
Me: Um, sure, where is it?
Wu: Washington, D.C.
Me: Nice place to visit, huh? Ok, I get it, wise guy. But it doesn’t rhyme with ‘oeuvre’
Wu: So? Is that justification for falsifying the location of a seminal work of art?
Me: Sure. I can put Mona Lisa in the Minneloosa Bar & Grille on chicken-wing night if I feel like it,
poetically speaking… and the Sixteen Chapel in Twenty-nine Palms. What ya gonna do about it, Wuzzie?
Wu: Um… turn you in to the French authorities. What you got in the bag, by the way?
Me: Nothing. A dish-rag. Ketchup and mustard stains.
Wu: You heard of Jackson Pollack?

Oh my dear Virginia

I make a point of answering all my messages. Like this one:

Call me Virginia !!! I real feel shy, but I have 2 say u, Jsolberg, that you`r just the best man… It was a miracle 2
detect ur profile but presently I`m sure it is a fate))
U`r marvelous… but I am sure that in your life u`l impress me more and more, again and again! 🙂

I`d like 2 meet with you, Jsolberg!
This site removes all the time my pics… (so the most interesting and hot pics I save here:
Jsolberg, I hope you will take a look at them and will send me something 2 start our thrilling challenge 🙂
ki$$ you tenderly ))!!

      Dear Virginia. There is a Santa Claus, but ‘no, no, no, it ain’t me, Babe’, for now.
However… if you are truly serious about ever escaping the tse tse-fly infested swamps of Senegal, tossing off your rotting tee-shirt and soiled linens, and joining us well-off creatures of the enlightened world, you seriously need my Expert Translation Service.®
   My Uncle, who died and left an un-fathomable fortune in a Swiss Bank, asked me on his death-bed to promise him that I would do everything in my power to locate the perfect bald, fat, illiterate piece of 3rd world trash from Dakar, and to convey to the stinking piece of scum 10% of his hard-earned Euros, on one condition: that the successful candidate have the flat-line no-brain  minimal neural fire-power to recognize a gift-horse when he sees one. I offer, then, my re-write of your SPAM (Seriously Pathetic Automated Message)
On receipt of a Federal Express Money Order in the amount of $10,000, I shall mail you the key to the Bank vault in Geneva. Google it. It’s in Europe somewhere.

Call me Virginia !!!
{No good: Any semi-literate human will read this as a parody of Melville’s famous ‘Call me Ishmael’ intro from Moby’s Dick. I suggest ‘Heyya. My name’s Virginia’ And kill the three(3) exclammation marks. We don’t know each other that well yet.}

I real feel shy, but I have 2 say u, Jsolberg, that you`r just the best man…

{Duh, the ‘best man’ is a little guy standing off to the side in a wedding photo, wondering why Brian didn’t get the nod; after all, he’s got that neat cabin in the woods, plus he lent the groom his GTO way back in ’78. I’d re-write as:
I’m normally a shy person, yet, feeling impulsive today, I took a chance on writing to you, {insert real name here}
Note: Nothing ID’s an abject phish more than the kindergarten failure of the spammer to even nail down the victim’s real name.

It was a miracle 2 detect ur profile but presently I`m sure it is a fate))

{Jeezuz, who’re you trying to be, a Saturday Night Live Cone-head? Your point here can be stated believably by substituting: “Coming across your website feels like a once in a lifetime miracle yet somehow, regardless of our possibly disparate world-views, Fate may have had its hand in this. Go figure.”}

U`r marvelous… but I am sure that in your life u`l impress me more and more, again and again! 🙂

{Once again, a lofty sentiment, marred by idiotic TXT-speak. What you are attempting to say, I’d guess, in your infantile argot is: “You appear to be a marvelous individual, but I’m sure my quick on-line impression will be surpassed daily, should we have the fortune to meet face-to-face. Or cheek-to-cheek:)”
There, you still get to do the ASCII smiley-face, Happy?}

I`d like 2 meet with you, Jsolberg!

{Nu, quit calling me that already! Makes me wonder if you sent the same vomit to Scrambled_Meagen’s_Toast, whatever.}

This site removes all the time my pics… (
so the most interesting and hot pics I save here:

{ not to insult the host-site’s judgement in your first paragraph. Instead, profess amazement and amusement that a site as wonderful as Xanga should be troubled by an obvious bug every time you try to upload  nekkid pix of Naomi Campell with your head MS-Painted on. And what can I say about the link? It’s been in the Top 10 of Pernicious Portals for like, a year. Put ’em on Flicker, dear. Try this: “Feel free, at you leisure, to enjoy a few photos I’m particularly proud of Here. You’ll need to enter this special code # *x j99xj* which I reveal only to you, my heart-throb, my obsession..♥}

Jsolberg, I hope you will take a look at them and will send me something 2 start our thrilling challenge 🙂 ki$$ you tenderly ))!!

{Several thing are wrong with this closing sentence. ‘Thrilling challenge’ is a confusingly mixed expression. That, combined with the ‘send me something‘ followed by $$ sends the absolute wrong Me$$age. What you need to say is: ” I do hope you will take a moment to glance at the photos, and to reply to my cautious and demure entreaty. I shall not sleep soundly until I hear from you/ ‘Ginny’.”}

There. Now fire up up your generator and the old -386, Copy and Paste my Killer revision, and try your
luck again, whatever your name is.

Currently Revolting: ‘The Rights of Springs: Eager and the Stravitsky’s

   Ahh. Spring. We so non-chalantly count on Spring (and springs)  to return annually to their positions of involuntary servitude. Well, I’m here to Televise the Revolution, it pains me to reveal. Allow me a few words on the rights and ‘actualization’ of all of God’s creation:

    Progress is indeed being made as we speak. Our brother- and sister-animals are daily less-considered a quick opportunistic meal for humans, unless of course they’ve died with  smiles on their faces from natural causes.
And let-us not stop there: Lettuce, not-withstanding its apparent vegetative state, is now known to have a ‘Secret Life’ ™, wherein it ponders the Nature of Things,  opens a Xanga site, and wonders  which law-school to attend.
Personally, I do my best to survive on Minerals: Caramel, sugar, ethanol, water, hops… Hops? It’s ok, no frogs or toads were injured in the making of this food-stuff.
One can only hope that the Dietary Revolution will proceed as planned, and that our atavistic carnivore/herbivore abberant-bent quickly becomes  as much a thing of the past as Slavery, female genital-mutilation and Islam.
    And in that New Dawn which I pray for daily we shall have then only to address the open wound of our Treatment of Springs, today’s subject.

“Springs, ‘born free but everywhere in Compression’ as Rusteau ably put it already in the 18th century.
One need only to unscrew a ball-point pen to grasp the point: the spring flies, liberated from the bondage and compression of Bic and/or Chinese imperialistic forces to some free place never to be found, maybe under the couch. Our Motor Vehicles fuction only by compressing springs: valves, shock-absorbers, even the little chup-chik that returns the turn-signal lever faithfully to its place. A Beast which survives by denying others their rightful place in the universe? Sound familiar?
Shower-curtain rods, screen-door closers, Pogo-sticks.. I need not catalog the litany of evil; we daily meet the Enemy and it is Us, although un-recognized. Steel, that ferrous of the metals, bent and formed into helixes against its will, and all for Man’s selfish wonts.
And to add insult to injustice, we deign to name our spring-loaded encampments after the Victim’s own Trail- of Tears sacred places: Colorado Springs, an early internment camp, Springfield, IL, built on the graveyards of 17th-century springs, and yes, even Tel Aviv (Hill of Spring’-heb) named for the spring-steel settlements which were brutally bull-dozed to make room for it on the Mediterranean coast.
Palm Springs, Saratoga Springs, Cold springs, Hot Springs, Boiling Springs(!), the list is long and saddening to anyone with his head above the murky waters.
And let me point out that spring-compression is not the exclusive sin of Left nor Right: The late Ronald Reagan no less, after a sleepless and guilt-ridden epiphany on the Berlin hotel box-springs seriously considered adding “..and Gorbachev, release these springs!” to his speech. No need to mention the Prague Spring, where in 1956 millions of the little thing-a–ma-jiggies stood up bravely for a brief moment to Soviet tanks. Viva la de-compression!

I was lucky enough to find this short Brownie 8mm. clip from my early days as , yes, an Oppressor of Springs. Scroll down (at your own risk) to watch my moment of epiphany.
‘Free your Springs and the rest will follow.’






This program expires in 29 days

Yes, and the clock is running out on fat Johnny:

So I thought long and hard:

Then decided to learn this simple exercise

Hope this entry doesn’t trigger epileptic fit-ness.

ADD: Scroll down to end the Madness

Like I replied to Sci-fi-knitter, there’s a difference between thought-provoking and nerve-wracking. I feel like this post is wasting electricity somewhere.

Here’s a poem from Dr F.T. Berger, which I just came upon (how’d that happen?) in his feisty diet book: “Can you Handel the Messiah?” (He’s known worldwide, I’m assuming, as ‘the Messiah to the Hefty‘ or ‘The Saviour of the Zaftig’ in the yiddish translation)

(to the tune of ‘Whittle while you work’ Page 49: ‘Carve off those dead-wood calories’ )

Fate hath made you Fat
There’s no denying that.
You haven’t seen
your Feet or knees
in years; thank Feta cheese.

So Fight, my friend, get Fit!
Take photos of your butt
Be strong; it’s never
Futile, and there’s
no such word as ‘Futt’

There. Now we can quietly adress wait-loss without flashing bells and whistles

Jack, thinking ‘inside of the box’

     I’m not known for posting anything I didn’t ‘hunt and peck’ myself, or personally ‘mouse and Ms-Paint,’ or write the lyrics, music, and record all alone in my soundproof room. But even a dime-store renaissance-boy needs to break the rules once every  four years or so, to avoid being worshipped, seeing his head grafted onto a chocolate bunny, stuff like that there.
So here is a little genius animation which answers the question I’m sure has been bugging everyone:
Yes, “What indeed is Jack doing in there while we turn the crank?”
Frankly I was astonished to see that he can even relax or concentrate with the foreboding strains of ‘Pop goeth the Weasel’ inexorably counting down his remaining time till lift-off.
A millon thanks to the creator, of course, and to the humorous site which reproduced it, and to bayouboy 1026, who started the process with a link in his recent excellent entry on the good and bad of fantasies.

Gotta go!   Mellinda’s closing the lid. She’s a fast cranker, but with any luck and I’ll at least have time to pee.

A sad story

It really doesn’t matter
I mutter to my mutt
The mitre frame I built her:
Shoulda stuck it up my butt

Yeah I shoulda stopped the motor
when the meter hit the peg
Though it mighta made her madder?
It’s the chicken or the egg…

Now I wish I’d never met her,
but the point’s moot-er than moot.
I’m just a neuter, mute-er scooter
Since Val gave me the boot.

One of my trusted cohorts with whom I’ve been in cahoots for a coon’s age has ‘left the building’,
metamorphically speaking.
A cryptic voice message, yet it was clear enough to me:
“Out, out, damned vials of vowels, and curse you, vile Val.” muttered into the Nokia’s cheap microphone. Then …“Silence.
I drove to his flat, the key as always under the potted geranium. Empty, except for this Last Poem {above} on the hallway floor.
Oh and a pile of sawdust, a worn-out Ryobi chop-saw, an oil-slick where his Moto-gucchi was always parked and a half-eaten pizza, pepperoni, no anchovies, with his girl’s address for delivery: Valerie Discard-Estrange, 1729 Hardy Road.
I put it all together; 5 pieces out of 8 left, forming a geometric shape with no name.
   Oh and ‘Silence”?
He’d obviously broken up with her; probably ‘linguistic differences’, taken a vow of silence, and is now working selling industrial sealants for a gang of masked assailants. Old habits, you know.
Yes, all that from the scant evidence at the scene. I mentioned that he’s my soul-brother?

Wu:  Um, you kinda hinted at it
Js: I wuz asking  the readers. Y’know, writers with routers and roto-rooters from Reuters and Rutgers.
Wu: You a sick man, but in a good way… And so was Paul. shame it didn’t work out. Want me to feed his doggie for you?
Js: Sure, but he’ll be back. That caulk-sales racket is a vicious Trappist ponzi scheme.