Monthly Archives: June 2010

Mall-Mart: 3rd-derivative shopping/blogging is Here!

Friends, please do join me for three minutes as we play with a fun new word: ‘Derivative‘. It could very well become this year’s Random’. Yes, it’s that good.
‘Random, by the way, is a word I’ve almost given up on.
No, make that: Random is, by the way, a word on-which I’ve almost given up.’
Hmm.. ‘Random is a word up-on-which, by the way. I’ve almost given.’?
But perhaps only scientists and math-lovers get the Heebie-Jeebies seeing ‘random’ used in-accurately; I wouldn’t know. Diazepam helps of course, but if I have to read another ‘Hi, Xangans, Dave here. Hey wuts everybody think about  what Paul rote about Dan’s random rant on gay lesbians?’ I may have go back to to banging Heroin again.
   Actually though, the terminal tinsel-itus on the Front Page is more  ‘Derivative’ than ‘Random’.
Which is why we need this-here delicious and up-to-date Tutorial.


Let’s start with The Cow as the Prime Mover/Moo-er. She gives milk. E-props to her. So far so good. No Google ad-sense in the cow-barn.
The dairy farmer then becomes the bovine’s (figurative) 1st derivative. Why? Because the guy don’t give no milk, personally, he just collects it from ‘willing?’ victims.
And the whole bottling and logistics apparatus to get the milk safely to the 7-11™ is somewhere on the line between 1st and 2nd derivative. I mean, Old MacDonald/Farmer von Braun could in principle set up a stand down at the end of the lane, and sell milk ‘first-hand’. But then, so could Bossie and the girls, if they had the language skills, some clean buckets, a bit more business acumen… and pockets to put the money in.
What’s decidedly 3rd derivative however, in the lactose-racket,  are the copy-writers and jingle-janglers who earn an honest(?) living trying to persuade Mr. and Mrs. Joe Blowfish to buy  milk exclusively from Seven-Eleven, renouncing all others, till death do them part. In the ad-men’s partial defense, I suppose one could find a drunken cow somewhere who, crying into her beer, moos “Ah, we couldn’t have done it without you, guys.” Well, sober up, Ms. Schlesswig-Holstein and get with today’s mantra: “Yes We Can!”  Black, white, brown, it’s a whole new world out there.
But sadly, a world in which the derivative slope I describe here becomes daily slippier and slippery-er:
Fourth-derivative parasites now make a living  a Jersey could only dream of, ‘mining’ our innocent cows’ blog sites and e-mail accounts for any reference to the key-words:‘milk, dairy, ‘diary'(?) or even ‘cheesus-Christ!’, and re-selling the sucker-lists to advertisers. (Wonder what my Google-ads look like on this very post?)
And worse yet, (5th derivative) in a proof of the poetic but prophetic claim that ‘even fleas have smaller fleas which bite ’em”, employment agencys sprout like mushrooms after the rain promising work, for a finder’s fee, in the lucrative trade of ad-targeting.
The noble primodial cow, along with this writer, (a friend of cattle since birth), is terribly not amused.
I urge my Readers to stamp-out/ignore derivatives on sight, as a service to humanity. Here’s a handy chart in generalized math/Xanga terms:
1st Actor: He/she actually ‘goes somewhere’
1st Derivative: Sells info on “How fast is he going?”
2nd Derivative: Markets meta-data on ‘Is he speeding up or slowing down?’
3rd Derivative: Asks:’Has his ever-increasing rate of Xanga-popularity-growth possibly ‘maxed-out?”
And the 4th sub-level of Derived-Hell sez: ‘Whatevah. Who cares where he is?  The sucker’ll probably click on something if we phrase and place the ad correctly, either to console his bruised penis or to celebrate its 15-minute star-status.
Thank you for your time; I have cows to milk.


Wu: So, what’s with the title?
Me: Ah yes, I forgot. There’s a new Mall opened up here at the end of the block, not a very large building for the size of their parking lot. ‘Small-box’? I asked myself when I stopped to check. Turns out it’s a Portal-Mall. The newest thing. Only has ‘Links’ to like, Wall-Mart, Wheel-Mart, Whale-Mart, Wool-Mart. etc. Busses stop there every ten minutes. You click on the mall you want and jump into the shopping cart. But some of them have viruses, so be warned.
Wu: A Food Court, at least, they got?
Me: Nah. But you can get a bus to Blockbuster and rent a DVD with pictures of vegetables. Turn in your receipt for the lottery, though.
Wu: Somehow I’m hungrier than I was before I asked. Anyway, you think the word’ll take Xanga by storm?
Me: Dunno. Sure hope so though. I’m just dying to call some guy’s post ‘derivative’ and know that my comment drew blood.
Wu: Ouch. That’s gotta hurt.

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‘I’m a picture, not a catcher… and this ain’t even wry.’

Abstract: Solberg accepts *okay, fictitious* employment at a locally-owned pizza joint. His initial ‘glass-half-full’ attitude empties out fairly quickly. Now any Major Dude’ll tell ya to search for the key-word in your hour of lock-less pedestrianism. Mine seems to be ‘TAKE’. Take a look and you decide. I will though, probably, perhaps, maybe, ask the wise folks up at ‘Revel-ish® what Jesuz would do when he runs out of cheeks to turn? Look for ‘Better to Give than to Recieve: Y/N?’ as the Title. (I’ll leave the typos in; let’s see if they’ve got an editor.)


I can’t take  it anymore.
Working in this take-out restaurant.
Now they want me to take on doing the books.
Just because I’m the only one here knows both(?) ‘plus’, ‘take-away’, ‘times’ and ‘guzinda’.
So what do I learn right off? We’re secretly wrestling with a take-over attempt.
Yeah ‘Tick-Tock-Take-N-Run®’, a Swiss chain.
So far the match has featured a take-down, a reversal, and, just my luck, a ‘full-nelson’,
Whatever the hell that is! Probably Latin…
We need to take on somebody new, to take up the slack.
Or just re-do the premises and take in renters.
I used to take pride in the place, but now, frankly ‘I don’t give much of a damn’.©
Take that, ‘Togo Pizza To Go’!



And here’s the original. Scribbled hurriedly, but I wuz ‘Mad as Hell©’, and ‘Falling Down©’. Just like in the movies. I still kinda think in English sometimes, and the ‘take’s shone on brightly in the English version I wished I coulda written.. Wait, I just did.

This Ain’t no Cuisinart!

    I just took a real below-the belt hit in my latest (last?) purchase of an item brought to my attention by my Spam Folder.
I don’t know, I can’t seem to admit that ‘there really ain’t no pony in there somewhere’ underneath that pile of e-poop . Be that as it may, here’s a brief but sad recounting of the recent horse-less miscarriage of justice which befell me. I’m getting pretty tired of being run over rough-shod, to tell the truth.
     In a word. Do Not Buy a blender/food-processor from  ‘TRANS-GENITAL, INC’ ! Especially not the ‘LATIN e.g.’S ‘N-ART’ cut-rate knock-off Cuisinart. Don’t be fooled by their blurb:“Over ten years of on-line sales and service; a wide range of products at attractive prices!” These guys are the same penis-stretchers you see and delete every day, just with a fake noses and chef’s mustaches.
    Out of the box it even looked real. Digital display. Lit up when I plugged it in and everything. Bunch of buttons to push. A menu. Realistic life-like action-figure cutter blades inside the glass. But it’s a hoax, I tell you.
‘No troublesome moving parts‘, they might as well say. Press the key for ‘Vegetables’ and the display goes to a splash-screen of scrolling compound nouns. Greek? No, Latin? What else could ‘Daucus carota’ be except the humble carrot?  No sooner did I grasp that tidbit than I was be-juiced by more Lineaus than a man needeth in ten lifetimes: ‘Spinacea oleracea’, ‘Ipomoea batatas’, ‘Cucumis sativus.’.. (Spinach, potato, cucumber, the ‘suggested list of examples wouldn’t quit even when I pressed the ‘Halt’ key.)
“This be madness.” I was provoked to invoke. “Gratuitous examples, freely but pointlessly spewed onto my kitchen floor like some Gerber’s creamed kiddy-food from the mouths of infants run amuk; e.g: veggie-vomit, pate-puke, deli-drool..”
I won’t bore you with the gory details one ‘learns’ on the Cheeses, Fruits, or (ugh) ‘Live bait’ menus. You seen one cuttlefish (‘Sepia officinalis’) you seen ’em all, trust me. And the displayed ASCII ‘ART’ part of the name/misnomer is as advanced and tasteful as a digital plate of red-wrigglers. Think ~~~~~~O
      And so my question to the manufacturer of this con-job, (other than ‘When do I get my money back, ex post facto?“)   is:
“Why? Who got up in the Ante Meridian and, in muy-loco parentis, decided that I needed a $59.95 gadget on my limited counter space just to spew out exemplii gratii?”

Hmm. I did, I guess. Nolo contendere. But it wasn’t my fault. Anyway Caveat emptor, ya’all.


Wu: Another broken mirror, huh?
Me: What, I’m supposed to spell everything backwards before I buy it?
Wu: Worked with my nifty RADAR gun. Anyway, when are you gonna learn? Remember the C ‘N I Dog Biscuits…?
Me: At least the little poochie ate ’em. Most of the first box anyway…
Wu: Yeah but he’s still blind. You sure you didn’t sample them yourself, JS?
Me: Nah, too tough on the teeth. Why do you think I bought the blender?

‘Battery-Low’ Vacation-Planning

    Yes your humble Xangan can bring those disparate concepts together, fear not. (A June 23rd wedding is planned.)
     Choosing a tourist destination works best with a cocky attitude, or at least a measure of optimism. I remembered this a minute ago when my phone chirped ‘Feed Me’ in the middle of an important call.
There are days when I hear the plaintive plea and shudder ‘Oy, just what I need!’, go into panic-mode, and rearrange my life to be near an outlet; not an easy thing in the Thirld World. We don’t trust each other much with out-door receps here, for fear the neighbor or his horrid workers will plug into it and suck the living be-jeezuz out of your house.
    Anyway, today I was ‘on’. I told the phone: “Yer Mamma’s battery’s low!” That shut it up for 30 seconds, after which it needed a further “Yeah, life sucks and then you die. Deal with it.” That worked, (ok that and pluging in the charger). Main point. I feel surly.
     Which was fortuitous since I’d need that mood to win the battle of ‘Where shall we vacation this decade, dear?’
Of course my track record is not un-blemished. In ’99 the finals were between Twenty-nine Palms (CA.) and the Finger Lakes. “Finger Lakes, hands down” I told her, exuding a hefty 3.8 volts of Ni-Cad confidence.
“Yo, do the math, Leibonitz,” she challenged me, “29 palms times five fingers is what, duh?”
“Do you have any idea how many Finger lakes there are?” I asked, hoping she didn’t. I didn’t either. Probably more than 136 though.
Well, I ‘won’ that round, but long-story-short: We won’t be returning any time soon to ‘Middle-Finger-Lake/ Live Bait Hotel/  Kamp-ground.®’  Once per century sounds about right for getting screwed and wormed.
History having a farcical habit of repeating itself, the Worm has again re-Turned, and this evening we de-ja-voodoed back to the numbers-game all over again.
“Hmm.. ‘two nights in Tunisia’ versus ‘three days, four nights’ in Tripoli, same price, whadya think, hon?” I asked, deferring to her grasp of higher math.
“I dunno, two’s company, three’s a crowd,” she threw that in. I checked whether her charger light was lit.
“Duh. So where does that put Monmouth Falls on your continuum, in first place?” I asked.
“Now that you mention it, I think they do let yids into Oklahoma these days, wise-ass.” she said, snidely.
     I hadn’t thought of that little snafu, frankly. The passport problem with Mohammed. Funny,the web-site didn’t have a check-box for ‘religious persuasion?’.
“Let’s see, there’re how many popular monotheistic religions?” I asked her. She counted on her fingers:
“Um, three. There’s Christianity/Americanism…”
“That’s be the US, They let even Zorro-ass-ters vist the Grand Canyon, once they pass the shoe-test.” I granted.
“Then there’s the jewish-state of Israel,” she continued. “Kinda ditto on the tolerance scale, except…”
“Except that sometimes your dress shoes come out of the machine as ‘sandals‘.
“Hah. ‘Couldn’t be helped, Sir’.” she laughed. “But our Dead Sea is lower than the Grand Canyon and Death Valley put together.”
“Ahh, then it’s worth the wait at customs, sweetie. Ok, who’s left?”
She glanced at her middle finger to remember:
“Islam. ‘Oy, the romance of Baghdad, Tehran, Damascus, Amman, Sa’ana, Dearborn’…” She looked entranced, but possibly in jest. And Dearborn?
“Somehow I’m not sure either of us have the required footwear for any of those destinations. ‘Final destinations’, you could call ’em.” At least we were close to the end.
“So there ya go. Three religions, Two of  ’em ‘normal’, and One God, blessed be His Names. ‘The surprising utility of math in the travel racket’. I summed it up, quoting Wigner, but whatever.
“Wait, just a minute.” she said suddenly, agitatedly, “What about Hinduism?”
“Oh no.” I thought. No one enjoys losing at the 89th minute.“One goddess, six arms…” I had to admit.
“And six hands times five fingers equals 30!” She looked more radiantly  arithmetic than the day I married her. The phone chirped “Battery full: All is well.”
“And so, Twenty-nine Palms loses to ‘Thirty Fingers of Durga in a close one.” I announced. “Guess it’s off to Calcutta we go then.” Hey, I’m generous in defeat, and statistics don’t lie.
“Yippie. I’ll start packing for Pakistan tonight.” she gushed, in the approximate right direction.
And then a kiss, the duration of which I spent pondering her abysmal grasp of geography, outweighed, perhaps, by other charms and virtues.


Wu: Bon Voyage. ‘Based on a true story’, huh?
Me: Yeah, I had a girlfriend once who, gazing at the prices of flights from Israel to the States, suggested that we simply ‘drive there’(!). I never let her forget it.
Wu: You bounced a globe off her little head, did you?
Me: How’d you know? Yeah, but it was one of those plastic inflatables. Didn’t hurt, but then, it didn’t have much pedagological impact either.
Wu: So you’re off on holiday?
Me: Sure, as soon as I find a flight on Expedia for $19.95.

The Daniel Quayle School of Agronomy: ‘TOMATOE’S’

Yes, everything I know about tomatoes/tomatos/potah-tows I learned from that deer-caught-in-the-headlights little Indiana boy of American political infamy who these days looks like a  Rhodes Scholar compared to Sarah Palin. What in God’s Holy Name is wrong with the US ‘system’, (to dignify the charade), of choosing qualified men and women to guide your decision-making processes? As stoopid and corrupt as some of our Israeli leaders may be, I’m fairly confident we wouldn’t tolerate anyone as clueless as Dan or Sarah any longer than it took us to laugh them back into deserved oblivion.
(For anyone who missed the joke, Mister Quayle (above), Bush-senior’s Vice-President, famously ‘corrected’ an innocent child’s spelling of ‘potatos’ at a Trenton. NJ spelling-bee in 1992, and was forced later, by an alert press, to admit that he couldn’t spell any better than the child.)
     All this, however, as Gracie Slick once put it ‘…don’t mean shit to a tree.’.
So why are we here today…other than to post a JS entry which has ‘nichts’ to do with the length of my duck(sp?).
Unless, as some might have it, vegetable growth under the watchful care of a male primate is inextricably connected to his phallus. Who am I to dispute the experts, other than to state that ‘I never had sex with these plants!’
So briefly, what we have here is three stages in the erotic and procreation-drenched life of the humble Solanum lycopersicum.
Infancy, when the humble seedlings, blissfully unaware of their genitals, eat a lot, and mostly just play on the swing-set during recess.

Early adolescence: training bras, inexplicably wet dreams, the only-partially understood rite of passage into 10-inch pots:

And finally, ‘Rachael’, that girl in 6th grade, you know, the ‘one with the breasts’. Something about yellow-on-green like totally gets me off. I’ll repost this, (time-stamping allowed for tomatoes, according to my careful reading of the TOS) when she ‘bears fruit’, red, juicy, and just begging
to be eaten. A bit more genuinely-lascivious than Sarah-the sorta-Alaskan nin-com-poop, can I get a witness?

Sorry Spammers, You made me do this!

    It is with a heavy heart, (and even heavier ‘schvantz‘) that I find myself forced to write this entry.
Ten times a day being told by spam-strangers that ‘your penis needs enlargment’ gets to a guy. The time for pro-active retaliation drew nigh, and indeed has now come upon us.
     I’m a scientist at heart. Let me state that I never go off half-cocked without first consulting the literature, in this case, a remarkably neutral article in Wiki here which established a baseline length, and perhaps more importantly, confirming what men-of-quality have always known: that ‘Love and sexual happiness have almost bupkiss to do with one’s ‘member-ship’. As an ‘objective‘ observer of, let’s say, roughly 40 years X 200 per year =80,000 ‘love-making’ events, one would think my opinion mattered. Not to the Spammers, I gather. Well, two can play this game:
      The hardest part was the double-tasking. Concentrating both on the photo I chose for ‘atmosphere’ during  the shoot  and the need to snap a well-timed picture with my trusty Fuji; it not apparently designed for such adventures At any rate, my length, modestly and accurately measured for all the Xanga world to see(!) came in at a respectably-above-average 17 centimeters. This is neither the proper time nor the place to regale anyone with tales of world-class women of means who’ve abandoned fortunes, lovers, and mile-long lines of suitors just for the exquisite pleasure of jumping-on-the-bed with your correspondent.
(And for anyone still mired in feet and inches, 17 centimeters translates to “7 feet, 11 and 9/16th inches” Unless my calculations are incorrect…)
This post may be a Xanga first, (and last. I intend to delete it after a few days.) The photo-proof is  ‘was’ posted, but I decided to remove it.  Not Safe For Work, obviously.
But my main point and raison d’etre for this quasi-pornographic escapade is defensible: I intend to send this Evidence to each and every Spam-artist who’s ever questioned my muy-macho status. I’ll also be sure, as a public service, to alert my readers as to whether this tactic results in fewer insults to my e-mail Inbox.
Thank you all for your tolerance of this rare(?)  deviation from my usual high-class tastefulness.


Wu: Mine’s bigger!
Me: Somehow that doesn’t surprise or bother me. You sure you measured right?
Wu: Three thousand women can’t all be wrong…
Me: Can we talk? Wu, my boosom brother? Of the hundred or so women whose names I recall fondly, possibly three, no more than that, were ‘one-off’ events. All the others couldn’t wait even a breathless half hour before asking “When can we do this again?” It’s called ‘repeat customers’… in the trade.
Wu: You’re calling me ‘Quantity over Quality’?
Me: Not sure, Wuzie; Your ‘drunken hordes’ insisted on ‘protection’, right?
Wu: But of course
Me: Hmm.. Mine stood on their heads for an hour afterward, to help the ‘genetic-contribution’ find their cervixes.
Wu: Which made them dizzy?
Me: Sure. But we were both dizzy. That’s how biology works, duh.


Q: Smartest thing you’ve done lately, killing that picture.
Me: Q!!! Where ya been? I’m so happy to see you.
Q: Yeah, I noticed the pistol in your pocket. Hey, aren’t you worried you’ll start getting Spam about ‘reduction’ now?
Me: Nah. No money in it. Everybody just goes to the Frog on the Lake and asks her to marry him these days. Free and simple.
Q: Um, right… as long as you quit while you’re ahead.
Me: Hmm, two jokes in one. You’re a doll, Q.
Q: Don’t get any ideas, you donkey.


Wow! Congrats on Xanga’s revised Terms of Service: Paragraph 11

Just amazing! Like in a Biblical morality play in which Good prevails decisively over Evil, I heard the fireworks of celebration just minutes after the Official Announcement from New Jersey. Those of us bloggers, high-traffic or not, who insist on consistently creating actual first-generation content, and who relate to our fellow-man and -woman with respect can be excused for our exuberant purchase of pyrotechnics. Just read the wording: My comments follow.
TOS-11:
Xanga as a class-act, responsible blogging platform provides its services principally to enable the consistent expression of literary and artistic content. We strive to encourage ‘excellence’, however tenous and fluid that concept may be. As in many other fields, it is often easier to delineate what excellence is decidedly ‘NOT’ than to attempt to describe it rigorously. The following is our attempt to list the various and lately all-too-frequent cancers which will absolutely no longer be tolerated as of 15 June 2010:
1) Posts written to simply attack another account-holder, and devoid even of any compensatory intellectual charm or humor will be killed on-sight.
2) Ditto for derivative and decadent ‘meta-posts’ prattling on ad nauseum about the medium itself: If you as a putative ‘thinker’ have nothing to say of any real substance, you are advised to spend the requisite 30 days in the desert contemplating your fascinating navel.
3) Basic grammar will from this date forward be insisted upon. This stipulation is no more draconian than a hospital’s requiring its surgeons to demonstrate a proficiency at cutting meat at a level exceeding that of some backyard Arkansas impromtu road-kill butchery. Posts titled “Your assholes!”, for example, will not only no longer appear in ‘Top Blogs’; their/they’re/there ‘Authors’ will find they’re/there/their accounts permanantly ‘oblivionized’.
4) The bizarre fictional ‘fun-identities’ featured prominently near the bottom of Top Blogs will henceforth be bull-dozed into a pit of un-inspired copy-cat land-fill we at Xanga  have conveniently secured near Hackensack, NJ. Been nice ‘knowing’ ‘you’.
5) ‘Time-stamping’, the moral on-line eqivalent of thoughtlessly standing on one’s chair in the front row of a sit-down concert, is immediately ‘de-optionized’. Posters desiring to update their entries will be required to prove that their tomatoes, (for example, pictured as seedlings back on 3 June)  have since blossomed and borne fruit, hence justifying a follow-up. We feel a duty to point out  that an entry, poignant though it may be, when time-stamped only obscures the view, in ‘Read my Subs’, of other younger no-less-worthy posts.
5) Comments, as of this date, shall be a minimum of fifteen(15) coherent words, and demonstrate a legitimate reading and comprehension of the post in question. Obviously “LOL”, “First!”, and “F*ck you” do not meet this stipulation. We at Xanga, let us repeat, derive our ultimate satisfaction from fostering a climate of informed discussion of pertinent concerns here in the critical early years of the 21st century. Cave-men did, unarguably, have proto-thoughts on ‘issues’, however  ‘Ugh’ has long been considered less-than sufficient as an informed opinion on today’s complex issues.
6) Specifically, food-fights on Religion will be deleted on-sight. This policy is based on the abysmally low  rate of life-changing epiphanies on either side of the boring-to-tears ‘debate’.
7)  We do hope you will enjoy the New-Look of Xanga. And do shed not too many tears for the absence of bloated illiterate controversy-seekers on our Front Page. (Names on request)


J.S.’s  comments: Hmmm.. Couldn’t have put it better me-self. There is a God! (bite my tongue.)


ADD: Web-site policy being the fast-changing topic it is, I am hearing, as we speak, about several late-breaking developments.
Specifically: Bowing to pressure, Xanga WILL now permit the following comments, pursuant to the relevant conditions:
‘LOL’ must be be supported by a short MPEG audio file documenting the out-loud nature of the laughter.
‘ROFL’ shall require a brief video clip with sound. (shot by a 2nd party, please. No bathroom-mirror footage.
As for ‘LMAO’ , simply upload two(2) JPEGS, labelled “Before” and “After”, clearly showing an intact ass in the former, and a detached one in the latter. Progress-pix, i.e. ‘half-assed’ photos are also acceptable.