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.

‘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.

Eric-the Red is Blue in Greenland

   Ten long years Eric saved up to take his wife on a round-the world jaunt, working a double shift welding boat-anchors in Jonesport, Maine. And to have his dream crushed at the last minute, well, who wouldn’t be blue?
    Sitting all alone on the tiny hotel bed in Keflavik,  counting his traveler’s cheques (Can I afford a fjord?) and wondering how a simple poem could have so suddenly pushed his wife over the edge.
He’d meant well. Poring over the travel brochures, back in the modest trailer that had been their home for 31 years, he’d noticed that Franny could maybe use a quick update on countries, capitals, foreign tongues, that sort of thing. It was her 53rd birthday, and yes, she was right: “You never wrote me a love-poem, hon.”
Well, Eric shall kill two albatrosses with one necklace’, he thought to himself, wondering just as you, dear reader, where that metaphor could’ve come from?  But un-fazed, he sat at the kitchen table and wrote these lines on the back of an envelope, his Lonely Planet guide spanning the cracks in the old table. The Quickee-mart Bic gave up the ghost just as he finished drawing a heart at the bottom; a good omen, he thought.
   Leaving it for Franny to see, he went to work at 5:30 AM. She was gone by 10:00. Along with the cigar-box from under the bed.
    Now some men would have searched high and low. Others would grimly accept their Nordic fates. Eric looked a few minutes in the crawl-space under the trailer, checked behind the trash-cans out on the curb, then admitted defeat. Ok, defeat plus his last paycheck, which he cashed on the way to the airport.
“Greenland, one way” he told the clerk. She didn’t try to talk him out of it. He looked adamant.
“Greenland, a country as big as South America from the looks of it, and with only 56,000 people.” he thought, smiling just a wee bit. “If that’s where she’s hiding, I’ll probably run into her sooner or later.”


To Franny, my dear wife: I’m so excited. Here are a couple things to remember, love, ‘Ric’

Paris is ‘Par-ee’; you won’t em-
barrass us, mais oui?
We’ll climb the Eifel tower
This shall be “Our finest hour”

Munich, that’d be ‘Muenchen’
As in Abraham or Lincoln
Or the ’36 Olympics
Yes, you know just what I’m thinkin’

Athens, that’s in Georgia;
Where we’re going’s called ‘A’tuna’
And Helen, she don’t live there now
Shoulda bought our tickets sooner?

There’s a Moscow in Ohio, they got
moss and cows and trees
But in ‘Mosk’va’,or ‘Mosk’vo’go’
Russian’s full of mysteries

Then we’re off, Tegucigalpa
with our knickers at our knees
Where Van Gogh plays the banjo; plays
‘by ear’, sweet as you please

London? Hey, no problem:
Is that a lorry or a tram?
They make-do with a dialect
They stole from Uncle Sam

‘Rome’ is what the phone does
When it’s, you know, ‘when in Rome’
Oklahoma rhymes with ‘Roma’,
The Colliseum needs a dome

Now everything’s an import
On the back:  ‘Made in Japan’
‘Cept my watch, says ‘Nippon Gaki’
Hey, we do the best we can

And Burma ain’t been ‘Burma’ since the
kids began to shave
It’s Myanmar, Yeah, really.
You been living in a cave?

Kat-Man Dew, I love that brew
They sell it in Nepal
It’s ‘good for man or beast’
There where the mountains are too tall 

Bombay, that’s like, ‘yesterday’
Today it’s called Mumbai
But careful, they’re still Indians
shoot an arrow in your eye.

Detained in Israel, next stop: Sing Sing?

My Dear Friends: I write this in dis-grace and dis-gust. And in dis hell-hole they call Tel Mond Medium Security Prison. Right off of Highway ‘4’, its fabled failed sewer system is impossible to ignore even with the windows rolled up. A grim reminder to motorists never to get caught for murder, tax evasion, or coveting your neighbor’s ass.
I’m innocent of course. Like everyone in jail, in my experience. My cell-mate ( I hate that ‘-mate’ part, but what ya gonna do?) keeps humming “If you got the time, we got the Bud®.” Over and over. Guess he held the bud, now he does the time, but seriously, I’m in here as a first-offence ‘Repeat-Offender’. Strange?
    I thought so. I was just sitting at my hum-drum no-do-dads computer typing a mish-mash of artsy-fartsy touchie-feelie brik-a-brak for my Xanga when I heard the sirens. Outside the window I saw a hodge-podge of rent-a-cop riff-raff running willy-nilly in all directions. Goody-goody that I am, I ran down the stairs helter-skelter to see if I could help…
“What’s all the brou-ha-ha?” I asked. Fail!
“That’s him. Book him” grunted the only goon with a name-tag. Uh-oh.
“Ministry of Redundancy Department-Enforcement: Repetition” it proudly spelled out. Damn, bagged  by mental Ju-ju-bes™ who can’t even spell ‘M-U-R-D-ER’.
    Fast forward to my preliminary. Cuffed, I was led into a ticky-tacky make-do arraignment room and after a hush-hush pow-wow in chambers, was forced to endure the sing-song prattle of Judge Wallaby. Probably wanted to be a kangaroo when he grew up.
“Let’s take a look-see at the hear-say evidence.” he mouthed the script. The unremarkable but arresting officer needed only a few seconds to quote, all out of context, a couple lines from a Xanga post I’d been working on, and the honorable marsupial was convinced:
“Dirty!” was all he said
“But-but I can explain!” I tried, but it was hopeless.
“Pooh-pooh on your ding-dong excuses.” the cop spit on my shoe.
“No really, it was a piece on the World Soup Contest©. The judges didn’t allow Progresso, so ‘so-so‘ Soviet soup won one. How else can you say it?”  I asked, not expecting an answer.
“Thirty days, Tel Mond” the judge ruled and my heart reeled. I pretended not to have heard well.
“Could you repeat that, yer honour?”
“No way. That’s your racket, Bozo.”
   It was all over but the costume change.
“Don’t you-uns got anything in a pin-stripe-pajamas motif?” I asked, taunting the guard, “and where’s my goddamned yellow star?” He didn’t get it, having probably been asleep-at-the-remote when that series aired. The judge looked bored, cramming my papers back into the file-folder.
“And who’s gonna feed my little doggie?” I tried one last appeal.
“Shoulda thought of that when you named him ‘Rin Tin Tin’.” he scowled, and threw the folder in the trash can.
So anyway, see you guys in two weeks or so, with good behavior. Bye Bye. Oops, three weeks.

There may or may not be a Dog

Somebody stop me. My imprudent argumentative bent seems to attract efforts at straightening-it-out. Like a dog’s hind leg… which brings me to my latest farce of a fracas:
Johnny, our favorite Sacrifical Lamb-unto-the sacrilege-seeking forces of Eternal truth. He boldly stepped into the Lion’s mouth and emerged, pride intact, chewed to pieces pretty badly but whole, on the whole.
To wit: An article I worked damn hard on, on ontology. ‘Agnostic Position Paper’ I proudly called it, a precursor to my up-and-coming-longer Really-supreme Beings: Really?’, it questioned our un-questioned belief in DOG. In it I sided solidly with those on the middle ground, having sighted my target audience waiting with swords poorly-drawn, and cited chapter and verse in a literate but skilled caninological coup d’etat.

And sent it to the esteemed but steamed-up editor of the AKC(!)


I know what you’re thinking, dear mind-reading readers
:
“Dumb move!” Yes, I should have gone with the cat-fancier’s journal, of course. We both know that… now.
It took the hounds at the American Kennel Club® only 48 hours to trash my lawn. And rather than leave their un-covered spoor littering the substance of the issue, they chose to pick nits with my academic style. In a rejection letter beginning with ‘PAP!’  I was rabidly accused of failing to use ‘ibid.’ where indicated on page three of my footnotes. The horror!
Yes, torn by terriers, set-upon by setters, pointed-at by pointers;  pretty soon I’ll simply come over to the opposing side, tail between my legs, I suppose they suppose.
But they are doubly wrong.
The reference-song I cited, ‘Song A’ (see below) had already appeared in footnote 117, followed by three citations of other disparate works of audio-fidelity right here on my Xanga site. I therefore listed it as an ‘op. cit’, (Latin for ‘Same dog, but still barking’, something like that there.)
Big deal. These bloody-hounds don’t deserve my mind-numbing, gut-wrenching soul-searching. Let them have their wagging tales of an imaginary benevolent beast. In fact, my reply took me even less than the 10 seconds they deserve.
My response to “PAP! AGNOSTIC POSITION PAPER(?)”
……………..was “RE: ‘PAP’. NO, IT IS OP CIT: ‘SONG A'”
Read it and weep, Fido-breath. Any direction you want.