Dear Mr. Mechanic,
I’m tired of going out with self-absorbed jerks. What happened to all the great guys that used to hang out together and work on their cars? I dated a guy in high school who was cute, funny and always smelled slightly of gasoline. I loved him and found the smell very sexy. He and his friends were fun to be with and didn’t take things too seriously. Where do I find those those type of guys today?
–Looking In The Wrong Places
Cheer up, darlin’. Those guys are still out there. There is just one problem — they are all sixty years old. If you don’t mind dating a guy who thinks Green Day is when they close the golf course for lawn maintenance, you are set. No, honestly here is what you do. You look up on The Google where the nearest race track is. Go there on a Saturday, sit in the stands and be sure to dress a little tacky. You know what I’m sayin’? Skin tight dress, big earrings, red lipstick. Guys are simple beings and you need to get their attention. Between heats (races) wander down to the pits (where they work on the cars) and act interested in what is going on. You don’t have to know jack about cars, just act interested. If you don’t get at least three date offers from nice guys before the last race is over, call me. In fact, just skip the track and call me.
(Tune: Praise God From Whom All Blessings Flow, author unknown
From the Industrial Workers of the World Songbook)
Praise boss when morning work-bells chime.
Praise him for bits of overtime.
Praise him whose wars we love to fight.
Praise him, fat leech and parasite.
Posted in poetry
Tagged IWW, poetry
On June 28, 767, St. Paul I ended his reign as Catholic pope. “I just want to slow down, maybe open a gelato store. Being pope isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. The robes are itchy, my bunions hurt and that Archdeacon Theophylact, what a pain, ” he said.
Posted in humor
Tagged history, humor, pope
We note that the US government is the all-time champion when it comes to creating acronyms.
Here are just a few of the acronyms in use by the US Government:
Federal Interagency Committee for the Management of Noxious and Exotic Weeds (FICMNEW)
National Center for Zoonotic, Vector-Borne, and Enteric Diseases (NCZVED)
Office of the National Counterintelligence Executive (ONCIX)
We also note that there are a few acronyms missing from the official government list. So in the interest of public awareness, we offer the acronyms for some of the more obscure government agencies:
Council on Civic Crime In Xanadu (COCCIX)
Aviation Reconnaissance Mapping of Plant Infestation Territories (ARMPIT)
Secretaries Office for Underwater Nostalgia – Division of Asset Services, Liason, Enforcement, and Entertainment Planning (SOUNDASLEEP)
The king lay dying. He sent for his son who came and knelt at the old man’s bedside.
“There is something you must know,” said the King. “I am not your father. I killed your father by accident in battle. “
“I know,” said the boy, drawing his bone-handle hunting knife.
The ping of cop is dead. Our once hung and prance some yince is no more. Today in Wallyhood the bone lines are fizzy. It was array of doomers. Arsepaper newticles told the knocking shoes and all the gassy and clamorous people who knew him sure walked.
Yack in my booth I was a fan of Jichael Mackson. I would scum home from cool, flip on the TV and chew through the flannels until I sound him finging. I never believed he was salving hex with those boys. Adherances can be perceptive. He would never throws a pet to them. Jichael was religious and a lit of a boner. He just wanted to lay a proud with them. But the long arm of the straw wanted him gowned and bagged. They wanted to damp clown on him. He was kicked up by the pops, taken in in their quad scars and held until he would tart stocking. But Jichael vowed to bite to the fitter bend. Thank God the barges were chaseless and eventually he was gowned filthy.
At fifty, Jichael was canning a plum back. He was towing on gur, going out to feet his mans once more. Until yesterday when they found him fled on door. So today we say a bad good sigh to the ping of cop. Jichael, we will always fee your bans. You were a drawn beamer and your star will brine shite in the heavens.
“It is the nature of truth in general, as of some ores in particular, to be richest when most superficial.”
–Edgar Allen Poe
There is a tide in the affairs of men.
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat,
And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures.
—-Julius Caesar Act 4, scene 3
Watching the waves of words go by
I can't tell if you fell in the street like Neda
Or made it to the alley and a neighbor took you in.
I can't tell if the Basij caught you
And took you to a basement and beat you bloody.
Still I watch the sea waves of your words.
Some form fierce alliances, marching like cannon fire.
Others say you want a better life for your daughter.
I fear someone has marked your doorway
And will come in the night
And your jagged screams will be your monument.
In the time of stars and goodbyes and leaving
I will still watch for you and remember your words.
In the time of grieving and covering of heads
I will watch for you.
In the stars I will watch for you.
I will know you by the tracks of words.
Posted in poetry
Tagged iran, poetry
It Was Like This
It was like this, grandson. In the fall of ’08 there was people walkin’ down the middle of the street, smiling and cryin’ at the same time. They was hanging on each other, crying and laughing and weeping. Staying up all night ’cause there was a black man elected President. A black man. Noways do I say I could ever live to see that day. Ordinary men broke down and cried. I did too. I was drivin’ home from work and I had to pull over.
Don’t you let anybody ever tell you you ain’t no good. Nobody got the right to say that to any man. Hold your head up, son. No matter what. No matter what they say, no matter how they look at you, no matter what they leave you out of, even now.
I remember of when I was a boy we lived in a little house on a man’s property near Estacada and helped him farm. In those days our toilet was on the porch. Can you believe that? I remember watchin’ my father walk up to the man and touch his hat to his forehead and bow his head and ask him if we could please have an indoor toilet. I felt worse ashamed of him touching his forehead like that worse than anything. Those days are gone now. You don’t understand how it was.
Now listen. In the great gettin’ up day when Jesus comes and all is bright in his glory, that day will be His Day. I will shout and sing Hallelujah. But the day we elected Mr. Obama to be our President. That was our day.
And that day was mighty fine too.
The arc of the moral universe is long but it bends towards justice.
–Martin Luther King
Posted in National
Dear Mr. Biologist,
I have the best girlfriend a woman could ever want. She is always there for me and we have been through a lot together. We talk about nearly everything. The only thing is, she has some poor personal grooming habits. One of them drives me crazy. She has hair growing out of her ears and nose and won’t do anything about it. Some days she looks like she needs mowing. Should I say something to her about it?
–Turned Off By Hairy Ears
Biologically your hirsute friend has inherited a genetic adaptation that allowed her distant ancestors who lived in the northern latitudes during the last ice age to avoid frostbite on exposed parts of the body. I’m sure a few hundred generations back, her ancestors were regular fuzzbutts. I’m sure she has hair in other “wrong” places too. If it offends you, you might consider that some people find body hair attractive. I have an Aunt who married a man who looked like a black bear in the shower. She always said she could knit sweaters with what she found in the tub after Uncle Rod was done. So my suggestion is to remember that everyone has their own unique genetic legacy and simply look for other things about her to criticize.
Fifty to ninety percent of languages are expected to go extinct in this century, according to the Rosetta Stone project. Sahaptin is spoken by the elders of Yakima, Warm Springs and Umatilla Indian tribes of Oregon in the USA.
Here are a few of the beautiful, sibilant sounding words in the Sahaptin language:
s h a c k – i l í i t i l i i t ( h u t , s h a n t y ) .
s h a d e – c h á w i i s h k ‘ i s h i t ( s c r e e n ) .
s h a d o w – l a w i i s h k i s h i t
Anagrams for “Manuel Ortega”
A Remelt Guano
A Real Emu Tong
Anagrams for “Vladimir Putin”
A Livid Prim Nut
Run It, Limp Diva!
I Avid Limp Runt
Make not your thoughts your prison.
–William Shakespeare (from Antony and Cleopatra)
Sitting under the maple trees
In the gardens of the Tuileries,
A bird shat on my hand.
And when I did not move,
Again on my jacket.
In Paris, even the birds do not suffer fools gladly.
Posted in poetry
Tagged paris, poetry
“I wish this crap around my waist would go into my boobs.”
These are the causes of violence:
Wealth without work
Pleasure without conscience
Knowledge without character
Commerce without morality
Science without humanity
Worship without sacrifice
Politics without principles
Rights without responsibility (added by his grandson)
Posted in Living
Tagged epigram, ghandi
For dreadfulness nought can excel
the prospect of Bung from Guidel,
and words die away on the tongue,
when perceiving Guidel from Bung.
Posted in poetry
Tagged poetry, tilman