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Saturday, October 30, 2004

Spoonicula 

Spoon went on quite a rampage yesterday. Since Spoon was spayed and all of the bitchy hormones have finally dissipated from her system she has been a lot less aggressive toward other females, all with the exception of other Border Terriers. She and other female Borders who cross paths will immediately engage in mortal combat like Highlanders or male Siamese fighting fish. I took the dogs on a walk on the beach yesterday and we came across another Border Terrier named Zellie. Instead of giving each other props and acknowledging the kinship of their common breed they murderously attacked each other. I had Spoon leashed so I managed to pull her off, but while she was in berzerker mode she bit my inner thigh. Spoon's 'friendly fire' caused two fang puncture wounds and a large plum sized bruise there. It looks like my leg was paid a visit by a 20 pound Nosferatu.

My cousin Fisher lives downstairs and moved his dog Dixie in from Texas yesterday. She is a beautiful, sweet Lab who, although 5 times Spoonie's size, is half blind and defenseless. Spoon has only tried to kill her once. They were introduced last night and things were going well until I left the room for a moment. I immediately heard savage screeching and howling. Fisher ran in and saw Spoon dangling off of Dixie's haunch by her teeth, latched on like a gila monster. Fisher somehow managed to pull her off without injuring Dixie. We tried getting them together again this morning and all was peaceful and the dogs were on their best behavior because Fisher was frying bacon and they were trying to charm some out of us. Spoon sat coiled on one of Pam's visiting friend's lap like a snake, pretending to be relaxed, but the entire time she was jealously monitoring whether Dixie was getting any more bacon than she was. I'm hoping that Spoon's bloodlust and aggression will end soon so all will be harmonious again. Breaking up dogfights is even worse than breaking up fist fights over the public internet terminals.

Thursday, October 28, 2004

We've been having troubles again with a certain homeless patron overstaying his 15 minute limit in the bathroom. This vagrant is in pitiful shape and I suspect that he is not intentionally abusing his bathroom privileges - it's just that his malt liquor and cheap fortified wine diet has ravaged his alimentary system and now it is too crippled for the demands of such a narrow time constraint. Since we only have one bathroom and patrons are complaining my manager is going to have to tell him to use the bathroom in the park, where there are no time limits. He and Loretta will have to work out some equitable stall time arrangement.

My friend Helen had a friend growing up whose mother was addicted to laxatives. Because of her debilitating dependency she would spend hours and hours on the toilet, so much so that if her children wanted to spend any time with her they would have to visit her in the bathroom. While she would hold court on the toilet her children would file in and sit on the edge of the bathtub and tell her all about their day at school. Helen's friend's warmest childhood memories are of time spent with her mother in the bathroom, where she would talk out her troubles with boyfriends and problems at school. These heart to hearts would end with the daughter giving her mother a big hug on the toilet. I guess if you grow up with it you don't think it's all that strange.

Tuesday, October 26, 2004

Loretta: Back on the Boulevard 

My favorite homeless regular/informant told me that Tom, a park nuisance, was picked up and sent to jail again for trespassing in the park. Tom is a football enthusiast and during the football season he cradles a football around in his arms and pretends to hurl it right in people's faces. He is built like a linebacker and when he mimics throwing it he does so with such aggressive force that the impact would surely break someone's nose or give them a concussion. When his targets understandably cower or scream he tells them to lighten up - he's just kidding around, like he's just a misunderstood but loveable comedian who is trying to brighten all of our lives. He is banned from the library but will occasionally pop his head in and pretend to throw his football at the terrified circulation staff. He also likes to stand in the middle of the road and direct imaginary traffic. After he was banned from the park he began taunting the police by putting one foot in the park, screaming "Nyah, Nyah" and then running away. The police tired of his obnoxious childishness and threw him in jail.

Sad news on the Loretta front. The street socialite has been evicted from her third city provided residential hotel room. She was incapable of complying with the most elementary house rules, not to mention basic tenets of decency. Her noisy entertaining of a succession of male callers, whose numbers surpassed even those of which Amanda Wingfield boasted, was grounds enough to have her put back on the street. I predict she will drift back to the park and stake out her traditional corner near the public bathrooms soon.

Saturday, October 23, 2004

A Scary and Cautionary Story for Halloween 

Imagine that I have a flashlight under my chin...

A girl I knew back in Birmingham was from the city's wealthy suburb Mountain Brook. She was the adopted only daughter of an established old family and she was their darling. She was very pretty but had a lot of learning disabilities and was drifting in college. She soon failed out and moved back home and began working as a waitress in a restaurant in the bar district. She was beautiful with classic features - she looked like Madeline Stowe - but didn't put on airs and was a generally good natured and sweet person, although sometimes lacking in judgment. She started socializing and partying with all of the restaurant staff, including the dishwashing and kitchen crew. They adored their little rich girl mascot. Her new friends and colleagues began offering her cocaine and she started doing a lot of it to keep with the fast pace and late hours of the food service lifestyle. She quickly developed an expensive habit.

One night about 3:00 AM after the restaurant closed she started driving around with one of the dishwashers, a man in his 40s, in search of cocaine. They bought some and then went back to his place in the projects to do it with the man's wife. They soon ran out, and he brought out some crack. She was extremely high and her judgment was out the window so she gave it a try. (She didn't want to be rude to her host, after all!) Before she knew it a couple of hours had passed. Her colleague then sat next to her and with great earnestness calmly said, "Now, I'm going to run something by you. My wife and I would like to have sex in front of you. We're not asking you to join in or do anything you're uncomfortable with, but we would really like it if you watched." She sat there on the couch, high beyond belief, trapped in the projects without a car, and watched this creepy middle age couple go at it.

She said that they were soon on the floor sweating and grunting like animals, and finally she couldn't take the performance anymore and ran out of their apartment. Even though it was 5:00 AM, she called her brother and said that he needed to come get her and drive her straight to treatment, NOW. Most people I've met who are in recovery have a good hitting bottom story but this is by far my favorite.

Thursday, October 21, 2004

How to Make Love Like a Porn Star: A Cautionary Tale 



"If you could overdose on autobiography, this book would be lethal."

NY Times Book Review

Here's some Thursday readers' advisory for you. Jenna Jamison's autobiography (written with generous help from Rolling Stone writer Neil Strauss) is so riveting I could hardly put it down to write this. When I left off she was a stripper in Las Vegas, down to 85 pounds from meth, writhing hysterically on the bathroom floor of her trailer, inconsolable because her drug dealing, tatoo artist biker boyfriend just left her. How does she overcome all this to become the acme of the porn world, the most downloaded woman of the internet? I'm a sucker for against all odds success stories, especially ones written like the author is on a meth jag! Added bonus: lots and lots of photographs, plus sage advice about the pitfalls of the biz, which she learned the hard way. You might have trouble finding a copy at your local library, though.




Tuesday, October 19, 2004

Act Disruptively and Carry a Big Stick 

The other morning I was walking the dogs and was stopped by the sight of a flock of feral parrots that had completely taken over a berry tree. A crowd soon gathered to watch the parrots devour the berries. To my left some tourists were busy taking photographs. I was dismayed to notice standing right next to me on my other side was one of the most problematic patrons in the system. I run into a lot of my patrons outside the library in unexpected places, sometimes so much so that I suspect that my reality is just one goddamn giant computer simulation and that the program is running low on memory and is having to recycle its characters.

This patron comes in to use our internet and is infamous for his histrionics when the computers aren't working. He is also notorious for carrying a large quarterstaff. He uses it ostensibly as a walking aid but it could easily double as weapon and it terrifies me. One of the side effects of his psychiatric medication is a dry mouth, a condition that makes his breath poisonous and causes him to smack his mouth in this maddeningly rhythmic way. This sound has almost driven me to tears more than once. Supposedly he had a large trust fund which has been bled dry by stays at mental institutions. He's abrasive, demanding and entitled. He likes to hover over my shoulder while I look up obscure titles for him on the interlibrary loan database and slowly smack in my ear and poke my monitor with his grimy index finger.

I first encountered him on the rainy night when the police came in to question the old homeless man who had been killing and roasting pigeons on a spit outside the library. He began to complain loudly to me that the interrogation was disruptive and that the police should have removed the suspect from the premises so as not to disturb the other patrons in the library, all two of them. I was frankly overjoyed to have the policemen there and couldn't care less about how much noise they were making. I wasn't about to go shush them and interfere with their job. He began complaining and fussing about how he was this serious scholar who had spent a lot of time at the British Library, an institution that would never have allowed this sort of disturbance. I told him that every system has its own unique challenges and that there was nothing I could do.

The last time he came in the library he was apparently off of his meds because he was wild eyed and agitated. He had used up his allotted time on the internet and the system wouldn't let him on again. He began to flail about in distress and I was terrified that he was going to start smashing the monitors with his cudgel. To calm him down I gave him a pass on the internet and he settled down. My favorite homeless man who gives me all of the background on all of the characters that wander into the library said that he has been kicked out of every shelter in the city and, although he is universally loathed by homeless and social workers alike for being so obnoxious, is basically harmless.

Best Part of Waking Up... 

I have been fascinated with chanting ever since I saw the Buddhist cremation scene on Six Feet Under. During the funeral ceremony, a group of Buddhist monks begin ritually chanting. The sound is stunning, like a cosmic punch in the gut, and I have never heard anything like it before. I ordered a CD from the library and was listening to it this morning. It was raining and I was drinking coffee and looking dreamily out the window at the incredible view of the city when I shifted my foot slightly, right into a large pile of cold dog vomit, which brought me crashing back to earth in a hurry. I guess the rib bones we gave Billy or Spoon last night didn't agree with their little systems.

Monday, October 18, 2004

Other People's Children's Keeper 

A little latchkey girl was acting rowdy and when I went to quiet her for the fifth or so time she was unrepentant and insolent so I kicked her out of the library with a stern, "Go play outside in the park, NOW!" I then spent the rest of the afternoon agonizing in a hellfire of guilt, certain that she was being sodomized in the park bathroom by some skid row vagrant. When I went outside on an errand I saw her skipping along across the street, carefree and unmolested, but still unsupervised and on her own. I waved her back in the library, where she spent the rest of the time we were open reading quietly in the corner.


Thursday, October 14, 2004

Wigfield: The Can-Do Town That Just May Not 

This book from Amy Sedaris, Paul Dinello and Stephen Colbert, the triumverate who brought you Strangers with Candy, is definitely not for everybody. I thought it was brilliant, though, and not just because the subject matter - the Deep South, strippers, white trash, and the dismantling of environmentally destructive dams - is close to my heart. Here is an excerpt that I find particularly insightful about the relationships between the sexes and how they are formed in the family.

An interview with Fleet Hollinger, the Mayor of Wigfield.

I'm also a family man. I have a son, Fleet Jr., who is at the military academy up in Shell Knob, hopefully getting some of the pussy kicked out of him. And I have a beautiful daughter by the name of Carla. She is just the apple of my eye a la mode. I can't believe how fast she is growing up. Soon it will be time for her to meet a fella and settle down. Now, if this hypothetical fella knows what's good for him, he'll treat her right. 'Cause I'm gonna be lurking in the shadows, keeping watch every minute. And if he so much as sullies, or stains, or soils the innocence of that angel who came straight from God, I swear to Sweet Jesus hanging out on the cross, I will mount his goddamn head on the grill of my 4x4. I shit thee not.

It doesn't take much bad influence to ruin a woman. Case in point, that gargoyle who lives at the edge of the woods who I used to call my wife [Now a lesbian Wiccan named High Priestess Thea]. I never saw it coming. She had the perfect life here. All she was required to do was sit in the comfort of the home I built, keep an eye on the kids, have my dinner ready, and keep her yapper shut. I barely even forced her to perform her Wifely Obligation, seeing as how I was having it taken care of it over at the club. Now, I'd call that pretty light lifting. But what you gonna do? I never professed to try to understand women. They're like handguns. You try to keep 'em clean. You try to keep 'em oiled. You take 'em out to the range every so often, fire 'em off. Then one day you forget to put the safety on, and when you're swabbing out the barrel, blammo it goes off in your face. But I can't waste my energy thinking about women, I've got a town to run.

Foxy Travel 

In keeping with my opinion that blogs are the ultimate vanity press, we have posted a link to Foxy Travel. There you'll find some old travelogues from the Philippines, Australia, Indonesia and, if I ever get off my ass, Russia.

And move over trend forecaster Faith Popcorn! Look with what eerie prescience I predicted back in 2000, although like Cassandra, no one believed me.
From December, 2000. Dateline: Perth, Australia:

Fair warning: Kylie Minogue did not sink into obscurity after her one
American hit, the lame & annoying remake of Locomotion. She is big here - bigger than Madonna. Australians practically tear up when you mention her name she is so beloved. Prepare & brace yourself NOW for a US Kylie comeback. She's ready, and she has all of Australia behind her.


Buried in the dispatches also is the secret of life that the dolphins whispered to me when I swam with them in Monkey Mia. You'll find it if you look hard enough. All right, all right. I'll go ahead and tell you here: Life ain't nothing but bitches and money.

Wednesday, October 13, 2004

Assaulted in the City 

Although I try to avoid this city's large shopping district as much as I can, there are just some items that can only be obtained properly in person at a large department store. I found this out the hard way after ordering some bras over the internet at Macys.com. Of course none of them fit right, so I went down to Macy's to exchange them. Even though the website assured that this would be an effortless, simple process I must have been the first person to ever attempt this in that department. The two saleswomen behind the counter weren't sure how to go about it and then disagreed about the correct procedure. Before I knew it, their disagreement quickly escalated to vicious bickering. As an alumna of Carole Reed I know how miserable being on your feet all day working retail is, but there is really nothing excusable about losing it in front of a customer like that. They didn't even try to restrain themselves and threw all professionalism out the window. They finally desisted when another coworker intervened and said that she would handle it. The women gave each other the stink eye and skulked off in opposites directions.

The saleswoman eventually figured it out and I exited Macy's, a little traumatized after witnessing the Macy's women turn on each other like that. While I was walking on the sidewalk of the busy shopping square ruminating about happy I was not to work in retail I felt someone grab me from behind. Before I knew it, two hands gripped my hips, shaking them back and forth like one of those old fraudulent quack machine belt weight reducers. I thought that maybe it was some friend giving me an overly exuberant greeting when it dawned on me that I didn't know anyone who looked like some old WPA reject who stank of fortified wine. I gave a cry of outrage and took my shopping bags and began beating my assailant on the head and body. The bags made very ineffective and unsatisfying weapons of defence because they only contained had a couple of bras and tissue paper. I then screamed something nasty at him that I'm too embarassed to repeat.

These two sweet Midwestern matrons who didn't have enough streetsmarts to pretend that they weren't seeing anything were aghast. I heard one of them say,

"Oh, my goodness. What on earth is going on?"

After the language I used, they probably reported back to all of their friends at home that they had seen an exciting fight between a pimp and one of his bitches. Anyway, my butt grabber started cackling like a crazy old miner and staggered off. The next time the library's beat cop paid a visit I complained to him about it. He said, "That sounds just like Rayland Flowers." I said, "You mean Rayland Flowers of Rayland and Madame? Has his career sunk so low?" And he said, "No, that's Wayland Flowers." You can understand my confusion.

He came in later that afternoon with a mug shot and sure enough it was a picture of a Mr. Rayland Flowers, who had this sheepish, coy, "Aren't I a naughty, naughty boy" smirk on his face in the picture. His m.o. is to run up and grab women on the ass and then run off. He's more of a nuisance than danger, and he only grabs booties of the finest quality, only certain ones that arouse sudden and violent passions in him, so it's a compliment, in a way. Our beat cop said that he would have a talk with Mr. Flowers.

Sunday, October 10, 2004

Should Offer Weekly Rates 

Our time in Idaho is nearing an end and E was searching for hotels to stay in tomorrow night when we're on the road. Here's a rather ominous review found on Tripadvisor of a place with the suggestive name of The Speakeasy Motel.

I pride myself on feeling as comfortable with the lowest of our society as the highest, yet when I walked into the lobby of the Speakeasy I was simply disgusted. A prior review suggested that there was poor ventilation, well it was much worse than that. My room was dirty, hot, poorly lit, and there was a powdery residue that seemed to cover all surfaces of the room including the bath. But what was most troubling, was that feeling you get when you sense a real danger. I could not stay there as I had a sense of impending doom. As a result of these conditions, I did not even have the strength the complain. I let them keep my $100, gathered my wife, and didn't walk but ran out of the place.

The review is inexplicably entitled "Should Offer Weekly Rates." The reviewer accuses the place in this gothic and overblown style of giving him a sense of 'real danger' and 'impending doom,' but the complaint that he chose to highlight above all else is that the place didn't cut him a weekly rate.

Friday, October 08, 2004

Lessons from the Animal Kingdom, Part II 

One morning I was lying in bed gazing out my window and noticed some activity outside. Some flying insects were colonizing the cavity between my bedroom window and storm window. I was dismayed to discover that the insects were wasps, but I couldn't help watching them fly back and forth. I became fascinated with their impressive industry – I could practically see their nest going up before my eyes. Even though the painful moth lesson was fresh in my mind I decided that since the wasps weren’t technically trespassing inside my house that it would be fun and safe to watch the construction process. I would have my own personal ant farm-like window into the inner workings of a wasp’s nest. Instead of being sensible and calling maintenance, I decided instead to keep and watch the wasps behind my protective glass. My view was so close-up that I could even see the objects they carried in their tiny mouths. Fancying myself a Jane Goodall of the poisonous insect world, I observed their activities closely and made a note of each new hexagonal cell added to the nest.

At night they would sleep in a layer around the surface of the nest, slowly beating their wings. One night I was checking on the sleeping wasps and had my face right up next to the glass. One of the wasps suddenly raised its head and stared at me with such malevolent, alien, hostile hatred that I actually drew back. The wasp must have communicated to his brethren in some instantaneous way either by pheromone or telepathy because all of the sudden all of the wasps were awake and staring at me in unison. It was as if they had just become aware of my presence at that instant and did not like what they saw one bit. From their hostile, evil glares I could tell that they were not in any way interested in peaceful coexistence. Completely creeped out, I went to bed. In the middle of the night I was awoken by a tiny scratching on my face and hands. I turned on my lamp and there were about 5 wasps crawling all over me and my bed - sentinels, I assume, on a reconnaissance and/or seek and destroy mission. To this day I still don’t know how they managed to get in through the window. I squealed in terror and ran out of my bedroom and slammed the door. I had to spend the rest of the night on the couch downstairs. The next morning I called maintenance and had the wasp nest taken care of like I should have done in the first place.

While the wasp drama was unfolding I began having problems with a coworker. I was employed by the corporate library of a power company in Alabama. At that time the power business was slowly lurching toward deregulation. Work at the power company had an almost civil service pace, with redundancies and lots of dead weight. As the company began gearing up for competition they finally began to pay attention to their bottom line. One of the cost savings measures enacted was to cut their real estate overhead. The library was in a prime location and had to consolidate its collection and weed heavily. Cubicles replaced many of the bookshelves. A small department completely unrelated to the library – I think they had something to do with graphics - moved in. This was there third move in the year and something about their Joad like existence, and the fact that they all knew deep down that their make work jobs were doomed, caused their point person, whom we’ll call Tracie, to snap.

Tracie was a newly wed and had cut all of her hair into a very unflattering short style, which is what a certain variety of pink collar Southern woman does to give notice that her ass is about to spread to gargantuan portions. Her most unattractive feature, however, was the sound of her voice. The Southern accent can be one of the most beautiful on earth, but she did not have that particular kind. Her twang was strident and she pronounced her name Trayayaycie with grating epenthesis. We shared the same last name and I was terrified that people would think we were related.

She would visit me in my cubicle and waste unconsciable amounts of my time complaining about the many ways she had been victimized by the company. Her tales of injustice were always baroque, conspiratorial and tedious. The sagas would always end with her somehow being cheated out of her annual bonus and the money she felt was rightfully hers going to someone less worthy. As she would drone on I found her hideous twang increasingly difficult to tune out. During one deadline I was less than receptive and she took umbrage and decided that I had turned from a sympathetic ear into an enemy.

She started her campaign subtly and pettily. She would ask sweetly if her department could have the backside of a bookshelf I had emptied during the massive weeding, and I would say, sure. I would come in the next day and she would have taken 2 entire rows of bookshelves. When I asked her why she had taken so much more than I had given she would looked at my like I was crazy and replied, “Oh, no. You say-aid I could hay-ave both.” She stated it with such sincerity that for a moment I thought maybe I was mistaken. I actually began to doubt myself a little, even though I knew that I would never have given her those shelves. I let her have them anyway, which was a tactical error on my part. She was very Hitler in '38 - my concession emboldened her.

Several similar incidents followed, and each time she would deny that she had overstepped her bounds or done anything without permission. Then she got greedy. She wanted to forward all of her department calls to the library. Aside from office space our departments were not connected in any way, so I thought this was a terrible and presumptuous idea. She basically was asking me to be her receptionist. My boss said absolutely not, anyway. Well, she went ahead and did it. I discovered she had done this with the phones on the same morning as the wasps had invaded my bedroom. I decided that the wasps were a metaphor from nature for this crazy fucking bitch. Like a wasp, she was a creature with whom I could not reason nor peacefully coexist. I reported her unauthorized phone forwarding to my boss and she was officially reprimanded. Well, that was it. She left me alone afterwards but froze me out, jerking her chin away from me whenever we would cross paths. I thought, “Fine with me, you child.”

Sadly, I couldn’t call someone to remove her like the I did the wasps so we still had to share close quarters. She needed a new target for her petty aggression and she got one when her department began using temporary labor. I watched her toy with and systematically fire 4 temps, who had no recourse and could be dismissed for any reason. Not content with just sacking them, she would invent preposterous but reputation destroying cases against them. She would report that they had stolen a ream of fax paper or had spent all day on the phone on personal calls. I knew for sure that the latter was an outright lie because my cubicle was right next to the one the temps used.

But, justice was finally served. It turns out that the last temp she tried to fire had worked in the company before and had many connections, including a close friendship to Tracie’s boss’ boss, a relationship of which Trayayaycie was unaware. She got herself into real hot water. The entire drama was reaching a crescendo when I got a job that moved me out of the city and across the country, so I never did find out what happened to her. I’m sure her job has been eliminated, but, unfortunately, like the fulsome kittens that populated her cubicle on posters and in photographs, that kind usually ends up landing on their feet.

Wednesday, October 06, 2004

Lessons from the Animal Kingdom, Part I 

Years ago I was reading in bed and noticed a moth fluttering around my bedside lamp. Instead of taking my book and crushing the moth against the wall, I spent about 10 minutes trying to capture it, painfully stubbing my toe in the process. Gently cupping the insect in my hands, I carried it outside, careful so the powder (which is actually not powder, but tiny scales) on its wings did not rub off on my hands. I released the moth into the night, saying “Be free, little one!” and felt the warm and pious glow one gets from being gentle to all God’s creatures, even a little moth. I felt practically Jain! I went to bed marveling at the connection that all living things share.

I forgot about my little winged visitor until a few months later when I went to pull out all of my sweaters for winter. Every single one had gaping holes. As I frantically examined my sweaters I noticed that my favorites - the sweaters I treasured most - had suffered the most damage and were now practically lacy with holes. I stifled a scream, because I realized that the voracious offspring of the little moth I had saved were responsible for the destruction of a large part of my wardrobe. Now I am merciless and hunt down and destroy any trespassing moths and have put big blocks of cedar in my sweater drawer.

Coming up next, wasps build a nest in my storm window, and a coworker tries to take over my office space.

Monday, October 04, 2004

Idaho 

It’s gorgeous and…potatoey. The leaves are changing and the state is also experiencing a wonderful Indian Summer. It’s like being in a John Denver song! We are having a wonderful time going on long hikes with the dogs every day. They like to run ahead on the trails so they have plenty of time to roll with sensual abandon in any greasy slick of putrefaction they find on the trail. After grinding the decaying matter as deeply as they can into their fur they smugly trot away, wrapped securely in their cloaks of invisibility and stink, believing themselves undetectable to any rodents they may come across. Spoonie rolled in some large animal's urine/and or remains and her smell rivaled the worst of my patrons. Thankfully through on the job training at the library I have learned to mute my sense of smell.

The Tennis Ball: Billy's teacher, mother, secret lover

I have written before of Billy’s relationship with tennis ball, which is unhealthy and obsessive, and maybe a little bit disturbingly sexual. Something about the essence of tennis balls hits the addiction section of his pea brain. He can only be given tennis balls under very controlled circumstances or destruction and mayhem will result. In a mystery worthy of Leonard Nimoy’s In Search Of. Billy was able to find TWO tennis balls 3 miles into a trail that was pristine. Besides the trail itself there was absolutely no evidence of man, not even a cigarette butt or Power Bar wrapper! It was as if the tennis balls had fallen from a plane in a The Gods Must Be Crazy type situation, or that Billy had regurgitated them. He had a wonderful time rolling it under our feet so we would kick it and ‘make it alive’ and he could stalk it, seize it and shake and snap its 'neck,' always on narrow precipice or on a hairpin turn.

Friday, October 01, 2004

Churchill's Wit and Wisdom 

Despite being burdened by large student loan debts after graduate school, I spent my entire first bonus on the complete collection of National Lampoon , and will always consider it money well spent. Now some of the classics are available on the internet. Here is one of my favorite pieces on the wit and wisdom of Churchill. After I had heard the real tales about 40 times by pretentious college boys trying to be the height of sophisticated wit, and had even seen the "you'll still be ugly" one on a fraternity shirt, something about the blunt crudeness of the National Lampoon versions killed me.

Churchill was known to drain a glass or two and, after one particularly convivial evening, he chanced to encounter Miss Bessie Braddock, a Socialist member of the House of Commons, who, upon seeing his condition, said, "Winston, you're drunk." Mustering all his dignity, Churchill drew himself up to his full height, cocked an eyebrow and rejoined, "Shove it up your ass, you ugly c*nt."

Here’s another good parody, from Othercrap.com.

After Gulliani compared George W. Bush to Churchill:

Once at an elegant dinner party when the future president still enjoyed imbibing some recreational beverages, George Bush said to Janet Reno, “You’re ugly,” whereupon the grand dame replied, “You’re drunk, George.” The Churchillian Texan smiled, “But in the morning I will still be drunk. Wait, that ain’t right. I mean it is right, but that ain’t what I meant to say. In the morning…fool me twice…. You can’t get fooled twice, you see.”

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