Cesar could be found nightly, reclining in his easy chair, quietly observing the spectacle through the bending of the fishbowl glass (he could tolerate only the most docile of animal companionship), content to suffer the mental gymnastics that are the price of admission to watching one’s mother recreate Mary Lou Retton’s bronze medal effort on a set of shower curtain rods. From his armchair turret, no adult beverage – no matter its country of origin, no matter how stiff, could give explanation to the inexplicable. He often wondered aloud what he had done to incur such wrath from the Penates, forced to cohabit these 42 years with a woman who’s mental chassis was, at best, long overdue for a good oil-lube-and-filter service. It was nights like this that had him literally on his knees, begging for the 210 Bus Line out of Yardley to veer wildly out of control, suddenly (and of course permanently) putting an end to her next stoop ball match.
Cauterizing his reproductive tubules the previous night guaranteed his lack of offspring, but the five-and-ten utensils he used to do so guaranteed his decree of vigilance over his scarred and festering rasher-like male organ of copulation. It’s true, the new smell that now rose from his nether regions was quite offensive, but some would say the same about heroic verse, or pickled cabbage, or his “collection” of amputee hookers that littered the basement of mother’s house.
Speaking of such, Cesar longed for the days when he’d doff his urine-soaked stetson, roll a j, and quench his parch-laced throat at the Martin’s Nest before trolling the side streets of Auburn Hills and Pontiac proper – his wrist-sized four-hundred-day clock providing a steady backbeat to one seriously fucked up night of recreational drug use and sex-for-hire. On the nights that his “foreign diplomat” ruse proved too transparent, he’d end up balling the mannequin he kept in the trunk of his 1975 Renault. And on the nights that the mannequin was far too incinerated for great, golden copulations, he’d dry dock his love boat and perform a manual jerk off ala el duderino (for those of the anti-brevity persuasion).
Some things you should know about the solemn Cesar and his wolf pack mentality work habits:
- He once used a corn stalk to increase the noise factor in his powerpoint training seminar
- He attempted to interpose banana daquiris between 2:00 p.m. and 3:00 p.m. as a legitimate “alternative-to-coffee” coffee break because "he heard it was all the rage" in the Eternal City
Speaking of Rome, if you’re ever in that hamlet, be sure to visit Vicolo Uomo Selvatico, named in honor of Cesar’s prowess with a Cypress bough (non-composite cypress, mind you).
4.03.2007
4.02.2007
Sucks to the rules!
Debalt and Huffer were a couple working stiffs, inexplicably cohabiting with a pair of twin mannequins just outside the eternal city. From the composite I’ve rendered, this harum-scarum foursome was little more than a hungry wolf pack, who would stalk their prey and interpose their will in a manner less than diplomatic.
One sunny afternoon, I was minding my own business watching the girl’s gymnastics team (undress) practice for the upcoming event. I was feeling rather parched so I headed into the hall when I saw this hottie apparently waiting for the bus. Well before you know it I had dry-docked her beneath the bleachers. I sort of had to stoop ball though because she was pretty short, but she was awfully docile. We had a couple rolls so things heated up quickly. Well, anyway I was really giving her the old rasher, you know, the big cypress. And believe me, she was singing heroic verse. We were having such a good time, neither of us even considered the noise factor. Just then, in walks the wolf pack looking all solemn saying “just be patient young ones” and “practice vigilance” and a bunch of other crap that just really ruined the moment. I was immediately like “I decree this day wolf pack asshole day” and started putting back on the clothes I’d doffed.
It turned out not to matter much anyway, the first of our offspring was born just nine months later. Now we’ve got two boys ages five and ten. The big one we call Manual, because we learned how to raise him straight out of a book, like a new baby owner’s manual. The youngster’s named Turret for the way his head was shaped when he was born. Anyway we love ‘em to death, but I’ve sworn to the Penates that soon, when that four hundred day clock chimes, Manual and Turret will find this wolf pack, steal the mannequins and do something REALLY offensive. You’ve been warned!
One sunny afternoon, I was minding my own business watching the girl’s gymnastics team (undress) practice for the upcoming event. I was feeling rather parched so I headed into the hall when I saw this hottie apparently waiting for the bus. Well before you know it I had dry-docked her beneath the bleachers. I sort of had to stoop ball though because she was pretty short, but she was awfully docile. We had a couple rolls so things heated up quickly. Well, anyway I was really giving her the old rasher, you know, the big cypress. And believe me, she was singing heroic verse. We were having such a good time, neither of us even considered the noise factor. Just then, in walks the wolf pack looking all solemn saying “just be patient young ones” and “practice vigilance” and a bunch of other crap that just really ruined the moment. I was immediately like “I decree this day wolf pack asshole day” and started putting back on the clothes I’d doffed.
It turned out not to matter much anyway, the first of our offspring was born just nine months later. Now we’ve got two boys ages five and ten. The big one we call Manual, because we learned how to raise him straight out of a book, like a new baby owner’s manual. The youngster’s named Turret for the way his head was shaped when he was born. Anyway we love ‘em to death, but I’ve sworn to the Penates that soon, when that four hundred day clock chimes, Manual and Turret will find this wolf pack, steal the mannequins and do something REALLY offensive. You’ve been warned!
Docile Diplomat
In my youth I was a different man, strong and docile from years of gymnastics. These days I move like the turret on my lathe, stiff and creaky from years of ware. It’s inexplicable to me how the Di Penates of my home would allow me this wench, this bastion of evil with whom I cohabit, that has so clearly aged me.
I remember back in Brooklyn, waiting for the bus and playing stoop ball with her and the other fortunate offspring of Joey (the Hair) and Sandra, proud owners of the neighborhood five-and-ten. I would decree that very day that extreme vigilance would be necessary to keep me from the rasher aroma and offensive appearance she so readily protruded. But alas, she was not a girl for Heroic verse, but would simply doff her dress for a roll in the hay until we were both parched and ready to wind the four-hundred-day clock.
In time, I became a diplomat, and she practically a mannequin, and our relationship was dry-docked from the start. Albeit through the manual alphabet, I took a solemn oath with this woman despite her angry wolf pack courtship methods. I swear she would stalk me relentlessly and wail at my every indiscretion until I’d submit from the noise factor alone. Lately it has occurred to me that perhaps a nice shiny metal object might interpose, and together we could find a quaint resting place for her back home, in the eternal city, beneath an aging cypress. Of course when the witnesses are called upon for the composite sketch, what they would most certainly recall is a different man, one strong and docile from years of gymnastics.
I remember back in Brooklyn, waiting for the bus and playing stoop ball with her and the other fortunate offspring of Joey (the Hair) and Sandra, proud owners of the neighborhood five-and-ten. I would decree that very day that extreme vigilance would be necessary to keep me from the rasher aroma and offensive appearance she so readily protruded. But alas, she was not a girl for Heroic verse, but would simply doff her dress for a roll in the hay until we were both parched and ready to wind the four-hundred-day clock.
In time, I became a diplomat, and she practically a mannequin, and our relationship was dry-docked from the start. Albeit through the manual alphabet, I took a solemn oath with this woman despite her angry wolf pack courtship methods. I swear she would stalk me relentlessly and wail at my every indiscretion until I’d submit from the noise factor alone. Lately it has occurred to me that perhaps a nice shiny metal object might interpose, and together we could find a quaint resting place for her back home, in the eternal city, beneath an aging cypress. Of course when the witnesses are called upon for the composite sketch, what they would most certainly recall is a different man, one strong and docile from years of gymnastics.
The beggar and the fat man
Out in the work shed is some composite material consisting of cypress, pine and number of other evergreens. I acquired it in Rome, the eternal city, when I happened upon a beggar and a fat man quarrelling over the remains of a ground-score donut and felt the need to interpose. Surprised by the noise factor these two men were creating over half a donut, I investigated further and saw their fight was also over a well-aged stalk of celery. As I approached, the argument escalated until they appeared as a rabid wolf pack, solemnly devouring a fresh kill. It was obvious to me these men had lived hard lives of manual labor, perhaps down at the dry-dock, and I wanted to help. When I tried to speak with them, the fat man just stared like a mannequin, but the beggar spoke as eloquently as a diplomat. He told me of his life, and how he used to work for an evil man building four-hundred-day clocks out of parchment. It was grueling work but he felt it was his chosen roll in life and vowed to never doff this proverbial hat. His employer would certainly not be found in Heroic verse, an offensive, berating man who paid hardly enough to provide one rasher a day. Through constant vigilance the employees were able to avoid group molestation which the employer had decreed a team building exercise. He recalled that fateful Christmas eve at the five-and-ten when he, out of desperation, attempted to steal for his only offspring the stoop ball he couldn’t afford. Finding it more difficult than he anticipated for a man to hide a ball under his shirt, he was delayed and missed his bus to work causing him to lose his job and subsequently the home in which he, his wife Wanda and son Billy did formally cohabit. He swore the Penates had abandoned him for some inexplicable reason. He was stiff with anger when he spoke of how he and his family had been living ever since in the turret of a dilapidated old fortress by the coast. Then he said how much he missed watching girls gymnastics, with those docile little ladies bouncing here and there. Though I thought that last part was weird, I gave the silly sap-story sucker twenty bucks and he gave me this really nice piece of composite material consisting of cypress and those other evergreens.
Play ball!
Today, it's officially spring in my book.
Everything is new, everything is even, everyone has potential and everyone has hope.
Everything is right with the world.
Shut your eyes, you can hear the pop of the mitt, the muted shout of the ump, you can smell that pine tar/peanut shell mixture and you can feel the excitement.
When I think of opening day, and baseball in general for that matter, I think of being a young boy going to see the Tigers play at the old ballpark. Our seats were usually in the upper deck. We would climb those huge ramps to get up to our seats. Normally the thought of being turned loose in that place with a skateboard would be enough to blow a 9 year olds mind... but not on these days. These days were about baseball! We would finally find our section... and at old tigers stadium in the upper deck you had to walk the catwalk, basically a fenced plank, to get out to your section. That short walk will forever be the essence of what it is to be at a baseball game to me.
As you walk out, you hear all the sounds that are associated with the ballpark... "Peanuts", "Cold Beer", "Hot Dogs"... Ernie's voice being piped over the loudspeakers, in all it's pregame beauty... You can't walk, you gotta run... and when you start to see the sky... to a 9 year olds eyes, it has to be the bluest sky you have ever seen... then you get closer... and you see the outfield grass... Never have you seen such green in your entire life... then the infield dirt... it is so perfect in a hue that only manicured dirt can be... it is just all so perfect!!... and somehow, it being kept under wraps as you walk that catwalk really gave it that extra BANG as you finally see it... it is all hidden, then all of a sudden POW!!! In one moment it is there in front of you in all it's glory... undeniably beautiful... undeniably pure... undeniably perfect... That to me, is what baseball is all about. That is the backdrop that fueled my dreams... that is the background that will continue to fuel my memories until my last breath... And although the old ball park has began to grow over itself, it will always live on in my mind as the perfect place... one where your hero's always won, whether or not they really did on the field or not. I've been to other parks and loved alot of them too, but under it all the reason I love them and baseball in general is that feeling... running down that catwalk, the blue sky, the green grass, that perfect dirt... That is what baseball is about to me.
Happy opening day, everyone... for the next six months the lows arent really that low, and the highs are almost surreal... Everything is right in the world...
---
For, lo, the winter is past,
The rain is over and gone;
The flowers appear on the earth;
The time of the singing of birds is come;
And the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.
--Song of Solomon (as read by Ernie Harwell)
Go Tigers, God Bless Ernie Harwell and root, root, root for the home team...
3.28.2007
A guide to greatness
I was once in a relationship. Four months in she decided we should get a cat. A little black fuzz-ball we dubbed Thelonious Gazpacho Jones. Here it is I thought, the start of much more.
My long held dream of being a cat handler could finally come to fruition. I pictured it. Our new cat would go on to win regional shows. Everything a cat ought to be. And on to districts. His likeness would become the Wikipedia entry for perfection, poise, and elegance. Then, dare I say it, Nationals. Eventually he's be studded out and sire champions. I pictured a small cottage by a lazy river all paid for by the cat food sponsorships. All this ran through my skull as we signed the papers in the beige lobby of the Humane Society.
Apparently raising winners is not as simple as high-quality food and words of encouragement. (Mom and Dad I see now what you were up against; a winner I did not become, but I was well fed.)
However my brief experience thus far in the competitive cut-throat world of Cat Pageants did teach me life lessons that I still use to this day. One, people who own more then 2 cats are slightly off. Two, that like learning to zip up the fly of your pants for the first time, failure hurts. It hurts bad. And three, again returning to my zipper/scarred-appendage metaphor/accident, I don't give up that easy.
As my relationship continued so did my desire to mold a champion. I poured my heart and soul into this simple animal. Did the rest of my life suffer because of this? Most likely. But fate has a way of bitch-slapping you when it feels it's necessary. Mine came just two weeks before the regional kitty expo. The front door was left opened and Theo, the scamp that he is, snuck out. Some say that's what animals do, his instinct were guiding him and when he saw an opening he went for it. Personally I feel that his flight was perhaps my fault. I pushed too hard. The expo was too soon. He wasn't ready. Either way, my little guy was out there on his own in this cold cruel world.
I would love to tell you that the story ends on a happy note. That Theo went on to greatness and proved to be extremely fertile and that his offspring are everywhere. Such is not the case.
We searched and searched for him but to no avail. We had just about given up hope when we got a call from a local Animal Hospital. Apparently the day he got out he was struck by a passing car. A neighbor boy found Theo and promptly took him there. He lived through the crash but was disfigured because of it. He lost the use of his right front paw and his right hip was thrown out of socket. They renamed him Bubba.
Although his experience in the "real world" was not a kind one he did make it. Although the possibility of amputation was there he managed to press-on without. His lumbering steps can be heard now echoing off our hardwood floors at all hours of day. He is the elder statesmen in our house, now filled with another feline and a shaggy dog. That girlfriend and I got married, had some offspring of our own and now reside in a full house, to say the least.
My long held dream of being a cat handler could finally come to fruition. I pictured it. Our new cat would go on to win regional shows. Everything a cat ought to be. And on to districts. His likeness would become the Wikipedia entry for perfection, poise, and elegance. Then, dare I say it, Nationals. Eventually he's be studded out and sire champions. I pictured a small cottage by a lazy river all paid for by the cat food sponsorships. All this ran through my skull as we signed the papers in the beige lobby of the Humane Society.
Apparently raising winners is not as simple as high-quality food and words of encouragement. (Mom and Dad I see now what you were up against; a winner I did not become, but I was well fed.)
However my brief experience thus far in the competitive cut-throat world of Cat Pageants did teach me life lessons that I still use to this day. One, people who own more then 2 cats are slightly off. Two, that like learning to zip up the fly of your pants for the first time, failure hurts. It hurts bad. And three, again returning to my zipper/scarred-appendage metaphor/accident, I don't give up that easy.
As my relationship continued so did my desire to mold a champion. I poured my heart and soul into this simple animal. Did the rest of my life suffer because of this? Most likely. But fate has a way of bitch-slapping you when it feels it's necessary. Mine came just two weeks before the regional kitty expo. The front door was left opened and Theo, the scamp that he is, snuck out. Some say that's what animals do, his instinct were guiding him and when he saw an opening he went for it. Personally I feel that his flight was perhaps my fault. I pushed too hard. The expo was too soon. He wasn't ready. Either way, my little guy was out there on his own in this cold cruel world.
I would love to tell you that the story ends on a happy note. That Theo went on to greatness and proved to be extremely fertile and that his offspring are everywhere. Such is not the case.
We searched and searched for him but to no avail. We had just about given up hope when we got a call from a local Animal Hospital. Apparently the day he got out he was struck by a passing car. A neighbor boy found Theo and promptly took him there. He lived through the crash but was disfigured because of it. He lost the use of his right front paw and his right hip was thrown out of socket. They renamed him Bubba.
Although his experience in the "real world" was not a kind one he did make it. Although the possibility of amputation was there he managed to press-on without. His lumbering steps can be heard now echoing off our hardwood floors at all hours of day. He is the elder statesmen in our house, now filled with another feline and a shaggy dog. That girlfriend and I got married, had some offspring of our own and now reside in a full house, to say the least.
3.26.2007
Cliff and Peg
Snug in a cozy bed, Cliff groped his pillow in dream. A dream he’d been having since May. Clad only in torn chaps and surrounded by ten of Miami’s finest hams, he’d sip his nog with Peg by a beach-side fire and avow his wild side a thing of the past. All the while, gazing at the ebb of the tide and discussing their plans to loot the Scuba Store after the next hurricane. They were desperately in need of a second swimmer’s fin. Of course, one was better than zero, but it made going straight awfully difficult.
Between the two of them they had hardly a peso. They'd been living for the last week off nothing but Holly-nog and grain. They were in debt to their eyeballs from the bank loans Cliff had taken to open his business as a flower dyer. Certain business would improve as he hones his skill, Peg found it within her id to support him. Cliff loved her for this and was grateful she didn’t nix another one of his hair-brained schemes, like the time he suggested writing a book on Hitler using only rune.
Just then a rogue wave washed over the two of them, extinguishing their fire and leaving Cliff gasping for air. As he struggled to breathe he felt Peg’s hand on his and heard her voice, softly at first, but then louder and louder.
“Honey…honey…are you ok?”
“Um…er…I guess it was only a dream.”
“Uh, yeah” Peg replied, and rolling back over thought to herself, “he always mixes that nog with too much damn rum.”
Just then a rogue wave washed over the two of them, extinguishing their fire and leaving Cliff gasping for air. As he struggled to breathe he felt Peg’s hand on his and heard her voice, softly at first, but then louder and louder.
“Honey…honey…are you ok?”
“Um…er…I guess it was only a dream.”
“Uh, yeah” Peg replied, and rolling back over thought to herself, “he always mixes that nog with too much damn rum.”
3.22.2007
something was a miss
I woke up this morning feeling good. I slept a little bit later then normal, that extra 15 minutes is huge. I had a vanilla yogurt and got ready to leave still feeling spry. But as I pulled out of the driveway I noticed my youngest daughter in the front window with tears in her eyes. Just moments ago I had kissed her on her forehead and bid her a cheery goodbye and now she was all tore-up. It stuck me as odd.
On my drive in the gray clouds increased the closer I got to work. Then the rains came. Normally not a issue, but today perhaps because of my sunny disposition, I left the house without a coat. Once more on a normal day I would brush it off and accept that I would be a bit damp for the remainder of the morning, little did realize that I now put myself in the precarious position of attending an important meeting with the client soaked to the bone. The universe was shouting down at me. I wasn't listening.
It was not until my daily lunch ritual of browsing the internet did the A-bomb finally drop. It is with a heavy heart I relay to you that Calvert DeForest has left this earthly plane. You may remember him as simply as Larry "Bud" Melman. I will remember him as a comedic genius who put David Letterman and his Late Show on the map.
A great loss indeed. Goodbye my friend.
On my drive in the gray clouds increased the closer I got to work. Then the rains came. Normally not a issue, but today perhaps because of my sunny disposition, I left the house without a coat. Once more on a normal day I would brush it off and accept that I would be a bit damp for the remainder of the morning, little did realize that I now put myself in the precarious position of attending an important meeting with the client soaked to the bone. The universe was shouting down at me. I wasn't listening.
It was not until my daily lunch ritual of browsing the internet did the A-bomb finally drop. It is with a heavy heart I relay to you that Calvert DeForest has left this earthly plane. You may remember him as simply as Larry "Bud" Melman. I will remember him as a comedic genius who put David Letterman and his Late Show on the map.
A great loss indeed. Goodbye my friend.
Larry "Bud" MelmanScissor Cuts
I have an old friend, Tall Noreen, she used to work at a scissor factory. One day in casual conversation she told me about a "restructuring" that went on there a few years back. She said that there was a meeting where they actually said, "...cuts will have to be made." Cuts down at the scissor factory, I guess they should have seen that coming.
I laughed out loud and spilled a little bit of my coffee when I heard Noreen tell me this. Then she told me that she was one of the scissor jockeys that got fired. I stopped laughing right then.
I laughed out loud and spilled a little bit of my coffee when I heard Noreen tell me this. Then she told me that she was one of the scissor jockeys that got fired. I stopped laughing right then.
3.21.2007
commute
The sun pushes me on my way
traveling the great rip in the urban tablecloth
strip malls and traffic lights laugh from above
concrete ceilings mix with moments of uninterrupted sky
brief
blue
beautiful
hours later the sun once again
stands over me
leading me toward home
3.15.2007
Lost Friend
I lost a friend today. It made me sad to think about this loss before it actually happened, and even more so when the realization that it was actually happening set in. This particular friend has been with me for ten years. I have been loyal to my friend and my friend has returned the favor many, many times day or night. Never did my friend bitch or complain about where I was going or who I was going with...not once. Sure, I had to spend some money on my friend from time to time, but what friend wouldn't be willing to do that for another when necessary. I felt as if I was betraying my friend today...when I walked away. I had to. I left my friend sitting there all alone. Maybe this is good for my friend too. Another chapter opens in one book...and one closes in mine. I know it was time to part ways with my friend, but it is still hard. I miss my friend already. I only hope that my friend will make new friends and that my sorrow will fade.
I say good bye today to my 1997 Jeep Cherokee Sport. This was the first car that I ever purchased on my own. I was living in Marietta, Georgia at the time. I have been to many places with this car as many of you have. Colorado, Kalkaska, Chicago, and Maine just to name a few. I really loved that Jeep and hated to part with it today. But it was time. The transmission went on it and that was the final straw. I could no longer support my friend financially. 137,000 miles proper. I am proud of my car for sticking with me for ten years, and proud of myself for doing the same. I will miss my old friend and always remember the good times and great transportation that was given to me.
I say good bye today to my 1997 Jeep Cherokee Sport. This was the first car that I ever purchased on my own. I was living in Marietta, Georgia at the time. I have been to many places with this car as many of you have. Colorado, Kalkaska, Chicago, and Maine just to name a few. I really loved that Jeep and hated to part with it today. But it was time. The transmission went on it and that was the final straw. I could no longer support my friend financially. 137,000 miles proper. I am proud of my car for sticking with me for ten years, and proud of myself for doing the same. I will miss my old friend and always remember the good times and great transportation that was given to me.
Pat. The Norwegian Postman
My postman, he is Norwegian. His name is Pat. He is a tall, slender man with an above average mustache and an adequate head of hair. Pat seems to me to be a happy man, often whistling. I never quite know the tune that he whistles. I like to think it is a popular Norwegian folk song from the late 1800s. One that involves a buxom daughter, a ship, and a prank gone wrong played by some Norwegian teenagers. Whatever the tune, he is quick to stop his lip symphony and start up a conversation with me.
Whether it be the weather, or that smell of thawing garbage that tells us that springtime in the city is near, Pat seems happy to dispel his wisdom with a twinkle in his eye. The conversations never last too long, so they are never awkward. It's really a beautiful thing. He brings me my catalogs, chats with me happily, then pushed his tri-wheeled cart on down the sidewalk. Dropping rubberbands as he goes. Then as quickly as it stopped, the whistling continues. Same song. Didn't miss a beat. Come to think of it maybe he is composing this song as he goes, I still hope it is about a buxom daughter, a ship, and a prank gone wrong played by some Norwegian teenagers, because that is a song I want to hear.
Whether it be the weather, or that smell of thawing garbage that tells us that springtime in the city is near, Pat seems happy to dispel his wisdom with a twinkle in his eye. The conversations never last too long, so they are never awkward. It's really a beautiful thing. He brings me my catalogs, chats with me happily, then pushed his tri-wheeled cart on down the sidewalk. Dropping rubberbands as he goes. Then as quickly as it stopped, the whistling continues. Same song. Didn't miss a beat. Come to think of it maybe he is composing this song as he goes, I still hope it is about a buxom daughter, a ship, and a prank gone wrong played by some Norwegian teenagers, because that is a song I want to hear.
3.14.2007
Top this
How could I possibly top the last two posts? I mean a dude on a uni barreling down a mountain or the fact that once man finds his evening sustenance from a machine that spits out treats like a whore turns tricks. I mean really where else could you go to learn that w.j. DeBalt despises
SBMDAAFBWSEACMCDI television commercials have officially become Mardi Gras's favorite. Less we forget that
FiascodomeMr. Mountain Unicyclist
And just when you thought you'd seen it all...
Monday afternoon while on a hike at Red Rocks I saw something that left my mouth agape. We were returning from what was easily the most difficult hike of my young life. The trail was, in my estimation, about 65 degrees straight up. And each time we thought, certainly this must level out over the next bend, we'd get to that bend only to discover that the trail seemed to continue in an endless path to the heavens, kind of like in that Simpsons episode where Homer climbs the Matterhorn! Anyway, we were almost back to the bottom when we saw a man climbing up with a unicycle in one hand. After convincing ourselves it wasn't an altitude induced hallucination, a friend asked the obvious question. "You're not gonna ride that thing down are ya?" To which he replied, "oh, no. It has a device for measuring the mountain." Initially satisfied, we let the sarcastic bastard continue on his path, and we continued on ours. Before reaching the bottom though our embarrassing gullibility wore off and we were convinced of what we were about to witness. We turned around just in time to see this man, free of the restraints of any protective equipment, descend approximately 300 feet on one wheel! And he even turned around and headed back up as soon as I yelled, "do it again!" The whole while this is happening, only one thought was present in my head, and it's the one that's there now as I recall this event. It is simply "you crazy f_cker!"
the office
The office is killing me. And I'm not speaking in metaphors here. It's literally killing me. I'm a sallow ghost, drifting here, stumbling there. Wandering the industrial halls of Ferndale. Competely and utterly unrested.
You know you've made it when you are paying someone to prepare your meals for you. Oprah had Rachel Ray. Richard Simmons had several slender men in various stages of undress. I've managed to secure similar services at a tremendous financial discount. Although I suppose that whatever monetary benefits I may reap are tempered by a lack of sustainable energy, surprisingly stiff arteries, and a life expectancy somewhat south of the expected, even for the most underdeveloped, corrupt, and pestilence ridden areas.
To good health,
H
You know you've made it when you are paying someone to prepare your meals for you. Oprah had Rachel Ray. Richard Simmons had several slender men in various stages of undress. I've managed to secure similar services at a tremendous financial discount. Although I suppose that whatever monetary benefits I may reap are tempered by a lack of sustainable energy, surprisingly stiff arteries, and a life expectancy somewhat south of the expected, even for the most underdeveloped, corrupt, and pestilence ridden areas.
To good health,
H
3.09.2007
2 thumbs up for thumbs
My two closest friends are my right and left thumbs. I mean really, these guys have been with me through thick and thin. Always there for quick thumbs up and a"hey...nice job fella." or to pass judgement or subtly critique. Not to mention their aid in finger pointing and the proverbial "double bird." I can't begin to imagine the cabs I may have missed without them. I sucked one as an infant and now I use them for the space bar. And what about lighters, or coin flips, finger snaps or zipping your fly...thank god I have you two bastards
3.08.2007
3.07.2007
You smell that?
Have you ever noticed that humans smell? And not just a singular odor like say, cheese. We got stank floating out of every orifice. A multitude of different smells of varying degree. That is the best part too, you never know what you are going to get. It could be subtle garlic-breath, your garden variety BO, or the much dreaded Mexican-for-lunch poots.
Whichever level it may be most of us are horrified and yet somehow proud. Unwilling to own up to the most basic of human functions, yet when caught, we admit to it with a sense of giddy.
"Oh man, was that you?"
"Ha yeah. I had broccoli for dinner".
It is time we stop the shenanigans and grow a pair. We smell. It's unavoidable. So join me today and wear your smells on your sleeve. You'll thank me.
My name is fAtHanD, and I smell. Bad.
Whichever level it may be most of us are horrified and yet somehow proud. Unwilling to own up to the most basic of human functions, yet when caught, we admit to it with a sense of giddy.
"Oh man, was that you?"
"Ha yeah. I had broccoli for dinner".
It is time we stop the shenanigans and grow a pair. We smell. It's unavoidable. So join me today and wear your smells on your sleeve. You'll thank me.
My name is fAtHanD, and I smell. Bad.
slacker
Peripheral Fiasco has a few men behind the proverbial curtain. One of these men rarely emerges from his curtain. He does many things behind his curtain; I will not bore you (or shock you as the case may be) with a laundry list of everything he does back there. I will mention that one of the tasks carried out behind his “Cloak of Secrecy and Respect” as he refers to it, is to keep the PF contributors on task and on schedule with respect to churning out the incredibly witty and insightful cerebral candy you all stop by to consume. E.L. Huffer is consistently negligent in the timeliness of his posts, being frequently distracted behind his “Quilt of Insulation from the Impending Reign of SARS Related Death and Devastation” as he refers to it. What began as a non-PF correspondence from E.L. Huffer to this other man was realized to be aptly suited for yet another missed deadline, and follows here:
Subject: My new LP
I received my Mark Twang LP in the mail yesterday. There’s nothing like listening to “Don’t Leave Your Records In The Sun” on your record player.
Incidentally, I left this record in the sub-freezing evening environment of my mailbox. No waviness, warping, or other abnormalities were observed.
Fondly,
H
Subject: My new LP
I received my Mark Twang LP in the mail yesterday. There’s nothing like listening to “Don’t Leave Your Records In The Sun” on your record player.
Incidentally, I left this record in the sub-freezing evening environment of my mailbox. No waviness, warping, or other abnormalities were observed.
Fondly,
H
3.05.2007
Oh the times, they are a changin'
It's funny how the times can change,
the planets shift and the clouds rearrange
and all the truths under them (as I know them to be)
are tried and disproved by a new mystery.
3.03.2007
Chupa Blues
I never wanted my ass to be prickly. I merely wanted a way to keep coyotes from my tender ass meat. I made a deal with the devil. The New Jersey Devil. And what you see is what you get. And if you think my ass is prickly, you should see my rectum.
3.02.2007
oh, gringo!
Unlucky gringo, you’re open and never to close again.
In your north of the border world this may be a boon-
Always ready to serve a customer or devoted friend
‘I can have that for you now’ is never too soon.
But here in the dirt by the gravel, behold
I speak metaphorically: you are face down
Quite sure the jaw is not wont to open so,
Eyelids stretched back like a peso clown
If never to close, then never to contain,
Your brains forever lack their former structure.
Out for a loaf of bread after an evening rain.
Not anticipating the cerebral-spinal puncture.
Oh, gringo! Opened you’ve been and empty you are.
They emptied you here and left you there.
Left in silence ‘neath a Mexican star.
In your north of the border world this may be a boon-
Always ready to serve a customer or devoted friend
‘I can have that for you now’ is never too soon.
But here in the dirt by the gravel, behold
I speak metaphorically: you are face down
Quite sure the jaw is not wont to open so,
Eyelids stretched back like a peso clown
If never to close, then never to contain,
Your brains forever lack their former structure.
Out for a loaf of bread after an evening rain.
Not anticipating the cerebral-spinal puncture.
Oh, gringo! Opened you’ve been and empty you are.
They emptied you here and left you there.
Left in silence ‘neath a Mexican star.
3.01.2007
Cookie!!
Recently I have been waking in the middle of the night, usually between 3-4:30 am, walking to the kitchen, eating two cookies, and then returning to bed. I am quite awake during my little cookie stroll but at the stame time also in a very rested state.
These cookie dreams got me thinking and today I propose that we pay tribute to an often overlooked pioneer. Once a simple monster named Sid, he took his love for cookies and blazed a trail for cookie lovers everywhere. I salute you Cookie Monster, may the crumbs of a job well done fall on your well manicured blue fur and may the chips that you devour in your cookies be chips of pure bliss, for you my google-eyed friend have changed the world for the better.
Chomp!
These cookie dreams got me thinking and today I propose that we pay tribute to an often overlooked pioneer. Once a simple monster named Sid, he took his love for cookies and blazed a trail for cookie lovers everywhere. I salute you Cookie Monster, may the crumbs of a job well done fall on your well manicured blue fur and may the chips that you devour in your cookies be chips of pure bliss, for you my google-eyed friend have changed the world for the better.
Chomp!
2.28.2007
Another Attempt
fatHand...if I may,
As an exercise of mental gymnastics a poem I will compose.
As the subject of this poem, the scary mask to your left I suppose.
Is he spooky or freaky or just not quite right?
I predict that all who look may have trouble sleeping this night.
Is it the bald head, moustache, or rosey red cheeks?
A question to ponder for weeks upon weeks.
But wait just a minute...
Maybe I'm putting to much thought in it.
Maybe this mask isn't so bad.
Maybe it's for celebrating and making us glad.
One thing is for sure
about this "gringo's delight"
I wouldn't wear it or hang it on my wall,
but you just might!
As an exercise of mental gymnastics a poem I will compose.
As the subject of this poem, the scary mask to your left I suppose.
Is he spooky or freaky or just not quite right?
I predict that all who look may have trouble sleeping this night.
Is it the bald head, moustache, or rosey red cheeks?
A question to ponder for weeks upon weeks.
But wait just a minute...
Maybe I'm putting to much thought in it.
Maybe this mask isn't so bad.
Maybe it's for celebrating and making us glad.
One thing is for sure
about this "gringo's delight"
I wouldn't wear it or hang it on my wall,
but you just might!
An attempt
as an exercise of mental gymnastics a poem I will compose
it is something that I dread doing, like sucking on rancid toes
but it will make me stronger because I will not die
however the struggle I am having is enough to make me cry
so there it is, my attempt at rhythmic verse, I gave it all I had
all in all I must admit it really wasn't - it sucks
it is something that I dread doing, like sucking on rancid toes
but it will make me stronger because I will not die
however the struggle I am having is enough to make me cry
so there it is, my attempt at rhythmic verse, I gave it all I had
all in all I must admit it really wasn't - it sucks
Oh.
weep not for the wino
the purest man I know
nowhere to go
no lawn to mow
an average joe
who's stuck in low
with his thoughts in tow
his steps are slow
and his crazy faux
a good man, and thourough
Wandering like Thoreau
He looks a bit like Ringo
with a touch of Janet Reno
the strength of Lou Farigno
with the conscious of Sonny Bono
he claims he's pure latino
but his pompadour screams Filipino
labeled as a weirdo
He's succumb to the flow,
dressed in mid-winter speedo
the mad mans tuxedo
he dances slow,
toe, heel, toe
doe-see-dee, doe-see-doe
feeding on your burrito
you think that you do know
and in passing mutter, "Oh"
Just then he screams,
"it's all so apropos
like a hippo with an afro
don't you know?"
you drop your burrito
and off you go
hope you enjoyed the show
the purest man I know
nowhere to go
no lawn to mow
an average joe
who's stuck in low
with his thoughts in tow
his steps are slow
and his crazy faux
a good man, and thourough
Wandering like Thoreau
He looks a bit like Ringo
with a touch of Janet Reno
the strength of Lou Farigno
with the conscious of Sonny Bono
he claims he's pure latino
but his pompadour screams Filipino
labeled as a weirdo
He's succumb to the flow,
dressed in mid-winter speedo
the mad mans tuxedo
he dances slow,
toe, heel, toe
doe-see-dee, doe-see-doe
feeding on your burrito
you think that you do know
and in passing mutter, "Oh"
Just then he screams,
"it's all so apropos
like a hippo with an afro
don't you know?"
you drop your burrito
and off you go
hope you enjoyed the show
more progess
In the early fall of last year I was saddened by some progress. A mile north of this progress, some new progress has progressed. An equally mountainous, if not more so, deposit of freshly chipped wood has sprung up. This pile doesn't steam gently in the early morning sun like the other. A cold, grey morning and a thin sheen of snow covers this heap. And the progress folks didn't even have the decency to grind down the stumps or pull them out of the ground. Rather it looked like these progress pushers had physically ripped the trees from the ground. They have left the jagged, frayed chunks of what used to be trees to stick out of the ground at odd angles. They appear to be halloweenishly-sharp teeth belonging to some hideous lamprey. One can only hope they're part of a greater plan to swallow up whatever will be erected over this gullet.
A couple years ago and another mile north of this act of progress was the original act of progress in the area. Acres were cleared for an ocean of cement. And a fucking church.
A couple years ago and another mile north of this act of progress was the original act of progress in the area. Acres were cleared for an ocean of cement. And a fucking church.
2.26.2007
Tuesdays rang true
Ears was the name he'd had since birth.
Swollen with pride and low on self-worth.
Tuesdays rang true after a second read.
Frozen in time, slow in the mind, indeed.
Yesterdays gone, the worst is behind.
Presently the final lyrics in mind.
But a shred of a memory he hoped to retain
From what through time, became.
While the horse is on a different path
And may have changed her name.
2.25.2007
Ocean Cowboy
Ocean Cowboy---
Western Swing was a tentacle on his mind.
Earth rose to meet sky in high toothy mountains.
He awoke confused and craving water, usually.
God forgave him, God forgave 'em.
Earth rose to meet sky in high toothy mountains.
He awoke confused and craving water, usually.
God forgave him, God forgave 'em.
Tuesdays was whiskey, Wednesday the same.
All of the time he left yesterday behind.
And slept out of habit and fear.
Frozen in time, slow in the mind.
Frozen time slow in the mind.
Swollen eye, true, is a sign of the times.
Frozen time slow in the mind.
Swollen eye pain and the many pretty stars shine.
Squelch and ears don't much time getalong,
Fiddles and banjos wrote the first song.
Fools and travelers wittle wood on a
Beautiful river that we like to roll around.
Frozen time slow in the mind.
Thirsty the horse and wild is divine.
Frozen time slow of the mind.
Electrify up tonight, share time in the moonlight.
Frozen time. Frozen time.
Cold moonlight.
Frozen time.
Cold moonlight.
Frozen time.
2.23.2007
We're not going to take it!!!!
National News outlets and internet blogs are all a buzz this morning as the following news has hit the streets...
"First beaver spotted in New York City in 200 years"
http://www.usatoday.com/news/nation/2007-02-23-beaver_x.htm
Oh shit. They're backed and they are pissed. I knew it.
As is reported a single beaver, Jose, was seen but I'll tell you what, where you find one beaver you'll find a shit-load of them. An army of pissed off rodents who aren't going to take it any more. Think about it. For years the homely beaver has suffered from the hands of us humans. Poaching, deforestation, the insentient jokes about their disproportioned teeth. They've had enough.
They may seem like harmless wood-chewing balls of fur to you but I've spent time with these vermin and they have a mean steak a mile wide. And they ain't dumb. The report says that Jose was swimming up the Bronx River but no detail was given on what he was actually doing. Least we forget that NYC is an island and that beavers are nature's architects and when you stir in a nice helping of revenge you get one huge damm. Pure chaos. The largest city in the country comes to a screeching halt because an impenetrable wall of mud and sticks has been built around it. Very slick Mr. Beaver. Your assault on New York, the center of America, that is very strategic of you. I can bet you if we were to take a look at the Hudson, or the Potomac we'd see more movement. Perhaps the troops have been rallied as far west as the Mississippi. There is a lot of weight to the statement "Busy as a Beaver."
Nostradamus was right on the money when he predicted that the world would be run by Beavers. Fellow humans it was nice knowing you.
"First beaver spotted in New York City in 200 years"
http://www.usatoday.com/news/nation/2007-02-23-beaver_x.htm
Oh shit. They're backed and they are pissed. I knew it.
As is reported a single beaver, Jose, was seen but I'll tell you what, where you find one beaver you'll find a shit-load of them. An army of pissed off rodents who aren't going to take it any more. Think about it. For years the homely beaver has suffered from the hands of us humans. Poaching, deforestation, the insentient jokes about their disproportioned teeth. They've had enough.
They may seem like harmless wood-chewing balls of fur to you but I've spent time with these vermin and they have a mean steak a mile wide. And they ain't dumb. The report says that Jose was swimming up the Bronx River but no detail was given on what he was actually doing. Least we forget that NYC is an island and that beavers are nature's architects and when you stir in a nice helping of revenge you get one huge damm. Pure chaos. The largest city in the country comes to a screeching halt because an impenetrable wall of mud and sticks has been built around it. Very slick Mr. Beaver. Your assault on New York, the center of America, that is very strategic of you. I can bet you if we were to take a look at the Hudson, or the Potomac we'd see more movement. Perhaps the troops have been rallied as far west as the Mississippi. There is a lot of weight to the statement "Busy as a Beaver."
Nostradamus was right on the money when he predicted that the world would be run by Beavers. Fellow humans it was nice knowing you.
Zeus Loves You, But Everyone Else Thinks You're An Asshole
The King of Thebes had two kids, Phrixus and Helle. He also had a bitch of a second wife who threatened to kill the children. The kids were like, "fuck that", and bailed outta Thebes on a flying ram with a golden fleece. Helle was a whine ass and fell off the fucking ram into the sea. Phrixus was stoned out of his mind and thought the whole trip was mighty fine. He survived and landed the ram in Colchis. Overcome with joy, and still terribly high, Phrixus ripped out the ram's heart in the name of Zeus. Zeus was pleased and openly aroused by the heart ripping so he placed the ram among the stars. The King of Colchis, who loved a good ground score, kept the golden fleece for a rainy day.At least two PF writers were born in Aries. Long live Phrixus. Fuck the E.L. Policia.
2.22.2007
Last night.
Last night,
I dreamt I was a pair of the finest Tunisian trousers
I fit just right and had an air of confidence
I hung just above a wonderful pair of green shoes
You were there,
You were the button to my trouser
you held me in place,
you made it possible for me to do my beautiful trouser thing
you asked for no thanks or reward
most people gawked at me unaware of you
I was aware.
painfully so, in fact
you see, while your pant holding duties were fulfilled with flying colors
you chaffed like a bitch
you have no idea how hard it is to look suave when you are chaffed in such a manner
thank you
I love you
I hate you
I dreamt I was a pair of the finest Tunisian trousers
I fit just right and had an air of confidence
I hung just above a wonderful pair of green shoes
You were there,
You were the button to my trouser
you held me in place,
you made it possible for me to do my beautiful trouser thing
you asked for no thanks or reward
most people gawked at me unaware of you
I was aware.
painfully so, in fact
you see, while your pant holding duties were fulfilled with flying colors
you chaffed like a bitch
you have no idea how hard it is to look suave when you are chaffed in such a manner
thank you
I love you
I hate you
2.21.2007
The Room
There is this room that I want to get into.
I'm not sure what is inside, I just know
that I want to get in.
There are no windows, no doors, no locks.
And yet, I can't figure out how to get inside,
or why I would want to.
Finally, I get inside.
Don't ask me how it happened,
it just did.
The room is empty.
Ever changing.
Always empty.
I'm not sure what is inside, I just know
that I want to get in.
There are no windows, no doors, no locks.
And yet, I can't figure out how to get inside,
or why I would want to.
Finally, I get inside.
Don't ask me how it happened,
it just did.
The room is empty.
Ever changing.
Always empty.
I am the MAN
Some might consider it lazy of me to simply post an email I sent yesterday of a life changing event, and if you do I am secure enough in myself to accept that. Trust me I've been called a lot worst; hairy ape boy being one of them. But this event is too big for me not share with all the loyal readers of the PF. So here it is as it appeared in several in-boxes yesterday.
The universe does have a sense of humor.
Paczki day of all days a lifelong dream of mine was fulfilled. Today, February 20, 2007 will go down in history as the day Darren "Spanky" Vehar drove a cop car. That's right! I rolled more then 20 miles on various Michigan freeways in a Police Cruiser.
Other motorists avoided me like the plague and as I drove I could feel my mustache thicken. Did I turn on the lights? You bet your paczki-loving ass I did, be it in the seclusion of our back parking lot.
If it appears as if I am bragging, well...I am.
Officer Vehar signing off.
And lightening does strike twice because it looks like I will be able to return the Popo sledge back to where I found it. Yeah for me!
The universe does have a sense of humor.
Paczki day of all days a lifelong dream of mine was fulfilled. Today, February 20, 2007 will go down in history as the day Darren "Spanky" Vehar drove a cop car. That's right! I rolled more then 20 miles on various Michigan freeways in a Police Cruiser.
Other motorists avoided me like the plague and as I drove I could feel my mustache thicken. Did I turn on the lights? You bet your paczki-loving ass I did, be it in the seclusion of our back parking lot.
If it appears as if I am bragging, well...I am.
Officer Vehar signing off.
And lightening does strike twice because it looks like I will be able to return the Popo sledge back to where I found it. Yeah for me!
2.18.2007
Al Knows Best
In the temple of science there are many mansions...and various indeed are they that dwell therein and the motives that led them there...
What has brought them to the temple...no single answer will cover...escape from everyday life, with its painful crudity and hopeless dreariness, from the fetters of one's own shifting desires. A finely tempered nature longs to escape from his noisy cramped surroundings into the silence of high mountains where the eye ranges freely through the still pure air and fondly traces out the restful contours apparently built for eternity.
--Albert Einstein
Apparently "humping like the devils jackhammer" was not his only passion.
What has brought them to the temple...no single answer will cover...escape from everyday life, with its painful crudity and hopeless dreariness, from the fetters of one's own shifting desires. A finely tempered nature longs to escape from his noisy cramped surroundings into the silence of high mountains where the eye ranges freely through the still pure air and fondly traces out the restful contours apparently built for eternity.
--Albert Einstein
Apparently "humping like the devils jackhammer" was not his only passion.
2.15.2007
Pitchers and catchers report TODAY!!!
For, lo, the winter is past,
The rain is over and gone;
The flowers appear on the earth;
The time of the singing of birds is come;
And the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.
--Song of Solomon
Go Tigers & God Bless Ernie Harwell!
The rain is over and gone;
The flowers appear on the earth;
The time of the singing of birds is come;
And the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.
--Song of Solomon
Go Tigers & God Bless Ernie Harwell!
THE GAME FOR ALL AMERICA (A Definition of Baseball)
Baseball is a president tossing out the first ball of the season and a pudgy school boy playing catch with his dad on a Mississippi farm. A tall thin old man waving a score card from the corner of his dugout, that's Baseball.
And so is a big fat guy with a bulbous nose running home one of his 714 home runs.
There's a man in Mobile who remembers that Honus Wagner hit a triple in Pittsburgh 46 years ago, that's baseball.
And so is a scout reporting that a 16 year old pitcher in Cheyenne is a coming Walter Johnson. Baseball is a spirited game of man against man, reflex against reflex a game of inches.
Every skill is measured, every heroic, every failing, seen and cheered, or booed and then becomes a statistic. In baseball, democracy shines its clearest, the only race that matters is the race to the bag. The creed is a rule book and color mearly something to distinguish one team's uniform from another.
Baseball is a rookie, his experience no bigger than the lump in his throat as he begins fulfillment of his dream. It's a veteran too. A tired, old man of 35 hoping those aching muscles can pull him through another swealtering August and September.
Nicknames are baseball. Names like Zeke and Pie and Kiki and Home Run and Cracker and Dizzy and Dazzy. Baseball is the clear cool eyes of Rogers Hornsby, the flashing spikes of a Ty Cobb and an overaged pixie named Rabbit Moranville.
Baseball, just a game, as simple as a ball and bat and yet as complex as the American spirit it symbolizes. It's a sport, a business, sometimes almost even religion.
Why the fairy tale of Willie Mays making a brillient World Series catch and then dashing off to play stickball in the streets with his teenage pals. That's Baseball.
And so is the husky voice of a doomed Lou Gerhig saying, "I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of this earth." Baseball is cigar smoke, hot roasted peanuts, ladies day, "Down in front!" "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," the seventh inning stretch, and the "Star Spangled Banner"
Baseball is a man named Campanella telling the nation's business leaders "You have to be a man to be a big leaguer, but you have to have a lot of little boy in you too."
This is a game for America, this baseball, a game for boys and for men!
—by Ernie Harwell 1955
And so is a big fat guy with a bulbous nose running home one of his 714 home runs.
There's a man in Mobile who remembers that Honus Wagner hit a triple in Pittsburgh 46 years ago, that's baseball.
And so is a scout reporting that a 16 year old pitcher in Cheyenne is a coming Walter Johnson. Baseball is a spirited game of man against man, reflex against reflex a game of inches.
Every skill is measured, every heroic, every failing, seen and cheered, or booed and then becomes a statistic. In baseball, democracy shines its clearest, the only race that matters is the race to the bag. The creed is a rule book and color mearly something to distinguish one team's uniform from another.
Baseball is a rookie, his experience no bigger than the lump in his throat as he begins fulfillment of his dream. It's a veteran too. A tired, old man of 35 hoping those aching muscles can pull him through another swealtering August and September.
Nicknames are baseball. Names like Zeke and Pie and Kiki and Home Run and Cracker and Dizzy and Dazzy. Baseball is the clear cool eyes of Rogers Hornsby, the flashing spikes of a Ty Cobb and an overaged pixie named Rabbit Moranville.
Baseball, just a game, as simple as a ball and bat and yet as complex as the American spirit it symbolizes. It's a sport, a business, sometimes almost even religion.
Why the fairy tale of Willie Mays making a brillient World Series catch and then dashing off to play stickball in the streets with his teenage pals. That's Baseball.
And so is the husky voice of a doomed Lou Gerhig saying, "I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of this earth." Baseball is cigar smoke, hot roasted peanuts, ladies day, "Down in front!" "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," the seventh inning stretch, and the "Star Spangled Banner"
Baseball is a man named Campanella telling the nation's business leaders "You have to be a man to be a big leaguer, but you have to have a lot of little boy in you too."
This is a game for America, this baseball, a game for boys and for men!
—by Ernie Harwell 1955
2.14.2007
The Fade
It seems like the trend of African-American men wearing their hair in braids or corn-rolls is over. Several prominent athletes, movie stars and musicians have just come home from the barber sans the naps. Richard "Rip" Hamilton, Busta Rhymes, Ludacris, and Wyclef Jean are all sporting trimmed hairdos.
This leads me to believe that in the old adage that everything old is new again we are soon to see this phase of hair style go the wayside as well. What it will lead to, I surmise, is the return of the high-top fade. Oh yes like Pookie from the movie New Jack City we will see the heads of African American men model that of the red-rocked plateaus of the Southwest.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LwHt2jVqD08
I for one will embrace this "new" style and wish all the future wearers luck with their new do's.
Family History
Father smelled of gunpowder and stuttered when he spoke. He aroused himself by the sheer act of of waiting. He was a mule with bad intentions.
Mother saw shadows. Everything turned grey in her eyes and morning was her evil cousin. Sunshine feared her gaze. It cowered like a beaten puppy.
Sister picked daisies, even when there were no daisies. Sister saw fifteen reds in the color blue. She mumbled silly words when she knew we were looking.
I named the brown horse "Brownie". And the white horse "Whitey". I cared only for wet grass and peppermint candy. I had problems with my eyes. I squinted out of habit, it's what I had always done. Narrowed my eyes in concentration. But concentration on what? I was never sure. Thoughts floated in and out, the periphery was a broken horseshoe. Wild horses never roamed in my subconscious. Pastures bled for water, desires were droughted by an aching eye-caused pain. And I was remorseful that my eyes were so untrustworthy.
If I Were The Swollen Mind
If I were the swollen mind
I'd notice fireworks when you fly
I'd see you dancing,
Twirling, going by.
If my mind was swollen
Up like a balloon
Helium couldn't stop me
Floating off so soon.
So I take this pill and steal away
A ticket to the game
To swell my mind, but not enough
To elicit change.
I'd notice fireworks when you fly
I'd see you dancing,
Twirling, going by.
If my mind was swollen
Up like a balloon
Helium couldn't stop me
Floating off so soon.
So I take this pill and steal away
A ticket to the game
To swell my mind, but not enough
To elicit change.
2.13.2007
How do you do? Yes, nice to meet you. Welcome to New York. May I introduce you to my secretary? Freda…
This is the finest aloe money can buy in these parts- say! Here now. Take this and wipe your nose. You can’t walk around covered in the stuff…(though I do appreciate your gusto)
Trousers. Trousers, trousers, trousers. A fine day indeed. Perhaps the finest ever for a set of trousers like these. Thank you Freda.
Those? It is a stunning collection of glossy 8x10s isn't it? Yes, thank you. Ha Ha. Yes, perhaps later – after a cuba libre? You’ll have to forgive me, I love saying cuba libre... Undoubtedly I’ll sneak a few more cuba libres in on you this evening. Indulge me, won’t you? Yes, of course you will.
Cuba libre!
Mine? 34. 34 inches. Although I do tend to have him start the measurement a little higher than most are comfortable with.
We’ll be leaving shortly. But let me get you that drink. Freda…there you are. Some cuba libres, please. Yes, the urns will do nicely.
My sister is 27, so I know you to be a liar – but a good one nonetheless. She does run in those circles. The three sided circle? Of course, of course. Very clever.
Shall we leave now? Shan’t we? No? Very well then. Enjoy your cuba libre, my friend. We have plenty of time.
This is the finest aloe money can buy in these parts- say! Here now. Take this and wipe your nose. You can’t walk around covered in the stuff…(though I do appreciate your gusto)
Trousers. Trousers, trousers, trousers. A fine day indeed. Perhaps the finest ever for a set of trousers like these. Thank you Freda.
Those? It is a stunning collection of glossy 8x10s isn't it? Yes, thank you. Ha Ha. Yes, perhaps later – after a cuba libre? You’ll have to forgive me, I love saying cuba libre... Undoubtedly I’ll sneak a few more cuba libres in on you this evening. Indulge me, won’t you? Yes, of course you will.
Cuba libre!
Mine? 34. 34 inches. Although I do tend to have him start the measurement a little higher than most are comfortable with.
We’ll be leaving shortly. But let me get you that drink. Freda…there you are. Some cuba libres, please. Yes, the urns will do nicely.
My sister is 27, so I know you to be a liar – but a good one nonetheless. She does run in those circles. The three sided circle? Of course, of course. Very clever.
Shall we leave now? Shan’t we? No? Very well then. Enjoy your cuba libre, my friend. We have plenty of time.
SEACMCDI
Inspired by w. deBalt's SBMDAAFBW post, I would like to admit something to my fellow PF'ers. The SEACMCDI (so easy a cave man could do it) television commercials have officially become my favorite series of t.v. commercials of all time! I am fairly sure that some of you may disagree with my assessment, but I will stand true to my fondness of these commercials. Seriously, I laugh out loud every time I see one of them.
I hope you all can see the creative genius that is the SEACMCDI commercial and that it brings you the happiness that it brings me! And if not...I'm quite sure I will be hearing about it!
I hope you all can see the creative genius that is the SEACMCDI commercial and that it brings you the happiness that it brings me! And if not...I'm quite sure I will be hearing about it!
your fortune cookie.
Don't forget the man who leaves the newspaper in the stall, when it comes time for Christmas cards.
Let it be known...
That I was vistor 1111 to this site, I have very little in my life so don't take this away from me.
Also, let it be known that last week I broke into your house and sped up your alarm clock 6 minutes. So your clock, is now only 3 minutes fast... yeah, your whole routine is fucked now, and I think that is funny. Oh, your kitchen clock is wrong too and I took your can opener.
Also, let it be known that last week I broke into your house and sped up your alarm clock 6 minutes. So your clock, is now only 3 minutes fast... yeah, your whole routine is fucked now, and I think that is funny. Oh, your kitchen clock is wrong too and I took your can opener.
2.12.2007
2.09.2007
Dubach Didn't Like Albuquerque
The PF strives to connect its readers to the contemporary world. Sometimes we fail, sometimes we succeed, and always we couldn't care less. But readers, let it be known, we sometimes find it difficult. For we are PF-ers, born of a peripheral zygote. Or as a great red-head once said, "Trapped in a world [we] didn't make".
In the vein of bus accidents, moral reflection, speed, Speed, Speed 2, and Speed 10 ....I give you this.
ALBUQUERQUE, N.M. -- Bernalillo County sheriff's deputies and New Mexico State Police are investigating a semi truck crash in Albuquerque's North Valley.
Police said that Eric Dubach dropped off the trailer to his semi truck at a gas station near Nine Mile Hill.
They said he took methamphetamine and went on I-40 for a joy ride.
He drove on Rio Grande Boulevard, where he went through fences in several yards, eventually making his way to Alameda Boulevard, police said.
This is where Dubach left little in his wake police said. Shrubs, trees, street signs, cars and even homes were smashed by the massive truck and driver, who may have a grudge with the Duke City.
Police said that Dubach's reason for tearing up the neighborhoods is that he didn't like Albuquerque and he wanted to mess it up.
Dubach is being held on 29 counts of felony criminal damage to property. He is being held on a $100,000 cash-only bond. (http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/f-news/1779830/posts)
In the vein of bus accidents, moral reflection, speed, Speed, Speed 2, and Speed 10 ....I give you this.
ALBUQUERQUE, N.M. -- Bernalillo County sheriff's deputies and New Mexico State Police are investigating a semi truck crash in Albuquerque's North Valley.
Police said that Eric Dubach dropped off the trailer to his semi truck at a gas station near Nine Mile Hill.
They said he took methamphetamine and went on I-40 for a joy ride.
He drove on Rio Grande Boulevard, where he went through fences in several yards, eventually making his way to Alameda Boulevard, police said.
This is where Dubach left little in his wake police said. Shrubs, trees, street signs, cars and even homes were smashed by the massive truck and driver, who may have a grudge with the Duke City.
Police said that Dubach's reason for tearing up the neighborhoods is that he didn't like Albuquerque and he wanted to mess it up.
Dubach is being held on 29 counts of felony criminal damage to property. He is being held on a $100,000 cash-only bond. (http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/f-news/1779830/posts)
2.08.2007
Bus accident.
I was in a bus accident today.
I wasn't driving the bus. I was just riding on it. The bus is ok. Please, I am not searching for your sympathy, when you are a bus rider it is just a matter of time before something like this happens. Much like smelling things you can't explain it is a hazard of the trade, a proverbial bull horn in the ass of the rodeo clown.
The short version is this. The bus was struck by a car, which had been struck by another car. As real life bus accidents it was a pretty good one. The bus was forced off the road into a parking lot of parked cars, hitting only one, it could have hit them all but the bus driver showed his prowess and did a fine job of directing the bus back towards the street, bringing the bus to a stop about 2 feet from a light pole. Top notch bus driving all the way, a star should be sewn on his bus driver sweater.
In my sick mind, I had often pondered why I had never been on a bus that had been in an accident. Today I got my wish, cross it off the list. I don't know what I was expecting but I think I am all set on bus accidents. I don't need anymore you can take that off my amazon wish list.
If yesterdays PF affliction of the day was sinus infection, todays is bus accident. Yesterday's amber hue has morphed into a grey with a slight green tint.
I still hate Norbit.
I wasn't driving the bus. I was just riding on it. The bus is ok. Please, I am not searching for your sympathy, when you are a bus rider it is just a matter of time before something like this happens. Much like smelling things you can't explain it is a hazard of the trade, a proverbial bull horn in the ass of the rodeo clown.
The short version is this. The bus was struck by a car, which had been struck by another car. As real life bus accidents it was a pretty good one. The bus was forced off the road into a parking lot of parked cars, hitting only one, it could have hit them all but the bus driver showed his prowess and did a fine job of directing the bus back towards the street, bringing the bus to a stop about 2 feet from a light pole. Top notch bus driving all the way, a star should be sewn on his bus driver sweater.
In my sick mind, I had often pondered why I had never been on a bus that had been in an accident. Today I got my wish, cross it off the list. I don't know what I was expecting but I think I am all set on bus accidents. I don't need anymore you can take that off my amazon wish list.
If yesterdays PF affliction of the day was sinus infection, todays is bus accident. Yesterday's amber hue has morphed into a grey with a slight green tint.
I still hate Norbit.
2.07.2007
my apologies...
I offer a deeply personal post in light of recent neglect:
He's a Phillipino, decked out in his chinos.
He's a Phillipino, decked out in his chinos.
Satin or polyester
just won't do
Rolling down the avenue
with the Pacific Islander crew
Intoxicating pairings
of soft cotton blends
He'd look good in anything,
but he knows the chino is his friend
Smooth beige lines
rise from foot to hip
So confident in those pants
you know he swaggers just a bit
A refreshing breeze of style
has just drifted on past
It's left my head a-spinnin'
and thoughts barely intact
He's a Phillipino, decked out in his chinos.
8/25/03
He's a Phillipino, decked out in his chinos.
He's a Phillipino, decked out in his chinos.
Satin or polyester
just won't do
Rolling down the avenue
with the Pacific Islander crew
Intoxicating pairings
of soft cotton blends
He'd look good in anything,
but he knows the chino is his friend
Smooth beige lines
rise from foot to hip
So confident in those pants
you know he swaggers just a bit
A refreshing breeze of style
has just drifted on past
It's left my head a-spinnin'
and thoughts barely intact
He's a Phillipino, decked out in his chinos.
8/25/03
I got nothing!
As J so eloquently explained in the post below the behind-the-scenes activity at the PF today is at a fever pitch and it has reminded me that today, 2/7, is my assigned day to open the flood gates of my infinite wisdom. A hearty "Thank you and Nipsey Russell" to all the parties involved.
But alas, I find myself in the desert of doubt. On the high plateau of bewilderment looking down at a pasture of ducks. Lame. That is how I feel.
Not inspired to create I'll spare you with a meaningless post. Instead I ask you to use these few minutes that you would've wasted reading my do-do (or for those knee deep in Fiascodrome - trouser rocks) to go forth to spread merriment and cheer. Hug a tree. Kiss a baby. Eat a nice piece of cheese. Drink a beer (preferably one brewed locally). Remember this...whatever you choose to do I will be proud.
But alas, I find myself in the desert of doubt. On the high plateau of bewilderment looking down at a pasture of ducks. Lame. That is how I feel.
Not inspired to create I'll spare you with a meaningless post. Instead I ask you to use these few minutes that you would've wasted reading my do-do (or for those knee deep in Fiascodrome - trouser rocks) to go forth to spread merriment and cheer. Hug a tree. Kiss a baby. Eat a nice piece of cheese. Drink a beer (preferably one brewed locally). Remember this...whatever you choose to do I will be proud.
The Fiascodrome
PF Readers,
I have failed you. Earlier today, in the private recesses of a group email to the PF Writers, I made the most embarrassing of mistakes. We were debating over whether E.L. Huffer should be sentenced to Dick Slap Death DSD for a certain crime, which will be left untold.
In that conversation I made a seemingly witty joke using DSD in a slightly cute palindrome. The problem: It wasn't really a palindrome. And I was made the fool, as Debalt pointed out. The bigger problem is that I'm big enough of an idiot to mistake a non-palindrome for a palindrome.
So, in embarrassment I propose the introduction of a new literary play game:
Fiascodrome-An inadvertent misuse of a word or phrase, or an excuse aspiring writers use when they totally blow it.
Example 1. Using the term "dead wrench fetish" instead if "virgin" would be a Fiascodrome.
Example 2. Using "west side monkey basher" instead of "maniacal Christian" would also be a Fiascodrome.
Example 3. Using "flying shit machine" instead of "Vitamin Fed Superduck" would also be a Fiascodrome.
Example 4. Claiming that tiny insects punching tiny insects is a metaphor for the flying car.
Example 5. Using hyphens to spell words
My apologies, I bite*.
SmithJ
P.S. It should also be noted that I called Debalt a DSD Rocket, which I am moderately proud of.
*I trainwrecked this post several times becuase I have a sinus infection seen here. Thanks to FatHand for editing my sinking ship back into Miami Vice speed boat formation.
I have failed you. Earlier today, in the private recesses of a group email to the PF Writers, I made the most embarrassing of mistakes. We were debating over whether E.L. Huffer should be sentenced to Dick Slap Death DSD for a certain crime, which will be left untold.
In that conversation I made a seemingly witty joke using DSD in a slightly cute palindrome. The problem: It wasn't really a palindrome. And I was made the fool, as Debalt pointed out. The bigger problem is that I'm big enough of an idiot to mistake a non-palindrome for a palindrome.
So, in embarrassment I propose the introduction of a new literary play game:
Fiascodrome-An inadvertent misuse of a word or phrase, or an excuse aspiring writers use when they totally blow it.
Example 1. Using the term "dead wrench fetish" instead if "virgin" would be a Fiascodrome.
Example 2. Using "west side monkey basher" instead of "maniacal Christian" would also be a Fiascodrome.
Example 3. Using "flying shit machine" instead of "Vitamin Fed Superduck" would also be a Fiascodrome.
Example 4. Claiming that tiny insects punching tiny insects is a metaphor for the flying car.
Example 5. Using hyphens to spell words
My apologies, I bite*.
SmithJ
P.S. It should also be noted that I called Debalt a DSD Rocket, which I am moderately proud of.
*I trainwrecked this post several times becuase I have a sinus infection seen here. Thanks to FatHand for editing my sinking ship back into Miami Vice speed boat formation.
2.06.2007
A Nice Hostess
Blind fury finds me out of a deep sleep and I stir on the couch reaching for the nearest weapon. As luck would have it the only object in sight was a ho-ho. But another San Francisco treat is exactly what I had in mind. The “Swiss-filled (I’ll get back to this) chocolate cake elegantly enrobed in delectable confectionary coating” now oozing from between the fingers of my tightly clenched fist I began wondering…what the fuck does “Swiss filled” mean? Is there Swiss cheese in my ho-ho, no that’s disgusting. Or are there tiny little blond girls carving perfect powder turns on rolling vanilla layers in my ho-ho? If not, then I believe we’ve found the latest candidate for DSD. And “elegantly enrobed”…I could smash this cake in someone’s eye!
From the Oxford American Dictionary
Enrobe: (en-rohb) v. to put a robe on.
Suddenly peace comes over me as I realize what I really need right now…a tiny little blond girl elegantly enrobed in delectable confectionary coating. Now that would be a nice Hostess.
From the Oxford American Dictionary
Enrobe: (en-rohb) v. to put a robe on.
Suddenly peace comes over me as I realize what I really need right now…a tiny little blond girl elegantly enrobed in delectable confectionary coating. Now that would be a nice Hostess.
2.05.2007
Return of the Mac
Awake and walk through open doors, your time has finally come.
Remove the shackles from your bloodied wrists and proceed on course to home.
Do not reject the blinding light as it will guide you on your path
Through flowering fields seem heaven sent to the fountain of smile and laugh.
Now drink your fill of red remorse, and step back in the sun.
Discard your troubles with your trash, your wallowing days are done.
Remove the shackles from your bloodied wrists and proceed on course to home.
Do not reject the blinding light as it will guide you on your path
Through flowering fields seem heaven sent to the fountain of smile and laugh.
Now drink your fill of red remorse, and step back in the sun.
Discard your troubles with your trash, your wallowing days are done.
My Super Sunday
On Super Sunday, I went to a party, watched the Super Bowl and got super full, not to mention super drunk. It was a supernatural feeling being so super full and super drunk at the same time. I felt supercharged…no, that’s not the superlative I’m looking for its…supercilious, or superb. Anyway, I felt almost superhuman, similar to superman I certainly had superpowers of all kinds, superior to all my little underlings at the party including the superintendent of the local high school! I was felling superfine for sure, like the sugar.
Well now that I’ve supersaturated this joke to a superfluous level, I suppose I’ll stop before a supervisor supervenes. With any luck, a better blog will supersede this one.
Well now that I’ve supersaturated this joke to a superfluous level, I suppose I’ll stop before a supervisor supervenes. With any luck, a better blog will supersede this one.
2.04.2007
Super Sunday
As we celebrate this holiest of holy days, let us not forget the true meaning of Super Bowl Sunday. The anniversary of the first wedding of God and Elizabeth Taylor. Although their marriage may have been brief, most of Gods friends would tell you that they have never seen him happier than those few weeks. Without this holy union we would never have got to experience the wonder that is their mighty offspring, Lawrence Taylor. Football or crack addictions just wouldn't be the same.
Go Liz Taylor!
Go Football!
Go Liz Taylor!
Go Football!
2.02.2007
Food for thought
Throughout my first 31 years I have enjoyed many wonderful meals. Some cling to my memory and I often wish I could enjoy them once again. Some of you may recall the Crawfish Monica from the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival. Damn, that was a delightful dish served thoughtfully in disposable bowls. I have tried to recreate that meal as one I personally love very much. My own creation turned into a Crawfish Etouffee with Cheese. It's no Crawfish Monica, but a damn fine dish if I do say so myself. Others of you may recall a hamburger from The Shamrock in Utica before it burned down. Very nice burgers served there. Also, many of you have enjoyed a Red Coat Burger from the Red Coat Tavern. This particular hamburger does hamburgers everywhere quite proud. I too have enjoyed many a shushi roll that I strongly recommend. Chinese food is okay with me too. I fancy many of these Asian dishes: General Tsao's Chicken, Beef Ala Sczuan, Chow Mein, Ginger Chicken with Broccili, and even an Almond and Cashew Chicken from time to time. I will also enjoy the Thai variey if it is presented to me. My preference here is a Pad Thai, moderatly spicy! If I had my choice however I would prefer to cook at home on the grill proper. To me, a nice grilled hamburger is a slice of heaven. I enjoy mine with mayo, lettuce, pickles, and some red onion. If I'm feeling a little crazy I may even throw on a slice of American cheese and some ketchup and mustard. There are many ways to enjoy a grilled hamburger, and respect is given to each. If your personal choice is a burger topped with grilled mushrooms and onions and topped with some swiss cheese, well I say "hell yea!" There are many things I enjoy cooking. Burrito's, taco's, a wide variety of grilled chicken dishes, salmon, and yes...yes indeed, steak! My favorite dish, cooked at home just the way I like. I enjoy a good Filet Mignon, or usually just a NY Strip Steak. I like mine cooked to a nice medium rare...or maybe just a touch on the medium side of medium rare! Mashed potatoes are a must with this fine dish. Here, I go the extra butter route! Yum!! There is room for variety in the vegtable selection here. Some of my favorites are as follows: a nice blend of steamed carrots, zucchini, and squash; asparagus, corn on the cob, and brussels sprouts. I recently learned that I like brussels sprouts on a trip to Kalkaska. To top it all of, pour yourself a nice glass of red wine. I prefer a nice red zin or even a cabernet from california! My suggestion, keep the bottle close by. You will want a second glass, and you won't want to get up for it. It conclusion, no matter what your favorite fare may be, I say..."enjoy it!" Take your time eating and savor every bite!
These Colors Are Brite: Debalt is a Communist
Fellow Peripheral Americans,
Please join with me now as I steer our lost brother back into the suburban garage of America's love. My dear friend Debalt, apparently ill with Falafel poisoning, wrote some ugly words about the recent apprehension of some corporate-sponsored terrorists:
http://www.cnn.com/2007/US/02/01/boston.bombscare/index.html
http://peripheralfiasco.blogspot.com/2007/02/that-is-not-hair-related-question.html
Well let me say this to you Mr. Debalt. I've seen London and France and you sir are a communist Arab. Your recent show of support for those cartoon loving terrorist hooligans was quite Canadian. Sir. Read the article, their Judas light boxes were displaying the middle finger, middle finger! I don't know where you come from, but where I come from the middle finger means Fuck You! And Jesus only fucks on Sundays!
Here are my recommendations for alternate, Less Offensive images for terrorist to display on their Lite Brite Atomic Bomb Screens:
1. John Denver hugging a teddy bear.
2. Cindy Lauper riding bareback on an ostrich
3. Motley Crue gang raping the Olsen Twins
4. 7 tall midgets and 8 short ninjas
5. A martian buying gasoline from Jackie Chan
6. Women in love, with other women
7. The Distasteful Gentlemen
8. A nude crab tamer
9. A dirty martini with extra Britney Spears
10. Toad tits
Horse Dung in a Dead Theater
By the second act they became sullen. To them the stage bore no comfort, gave escape to none. A drape of factory smoke choked the theater so not even the mill worker could escape it. Its chilled chairs reclined only halfway, then dusty springs claimed their victims.
The fiasco died it seemed, with the sword swallower and trapeze. Horse dung laid conquered by gravity and wept until it dried. The magpies, bored of their laughing games, swept along to another terrace. One with better scenery. Even stone walls lost hope or feared the worst.
But that night, nearby in moderately priced apartments, awoke the minds of many sleeping children. They itched like thieves at a witch's bedside. Their minds, burning with unfamiliar questions, slithered toward opening doors. Remembering the theater, they felt fire on the periphery and the fiasco was rekindled.
The fiasco died it seemed, with the sword swallower and trapeze. Horse dung laid conquered by gravity and wept until it dried. The magpies, bored of their laughing games, swept along to another terrace. One with better scenery. Even stone walls lost hope or feared the worst.
But that night, nearby in moderately priced apartments, awoke the minds of many sleeping children. They itched like thieves at a witch's bedside. Their minds, burning with unfamiliar questions, slithered toward opening doors. Remembering the theater, they felt fire on the periphery and the fiasco was rekindled.
2.01.2007
That is not a hair related question.
"It had a very sinister appearance," Coakley told reporters. "It had a battery behind it, and wires."
What has this world come to, when a couple of Lite Brites can shut down an entire city? The way these two guys that are being charged in this case are dealing with it is nothing short of awesome!
read more about it here and here
Kudos to these two guys for dealing with such an absurd situation with with absurdity of their own.
What has this world come to, when a couple of Lite Brites can shut down an entire city? The way these two guys that are being charged in this case are dealing with it is nothing short of awesome!
read more about it here and here
Kudos to these two guys for dealing with such an absurd situation with with absurdity of their own.
SBMDAAFBW
Ok. I just can't take this any more. I bit my tongue when "Big Momma's House II" came out (and was the #1 movie at the box office its opening week). I can no longer sit here quietly and take this.
Hear me when I yell this:
"A SKINNY BLACK MAN DRESSED AS A FAT BLACK WOMAN IS NOT FUNNY!!"
Am I wrong here? Seriously!!
Ok, when Eddie Murphy did it in "Nutty Professor" it was kinda funny, I admit the whole "Hercules, Hercules..." thing was funny at the time. That was 1996! Then came "Nutty Professor II" in 2000 and it was already played out. 2000 was when the Skinny Black Man Dressed As A Fat Black Woman (SBMDAAFBW) trend really started to pick up steam. It was this same year that the poor man's Eddie Murphy, Martin Lawrence, also did a SBMDAAFBW film. "Big Momma's House" hit the big screen and for some god damn reason it was a success.
Why America? Seriously? I know that I am talking to the country as a whole in a very Bernie Mac-like way, but Jesus, what the hell is going on? Am I on the outside of the joke? That's fine, wouldn't be the first time, but someone please explain it to me. Do you think this is funny?
I know fat people are funny, and I have found that fat black ladies can be some of the funniest people on this planet. That is a fact. They don't give a shit and they know how to laugh. Loud! So why don't we have any movies with REAL fat black ladies? Eddie Murphy and Martin are taking all these rolls (pun)? Is there a Hollywood agent somewhere with a whole stable of hilarious plus size black women? If so, I am betting that they are funnier than Eddie and Martin in their SBMDAAFBW roles.
That brings me to what has pushed me over the edge. Skinny little Eddie Murphy has a new SBMDAAFBW movie coming out. It is called "Norbit" and as far as I can tell from the previews it follows the same equation as all the SBMDAAFBW flicks. If this movie does well at the box office, I am going to fuckin' lose it! 9 full years after the SBMDAAFBW shtick was kinda funny in "Nutty Professor!" It is 2007, the future! When I was a kid I totally thought I would be flying around in flying cars by now, not going to see movies starring men in fat suits. Give it up! That is like me thinking that the whole "knock, knock. whose there? orange...." bit is still funny.
What is it? Am I too white? Can I not identify with the humor because I am neither skinny nor fat? Do I secretly hate fat suits? I know that I have a deep dislike for Martin Lawrence, but I don't think that is solely to blame for my anger.
I will tell you one thing, if you go see this movie I will hate you!
Hear me when I yell this:
"A SKINNY BLACK MAN DRESSED AS A FAT BLACK WOMAN IS NOT FUNNY!!"
Am I wrong here? Seriously!!
Ok, when Eddie Murphy did it in "Nutty Professor" it was kinda funny, I admit the whole "Hercules, Hercules..." thing was funny at the time. That was 1996! Then came "Nutty Professor II" in 2000 and it was already played out. 2000 was when the Skinny Black Man Dressed As A Fat Black Woman (SBMDAAFBW) trend really started to pick up steam. It was this same year that the poor man's Eddie Murphy, Martin Lawrence, also did a SBMDAAFBW film. "Big Momma's House" hit the big screen and for some god damn reason it was a success.
Why America? Seriously? I know that I am talking to the country as a whole in a very Bernie Mac-like way, but Jesus, what the hell is going on? Am I on the outside of the joke? That's fine, wouldn't be the first time, but someone please explain it to me. Do you think this is funny?
I know fat people are funny, and I have found that fat black ladies can be some of the funniest people on this planet. That is a fact. They don't give a shit and they know how to laugh. Loud! So why don't we have any movies with REAL fat black ladies? Eddie Murphy and Martin are taking all these rolls (pun)? Is there a Hollywood agent somewhere with a whole stable of hilarious plus size black women? If so, I am betting that they are funnier than Eddie and Martin in their SBMDAAFBW roles.
That brings me to what has pushed me over the edge. Skinny little Eddie Murphy has a new SBMDAAFBW movie coming out. It is called "Norbit" and as far as I can tell from the previews it follows the same equation as all the SBMDAAFBW flicks. If this movie does well at the box office, I am going to fuckin' lose it! 9 full years after the SBMDAAFBW shtick was kinda funny in "Nutty Professor!" It is 2007, the future! When I was a kid I totally thought I would be flying around in flying cars by now, not going to see movies starring men in fat suits. Give it up! That is like me thinking that the whole "knock, knock. whose there? orange...." bit is still funny.
What is it? Am I too white? Can I not identify with the humor because I am neither skinny nor fat? Do I secretly hate fat suits? I know that I have a deep dislike for Martin Lawrence, but I don't think that is solely to blame for my anger.
I will tell you one thing, if you go see this movie I will hate you!
1.31.2007
Have you ever noticed...?
The growing number of updates and traffic the Peripheral Fiasco has seen over the last few weeks is staggering. But like a wino caught in a banana-peel factory we flounder on and bring you our newest segment entitled "Have you ever noticed?". We here at the pf will act as the ringleader to your circus. The captain to your dingy. The pimp to your hoe.
Without further explanation I bring you...."Have you ever noticed...?"
Have you ever noticed that postulate and prostitute sound a lot alike?
Have you ever noticed that the sheer amount of friction needed to create belly-button lint is mind-boggling?
Have you ever noticed that children who have outie belly-buttons are seen as cute. Adults with outies are seen as freaks.
Have you ever noticed that two of my posts involve belly-buttons?
Have you ever noticed that fetish and finish are like that whole postulate/prostitute thing from above?
My belly-button and I have set the foundation and we now leave you to come up with your own. Enjoy.
Without further explanation I bring you...."Have you ever noticed...?"
Have you ever noticed that postulate and prostitute sound a lot alike?
Have you ever noticed that the sheer amount of friction needed to create belly-button lint is mind-boggling?
Have you ever noticed that children who have outie belly-buttons are seen as cute. Adults with outies are seen as freaks.
Have you ever noticed that two of my posts involve belly-buttons?
Have you ever noticed that fetish and finish are like that whole postulate/prostitute thing from above?
My belly-button and I have set the foundation and we now leave you to come up with your own. Enjoy.
1.30.2007
inspired by coworkers
Dick slap death is the death i choose to die.
Does this surpise you? You of many buttons and olive hair tonic?
Does this shock you? You of finger sandwiches and scarlet letter sensibilities?
And what about you there? All eyebrows and snake oil you are... Speechless, are you not?
It sure caught my parents off guard.
Does this surpise you? You of many buttons and olive hair tonic?
Does this shock you? You of finger sandwiches and scarlet letter sensibilities?
And what about you there? All eyebrows and snake oil you are... Speechless, are you not?
It sure caught my parents off guard.
1.28.2007
Jewel's Wondertreat (Food for the "Big Game")
It's Sunday, and the "Big Game" is only one week away. Have you thought about what you are going to eat until you can't get off the couch? When it comes to the "Big Game" my theory is this, If you aren't playing in it you should be trying to eat yourself into a larger trouser size.
When it comes to "Big Game" Sunday all rules are out the window. Things you never would think of eating you should eat in excess. It is a freebie, and ever since tall Noreen stopped hooking down at the Home Depot, we all know there is no such thing as a freebie anymore. So take advantage of this.
I offer this little culinary jewel to you. Oddly enough I learned it from Jewel, the snaggle tooth Alaskian princess of pop, she came over to a "Big Game" party I had a couple years back. One of my friends seemed to be dating her at the time. That girl can eat every bit as well as she can sing. So, I lifted this wondertreat from her.
Jewel's "Big Game" Wondertreat
Ingredients:
1 can Hormel Chili
Velveeta Pasteurized Prepared Cheese Product (the big brick)
Preparation:
combined chili and pasteurized prepared cheese product (to taste) in a microwave safe bowl.
heat until pasteurized prepared cheese product is melted.
This dish is great on just about anything. I like to put it in my sombraro chip & dip platter then sit back and watch the goodtimes ooze. I will offer you a word of advice that Jewel handed down to me, this is really a 1st quarter treat as when the wondertreat hardens it transforms in a semi-solid paste. So eat it while it is hot, then when it cools use it to caulk that hole in the barn.
There is no other day of the year when this wondertreat is even an option, so make it count and start counting the days until the next "Big Game"
Enjoy and go Lions!
When it comes to "Big Game" Sunday all rules are out the window. Things you never would think of eating you should eat in excess. It is a freebie, and ever since tall Noreen stopped hooking down at the Home Depot, we all know there is no such thing as a freebie anymore. So take advantage of this.
I offer this little culinary jewel to you. Oddly enough I learned it from Jewel, the snaggle tooth Alaskian princess of pop, she came over to a "Big Game" party I had a couple years back. One of my friends seemed to be dating her at the time. That girl can eat every bit as well as she can sing. So, I lifted this wondertreat from her.
Jewel's "Big Game" Wondertreat
Ingredients:
1 can Hormel Chili
Velveeta Pasteurized Prepared Cheese Product (the big brick)
Preparation:
combined chili and pasteurized prepared cheese product (to taste) in a microwave safe bowl.
heat until pasteurized prepared cheese product is melted.
This dish is great on just about anything. I like to put it in my sombraro chip & dip platter then sit back and watch the goodtimes ooze. I will offer you a word of advice that Jewel handed down to me, this is really a 1st quarter treat as when the wondertreat hardens it transforms in a semi-solid paste. So eat it while it is hot, then when it cools use it to caulk that hole in the barn.
There is no other day of the year when this wondertreat is even an option, so make it count and start counting the days until the next "Big Game"
Enjoy and go Lions!
1.26.2007
I'm sorry...what?
Something interesting happened to me last night. A guy I know introduced me, among others, to his girlfriend. Turns out that he only met her on my space. She was crazy as crazy can be saying things that made no sense at all. We laughed at her all night long. My cheeks began to hurt as the night progressed. I blamed this on my constant laughing. Throughout the night I had the feeling that someone was talking about me. You know the old wives tale that your ears will ring when someone is talking about you? As the night went along, I started to realize that no one was talking about me...I was losing the hearing in my right ear. Around 2am my ear was ringing and I could hardly hear out of it. I went to bed and attempted to "sleep off" my new hearing impairment. It did not work. Every sound coming to my right ear now sounds muffled and my cheeks are still hurting. This worries me a bit as I like the option of being able to hear if I so choose. Is there a new greeting card for this sort of personal deterioration?
American Greeting Card System
There was a time when no matter how much I drank, smoked or swallowed in pill form I remained incapable of Oscar winning displays of theatrical prowess. Even today I struggle to connect with my emotions, ever hoping to make my break and kick the artistic world square in the huevos. And I have finally done it, succeeded where others failed.
I identified the flaws in America's greeting card system and, in the spirit of capitalistic brotherhood, endeavored to fix those problems for a fee. PF readers, here's where you come in. Find me someone to buy this shit. We'll talk money and fruity rum drinks later. Onward.
Let's call the bum crazy and admit America's greeting card system is dated. It's a relic of a simpler and arguably more fantastic time than our own. Greeting cards were created to express the joy, sympathy and thankfulness of a generation of white bread world war winners. I'm a modern man. I prefer a multi-grained bread and avoid war like a 1 pack of Tequiza. I know many PF readers (w. debalt's recent poll confirmed at least 1 person reads this blog) share my frustration with archaic condolence cards, sappy valentine's day cards, or sterile thank-you cards. I'm here to argue that 1) We don't need any of those damn things 2) What we do need are cards that fit our modern lifestyle and can therefore adapt to any occasion.
Card 1.
For your neighbor Bill "Bong Daddy" Bonter, who is confused by everything. I mean everything, the amazing, the ordinary, the sun. Just confused by it all.
There is a reason for everything.
There is also a finite number of jelly beans
in the Sacred Guessing Jar...
Which will be delivered to your door in exactly 3 minutes.
Card 2.
For Phyllis, your co-worker who is so tragically lazy that she kisses tons of ass, but only on Fridays.
God had a plan.
He also had a rectal disorder.
I hope he planned for you to have a rectal disorder.
Card 3.
For your teenage brother who is convinced that his generation is better than yours because they invented skateboards.
Simplicity is easily found in simple situations.
So is boredom.
You jack off too much.
Card 4.
For your grandma who refused to acknowledge that you're a vegetarian. Again. Another holiday dinner. MMM. Mustard sandwiches.
Tea is best served with milk and toast.
So is the flesh of the underclass.
Slavery happened.
Card 5.
For a previous girlfriend, or your mom if the spirit moves.
Behind every man is a great woman.
And a lifetime of anguish fueling a fear of commitment.
You almost made me gay.
Card 6.
Perhaps the most multi-purpose card. For any religious occasion, really. For your friend who told your darkest secret to the internet. Or to your nympho cousin Trina from Vegas. Bad Trina.
You could have thrown stones at glass houses.
Or pissed in a public swimming pool.
But you fucked a horse in church.
1.25.2007
Is anybody out there?
Does anybody read this?
Not that it matters all that much. I just want to know. I mean, I know there are a few. Devildog Wrapper for one, will be there in the shadows piping up when a topic rubs his inner thigh. Are there others? Lurking in the cyber bushes? It would be great if this turned into a two way street with comments from the reader. Whatever the case may be I am confident that PF will continue waxing poetic on whatever particular topic decides to present itself that day... it would be nice if you joined us, but really we can do it no matter what... are we talking "To" someone? Or is this whole thing kinda like masturbating to Ru Paul.... you know, its still masturbating but not the kind you started out to do...
I mean, I have no problem doing things alone. It reminds of when I was young my brother and I used to make those "tornados in a jar." You put food coloring, water, and a house from Monopoly in an old peanut butter jar and spin it in a circle and watch the twister devour the house. Great fun. Anyway, my brother and I thought it would be a great idea to make a bunch of these and sell them. So we did just that, set up a stand at the end of our driveway. Only problem was that our driveway was 1/4 mile long and we lived at the end of a 2 mile long private road out in the middle of the woods. There were more dogs that came by our house than people and as we found out the hard way todays modern dog just doesn't have much use for twisters in a jar. So after some hard selling the only twister jars we sold were to our parents, and even they held out for a deal.
Basically what I am getting at here is that if I have to get my parents and a couple neighborhood dogs to read this blog, I will. I would rather it be you leaving the comments so my mother never has to know about things like Ru Paul, but I am not above it.
Just so we can see what kind of people read this. If you are out there, leave a comment and answer me this one question, cause I really need to know this... (I know what I think, but I am sure this will be a hotbed discussion)
Is lint recyclable?
Not that it matters all that much. I just want to know. I mean, I know there are a few. Devildog Wrapper for one, will be there in the shadows piping up when a topic rubs his inner thigh. Are there others? Lurking in the cyber bushes? It would be great if this turned into a two way street with comments from the reader. Whatever the case may be I am confident that PF will continue waxing poetic on whatever particular topic decides to present itself that day... it would be nice if you joined us, but really we can do it no matter what... are we talking "To" someone? Or is this whole thing kinda like masturbating to Ru Paul.... you know, its still masturbating but not the kind you started out to do...
I mean, I have no problem doing things alone. It reminds of when I was young my brother and I used to make those "tornados in a jar." You put food coloring, water, and a house from Monopoly in an old peanut butter jar and spin it in a circle and watch the twister devour the house. Great fun. Anyway, my brother and I thought it would be a great idea to make a bunch of these and sell them. So we did just that, set up a stand at the end of our driveway. Only problem was that our driveway was 1/4 mile long and we lived at the end of a 2 mile long private road out in the middle of the woods. There were more dogs that came by our house than people and as we found out the hard way todays modern dog just doesn't have much use for twisters in a jar. So after some hard selling the only twister jars we sold were to our parents, and even they held out for a deal.
Basically what I am getting at here is that if I have to get my parents and a couple neighborhood dogs to read this blog, I will. I would rather it be you leaving the comments so my mother never has to know about things like Ru Paul, but I am not above it.
Just so we can see what kind of people read this. If you are out there, leave a comment and answer me this one question, cause I really need to know this... (I know what I think, but I am sure this will be a hotbed discussion)
Is lint recyclable?
1.24.2007
a hybrid form of cutlery
Like the majority of the working mass I am allowed a break to nourish myself. The hour between noon and 1 p.m. EST is my alloted time to do this because I work from the hours of 9:00 a.m EST and 5:00 p.m. EST.
The area surrounding my place of work could be described as light commercial in that there is a high density of small businesses and a spattering of strip malls and apartment complexes. The local food is as eclectic as the area around it. One can find anything from Thai, to Indian, to all-you-can-eat fish fry (on Fridays). So as they say, my lunch options are sky's the limit. However I find that as the traditional lunch hour approaches and the bulk of my coworkers head off to enjoy Crunch Wrap Supremes I prefer the solitude this hour offers me. It is not that I do not enjoy the company of my cohorts, I do occasionally join them on their excursions, I find this down time therapeutic and re-genitive. Chicken gumbo for my soul.
So as I am left relatively alone in my cube to enjoy my "me time" I have realized the freedom this hour gives me. It started out small at first, I would wipe my mouth on my sleeve. All the while looking over my shoulder expecting judgmental eyes to be bearing down on me. But this was not the case, so my actions each day would get bolder. I began to eat spaghetti with my hands. Once I stomped grapes and had a small dixie cup of Burgundy with my turkey sandwich. My latest, and in my opinion, most revolutionary act has been going on now for over a week. I have traded in my metal fork and spoon I use each day from the company kitchen and have replaced it with a plastic spork. That is right, among million dollar deals and other important stuff I sit in my cube and eat 2 day old beef stew with a spork.
The area surrounding my place of work could be described as light commercial in that there is a high density of small businesses and a spattering of strip malls and apartment complexes. The local food is as eclectic as the area around it. One can find anything from Thai, to Indian, to all-you-can-eat fish fry (on Fridays). So as they say, my lunch options are sky's the limit. However I find that as the traditional lunch hour approaches and the bulk of my coworkers head off to enjoy Crunch Wrap Supremes I prefer the solitude this hour offers me. It is not that I do not enjoy the company of my cohorts, I do occasionally join them on their excursions, I find this down time therapeutic and re-genitive. Chicken gumbo for my soul.
So as I am left relatively alone in my cube to enjoy my "me time" I have realized the freedom this hour gives me. It started out small at first, I would wipe my mouth on my sleeve. All the while looking over my shoulder expecting judgmental eyes to be bearing down on me. But this was not the case, so my actions each day would get bolder. I began to eat spaghetti with my hands. Once I stomped grapes and had a small dixie cup of Burgundy with my turkey sandwich. My latest, and in my opinion, most revolutionary act has been going on now for over a week. I have traded in my metal fork and spoon I use each day from the company kitchen and have replaced it with a plastic spork. That is right, among million dollar deals and other important stuff I sit in my cube and eat 2 day old beef stew with a spork.
1.23.2007
land dispute proves fortuitous
I recently acquired 20 wooden barrels from the settlement of a land dispute. Eight oak, seven cedar, some purpleheart, and a handful constructed of planks from the critically endangered Mersawa tree. The land dispute arose, as they so often do, as an offshoot of a heated exchange over the merits of public transportation of the (255, 216, 0) persuasion in communities lacking protein-based, spontaneously combustible fuels. I found my way into this particular offshoot, as I am wont to do, after drinking long and luxuriously for the better part of an afternoon with my Persian neighbor Sampson. The fervor of the exchange appeared to be directly proportional to the rate at which Sampson and I consumed our Persian yogurt sodas. We digressed into the roofing of the school buses that passed about town each morning. Sampson was of the opinion that the white roofing was a clever ploy to disguise the inevitable seagull feces that littered the local bus yard and buses, thereby reducing the need to for regluar cleanings and alleviating the municipal tax burden that had been placed on the citizenry. Awash in a filthy mind-bending sea of Persian yogurt sodas, I stuck to my guns, demanding at a rather loud, and at times inappropriate, volume that the white roofing clearly was used because said color would stand out most clearly amongst the inferno and billowing smoke once the bus had rolled into the ravine and burst into flames. When Sampson’s man servant once again arrived to freshen up the yogurt sodas, my Persian friend instructed him to settle the matter for us. Always the resourceful man servant, Farookh promptly returned with another round of the intoxicating quaffs and the requested information, which I submit here:
www.txdps.state.tx.us/schoolbus/2006SBspecs.pdf
pg. 76 – notes that a white roof is optional on school buses within this district
www.ase.org/uploaded_files/greenschools/update27.pdf
pg. 4 - outlines an elementary student’s hypothesis of the color white absorbing less heat than standard roof colors
http://www.gadoe.org/DMGetDocument.aspx/Georgia%20School%20Bus20Specifications.pdfp=6CC6799F8C1371F6CC5B1631475805BB52E820C868EDDC3FA764C0BDD3A5405E&Type=D pg. 22 – posting from Georgia’s Department of Education noting that white bus roofing can be used to aid in heat dissipation
This was, I shouted at Sampson and his limp-wristed man servant, “the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s white-painted-back”, taking an intoxicated glee in my reference to their homeland’s preferred method of transportation. After loudly accusing Farookh of being unable to objectively rule on the subject and using various means of middle eastern sorcery to steer the debate into his master’s favor, I threw down the gauntlet. And by that I mean the better part of a gallon of Persian yogurt sodas exited my belly via nose and mouth, to be deposited at the feet of my stunned audience. Needing nary a moment to compose myself, I stomped off and immediately returned, triumphantly perched atop the riding lawnmower, much to the continued amazement of Sampson and the poor Farookh. Still hopelessly within the grasp of the powerful beverages that now lay splattered about the neighbor’s lawn, I careened up and down the length of the Persian’s property, snake-like swaths of freshly manicured grass providing a fair and accurate assessment of the state of my sobriety. Sampson looked on in silence, painfully aware that under Persian drinking rules once a man had vomited on another’s lawn after an invigorated debate, that man was entitled to whatever land he could mow before falling off the tractor. Myself, I managed to make a handful of passes before succumbing to the call of slumber…
But once again, I digress. We were discussing my fine barrels I recently acquired… You see, in exchange for returning the narrow strip of the Persian’s property, Sampson compensated me to the tune of these 20 wooden barrels you see before you now. The cunning Sampson had arranged to have them thrown in as part of the deal in which he acquired the man servant Farookh, as a way to “sweeten the pot” as it were. But that is a story for another time. At any rate, they are mine now, and I treasure them.
www.txdps.state.tx.us/schoolbus/2006SBspecs.pdf
pg. 76 – notes that a white roof is optional on school buses within this district
www.ase.org/uploaded_files/greenschools/update27.pdf
pg. 4 - outlines an elementary student’s hypothesis of the color white absorbing less heat than standard roof colors
http://www.gadoe.org/DMGetDocument.aspx/Georgia%20School%20Bus20Specifications.pdfp=6CC6799F8C1371F6CC5B1631475805BB52E820C868EDDC3FA764C0BDD3A5405E&Type=D pg. 22 – posting from Georgia’s Department of Education noting that white bus roofing can be used to aid in heat dissipation
This was, I shouted at Sampson and his limp-wristed man servant, “the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s white-painted-back”, taking an intoxicated glee in my reference to their homeland’s preferred method of transportation. After loudly accusing Farookh of being unable to objectively rule on the subject and using various means of middle eastern sorcery to steer the debate into his master’s favor, I threw down the gauntlet. And by that I mean the better part of a gallon of Persian yogurt sodas exited my belly via nose and mouth, to be deposited at the feet of my stunned audience. Needing nary a moment to compose myself, I stomped off and immediately returned, triumphantly perched atop the riding lawnmower, much to the continued amazement of Sampson and the poor Farookh. Still hopelessly within the grasp of the powerful beverages that now lay splattered about the neighbor’s lawn, I careened up and down the length of the Persian’s property, snake-like swaths of freshly manicured grass providing a fair and accurate assessment of the state of my sobriety. Sampson looked on in silence, painfully aware that under Persian drinking rules once a man had vomited on another’s lawn after an invigorated debate, that man was entitled to whatever land he could mow before falling off the tractor. Myself, I managed to make a handful of passes before succumbing to the call of slumber…
But once again, I digress. We were discussing my fine barrels I recently acquired… You see, in exchange for returning the narrow strip of the Persian’s property, Sampson compensated me to the tune of these 20 wooden barrels you see before you now. The cunning Sampson had arranged to have them thrown in as part of the deal in which he acquired the man servant Farookh, as a way to “sweeten the pot” as it were. But that is a story for another time. At any rate, they are mine now, and I treasure them.
1.22.2007
Different Strokes For Different Folks
In lieu of bathing, I roll in toast.
Perhaps it’s a tougher choice for most
But a tepid pool of one’s own grime
I’m sorry, that just sounds less than sublime.
Now a running shower may get some by,
But it seems to make my skin less dry.
So I’ll toast off a loaf and line it across the floor
And leave for work smelling like buttery goodness once more.
Perhaps it’s a tougher choice for most
But a tepid pool of one’s own grime
I’m sorry, that just sounds less than sublime.
Now a running shower may get some by,
But it seems to make my skin less dry.
So I’ll toast off a loaf and line it across the floor
And leave for work smelling like buttery goodness once more.
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