Famous stereo salesman: Between 1448 and 1476, he didn't just slash prices--he impaled them. His motto was, If you can find a lower price, I'll cut your head off and hang it on a stake. Needless to say, no one ever found a lower price.
We remind you to put hand to heart, gaze up at Old Glory, and say 'Fuck Patriotism!" Every year at about this time some misguided liberal type tries to "take back" patriotism from the "America, Right or Wrong" crowd. This is the logic of a fellow who would demand the return of a rotting fish from the town dump, and we say to hell with it. Let the pie-eyed flag wavers have it. Love of country is a disease like rickets only worse, because at least rickets doesn't cause people to put on red, white, and blue underwear.
America's not the worst country in the world, but we're its citizens by accident of birth and furthermore find it difficult to develop any warm and fuzzy feelings about the land that just within our lifetime has brought us Vietnam, Iraq, Richard Nixon, state-sanctioned torture, a prison system whose goal it is to put every minority citizen behind bars, Dick Cheney, Guantanamo Bay, the Bay of Pigs, ketchup as a vegetable for poor kids, and more CIA dirty shenanigans than you could shake Karl Rove's decapitated head at. Frankly we feel more a far stronger allegiance towards the hamburger, and we're talking about one with Mad Cow disease.
James Boswell notes in his Life of Samuel Johnson how one Arthur Lee "could not but be very obnoxious to Johnson, for he was not only a patriot, but an American." That about sums it up. As does the dwarf In Bruges, who says "I'm American, but don't hold it against me."
There is always a woman. Even if you are a woman, there is still a woman. You don't want to admit she's gone or think about how she could be anywhere. How will you find her? She could be on an entirely different continent. There are 12 continents and she could be on any one of them. Or even every single one of them. This is impossible, but that's how amazing she is.
There are sightings, of course. She is spotted in Madagascar and Malta and Maine and Mexico and Murmansk and Manchester and Monaco and Moscow and Munich. You can see no pattern.
She is a woman and you are a man or a woman and this is the way life is, you fall in love with a woman and she disappears to Paris or P'yongyang or Peru or Padua or Perth or Peoria and you can see no pattern.
You dream about her, of course. In these dreams she hikes a red skirt up above her knees and reminds you to pay the water bill. That's how thoughtful she is.
A swimmer off Pompano Beach was fatally narred yesterday, increasing to four the number of people who have died after being narred this year. Anthony Quimpetalli was narred while swimming with friends, one of whom, Fernando Impotali, described the tragedy: "I heard Tony call out, 'I've been narred!' I thought he was messing around. Then I saw him get narred again. I got the hell out of there because no way did I want to get narred too." Previous narring victims include a boogie boarder, a snorkeler, and a nude water mime who was plying his craft before a captive audience of annoyed sunbathers at clothing-optional Ashrake Beach. "This is a tragedy that keeps getting more tragic," says Bill Croft, owner of Bill's Marina. "It's terrible to have people narred to death right on your front doorstep. Except for the naked water mime, of course." The attacks are all believed to be the work of a single narwhale.
Fans of the Basement Tapes have had to put up with interpretations of Dylan's songs by the likes of Ian & Sylvia, Brian Auger, and Peter, Paul & Mary. But Cheap Trick?? Who knew?? And we've got to hand it to them. They fold, spindle and mutilate "Please Mrs. Henry" with such shred-happy gusto you can hardly hear the original in it. Had Ian & Sylvia torn into Dylan this way, we wouldn't think of them as the sixties' version of the Captain & Tenille. Would we, Mr. Jones?
Shortly after Ian cut off sylvia's head and glued it to his guitar
It is easy enough to mock, which is why we do it. But we do not mock Nikolai Rerikh. For although his paintings look like Yes album cover rejects Rerikh was also a theosophist, advocate for peace, cofounder of the Agni Yoga Society, and the inheritor of Tolstoy's Beard. A spiritual heavy-hitter in other words, the kind of guy whose yoga mantra ("Time keeps on slippin' slippin' slippin' into the future") is still played on classic rock stations. And he went to India to seek enlightenment before the Beatles even! His paintings remain enormously popular with people who believe in unicorns, no disrespect, and H.P. Lovecraft, who called them "strange and disturbing" in At the Mountains of the Moon. Wooooooooh! Ewoewoewoewo! Gaze upon them long enough, and you will want to crank up Hawkwind.
His painting "Fly like the eagle, let my spirit carry me"
Officials with NASA, the U.S. space agency, say they have no idea when the denting occurred. "We suspect another universe came by, accidentally ran into our universe, then sped away without leaving so much as an apologetic note with its phone number and insurance information." They added, "We have no idea when we'll be able to take it into the shop to have it fixed. We're pretty busy."
Flagging sales of F-150 pickups and SUVs have forced the Ford Motor Company to take a second job working the second shift at a McDonald's in Dearborn, Michigan. The large automobile manufacturer applied for the position in order to scrape up the cash necessary to pay for gas and the six-packs of Bud it's using to treat its depression. Ford was first given the job behind the drive-in window, but was reprimanded by manager Jason Prikke and subsequently moved to the counter after repeatedly pleading with non-Ford owners picking up their burgers to "buy Ford, we beg of you."
You can forget about the Holy Trinity--the Holy Ghost just got fired. According to sources in God's front office, God the Father has given Heaven's number three man the bum's rush for chronic absenteeism. While the Father declined to speak to us, a source who would prefer to remain anonymous says Jesus told him, "The Father works 24/7. I do too, and I'm still recovering from the nails and the lance and stuff. Where's the Holy Ghost? Your guess is as good as mine. You should see his office. Five inches of dust on his desk, and there's something growing in his coffee cup that even God doesn't know what it is. Speaking frankly? The guy's deadwood. A ghost employee, if you'll pardon the pun." We could not reach the Holy Ghost for his reaction to his termination, but his wife told us, "It doesn't surprise me one bit. I don't see him. The kids don't see him. Who sees him? He's the Invisible Man. Seriously, would it kill him to make an appearance once in a while? Evidently."
Looks like his portrait will be coming down off the lobby wall
In news that has shocked both the law enforcement and barbering communities, Freddie Mercury's mustache has been discovered living in a remote village in Paraguay. The mustache--whose "death" has long been debated, mainly due to a string of reported sightings--is wanted in several countries, including the United States. According to sources in the U.S. Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Mustaches, the fugitive facial fungus has been living under an assumed name on a llama ranch outside Pesota. "For years I was told I was mad," says Simon Winkler, the famous mustache hunter attributed with hunting down Tom Selleck's "stache" in 1993. "But justice will out." The mustache's attorney, Pablo Escalante-Montenaro, says it's a case of mistaken identity. "This is a mustache wrongly accused due to an uncanny resemblance to a wanted mustache. You will see. My client will be released."
last known photograph of Freddie Mercury's mustache
Who was Perry Como's secret enemy? Historians, the Como family, and even the CIA have been seeking to solve this mystery for almost 50 years. Now the secret's out, thanks to the deathbed confession of Ed Blinks of Lake Saurie, Ohio. At a press conference, Thelma Blinks, Ed's spouse of 62 years, said, "As he was dying Edward whispered in my ear, 'Thelma, I was Perry Como's secret enemy.' I was shocked. We never missed a single one of Perry's TV programmes, including the holiday specials, so I thought Edward liked him. But he told me, 'As God is my witness, I spent every minute with my hands curled into fists, fighting the urge to shout 'Thelma, turn it off!'" Neighbors expressed surprise. Said Burt Fommes, "Ed Blinks? Perry Como's secret enemy? I never would have thought. Ed was such a quiet guy. Kept to himself." Thelma Blinks says her strong faith is seeing her through. "I pray to Jesus," she told reporters, "That he'll see fit to forgive Ed for this terrible crime."
Who saw Fosdyke last? Did anyone see Fosdyke leave? Did anyone see Fosdyke with his overcoat on? Or Fosdyke wearing his galoshes? Did Fosdyke seem troubled, angry or unhappy? Where exactly, when last seen, was Fosdyke on the continuum of human emotions? Did anyone spot Fosdyke racing down the stairs in lieu of using the elevator as fast as his 80-year-old legs would carry him? Was Fosdyke hiding something in the storage closet? Could Fosdyke have been the mysterious person stealing lunches from the communal refrigerator? Was Fosdyke's office window closed and locked from the inside? Did Fosdyke leave anything on his desk, a message of some type perhaps, such as a sheet of white printing paper upon which was written,
If I leave here tomorrow
Would you still remember me?
For I must be travelling on, now,
'Cause there's too many places I've got to see.
But, if I stayed here with you,
Things just couldn't be the same.
'Cause I'm as free as a bird now,
And this bird you can not change.
Lord knows, I can't change.
Is Fosdyke coming back? Is Fosdyke floating above the building laughing? Could Fosdyke have been an angel of wrath? Did Fosdyke keep something in the third drawer of his desk that if he held it aloft in both hands would glow like a thousand suns? Was Fosdyke really our go-to man on all things procurement-related?
Was Fosdyke ever here at all?
The state of Arkansas was arrested yesterday for loitering yesterday evening. According to the arresting officer, the 25th state "was hanging about furtively, like it was up to no good" between the states of Oklahoma and Mississippi. "Arkansas' nickname may be the Natural State" said patrolman Bill Jenks, "but there wasn't anything natural about the way it was lurking in that area. I strongly suspected it was waiting for a chance to burgle Louisiana." Arkansas is currently in the Pablum County Jailhouse, having been unable to post the $50 bond. However, its public defender, Atticus Swindle, denies the state was up to no good. "Arkansas has never been arrested except for that one time, when it was accused of feeling up Oklahoma. But it was drunk at the time, and has since gone to rehab and is attending regular AA meetings."
Mugshot: Arkansas even looks furtive in jail!
As we may not get the opportunity afterwards.
There's nothing like your own death to put you in an elegaic mood, and that's where we are right now. We're thinking how we may have been a total fuckup who ran from life as fast as our little legs would carry us, but we had our good points. We laughed a lot. We never kicked a dog or rooted for Hitler or punched any little kids in the mouth except for that one time, and the punk had it coming. Our heart was, for the most part, in the right place. What else. We served bravely in Vietnam. We once threw a perfect game in Triple A ball, inspiring Orioles great Jim Palmer to say, "You got it kid." We may have stretched the truth on occasion.
One time we peed on an electric fence. That was memorable.
It's hard to believe we'll never talk to us again. Or get to hug ourselves, saying, "You ain't so bad, you big galoot!" Or gaze at our beautiful smile. Boy. We miss us already.
A pair of uncomfortably itchy grass shoes washed up on shore here on barren Oschit Island today, diminishing hopes that the missing ecovessel the Sunshine Viking is still afloat. The Viking had been off the island, warding off seals who feed on the eggs of the rare Fominents (an ungainly and socially unpopular sea bird) who nest here. Said ecowarrior Starfleet Tofuflower, "Those were Pumpkinbrave's shoes. He never took them off in the 9 years I knew him." Pumpkinbrave and four others disappeared following an unexplained mishap. Their final radio transmission read: "You should see this beautiful whale, Starfleet! It's--aaaiiieee, my arm!"
they're completely edible
Here's something for Dave over at Dave Mows Grass to think about while he's mowing the grass over at Dave Mows Grass.
Here you have a chance to ask General Wesley Clark a question. Well aren't you lucky. We feel lucky. And having given it serious thought, here's our question: "General Wesley Clark, Americans used to have faith in their elected representatives' ability to address America's problems. This is no longer the case. We were wondering why this is when we happened to catch the HBO series John Adams. And noticed that all the guys were wearing powdered wigs. Evidently colonial America was one big crossdresser's convention. Anyway, although the wigs are troubling from the perspective of the present day, when the only male you see walking around in a wig is Ann Coulter, the people back then obviously trusted politicians in powdered wigs. Maybe if today's leaders wore powdered wigs we would believe in them again, rather than write them off in toto as opportunistic, hypocritical, power-mad, lying pustules of pure evil. What do you think?"
Here in our nation's capitol, unvarnished nature is never more than about 8 feet away. This is because Washington, DC is a kind of protected nature habitat for rats, a place where they can romp and play and pat their plump little bellies. The District has always had a rodent problem on the level of that temple in India where the rats hang around drinking milkshakes, but lately it's gotten worse. We've been seeing a couple of rats per day, most of them taking in the sights in broad daylight. A while back the city put these little black boxes everywhere to trap the rats, but the rats have converted most of them into condos that they stroll out of and into carrying furniture from IKEA. But rats aren't our only neighbors. Yesterday we passed one of our neighborhood's many flat-rat alleys and saw a cat running our way. We said, "Look, Mrs. UF, a cat!" She squinted at it, then screamed, "That's not a cat!" and disappeared, like one of those cartoon characters who leaves just his hat dangling in his place. So we looked at it again and sure enough it was a raccoon, who judging by the look in his beady eyes didn't much like the cut of our jib. So we took off screaming after her. It was probably rabid. We thought about capturing it and dropping it on the White House lawn, but George Bush probably would have run out the door and bit it.
On this day in 1972, Neil Diamond's Song Sung Blue was the numero uno 45 in the United States. This song used to make us cry every time we heard it, which tells you something about our mental health back then. Here's a partial rundown of our daily activities in 1972:
if you need us, we'll be in the bathroom
The Austrian painter Ferdinand Georg Waldmüller never, so far as we know, killed anyone. Which is a pity, because if he had his life wouldn't have been so dull even a three-paragraph synopsis of it is too much to bear. During his early period Waldmüller specialized in painting cherubic children leaning out of windows, which work culminated in his 1823 canvas Oops Goes Eric Clapton's Baby. Later, he took up rural themes, most of which featured a helpless child being poked with a stick.
