Saturday, November 20, 2004
Harry smoked his tenth cigarillo of the evening and gazed quasi-intently at the semi-distant skyline. He tried thinking of something to distract himself, like a familiar song or a stanza from his days on the stage (non-union). Harry could recite lines from plays long past, amazing even himself with his recall of poignant phrases and witty bon mots—words he wished he had composed. Mostly the quotes came when he was upset at the world (damn teaser cards), or in a self-pitying mood, like now. Having someone walk out on you will do that. Its one of those life altering events that makes a person pose the big questions aloud—Where is my life going? What the hell did I do to deserve this? Why can’t Boise State win by 24 ½ on the road? Not that anyone would answer back. Or even if they did, not that the answers would make any difference. Harry shrugged, took another drag on his mini-cigar, and tried to come to grips with the unfathomable: his mechanic was gone, and wasn’t ever coming back.
Posted by Pierre du Pop at 10:43 AM
Tuesday, August 24, 2004
ACT XI, Scene W-2
A glorious villa overlooking the Adriatic—
(What? Well, how many candelabras can one man buy?! Crimony.)
Scratch that. Due to unexpected budget cuts:
A modest brownstone in Queens—
(You’ve got to be kidding me!)
A fleabag motel room in Buffalo
[Wilhelm enters on a fine white steed—make that off-white tennis shoes—alternately eating circus peanuts and taking shots of wheatgrass from a gallon jug. Attached to his belt by a length of twine, is a photograph of a young girl in curls. Attached to the photo by an even longer length of twine is a manatee in a fedora, attempting to apply deodorant and cursing continuously in one of the following languages: Panamanian, Burmese and a Joker. I’ll take Burmese for $200.]
ANGELICA (speaking into the CB)
The heavens collapse in your absence. They crumble into dust and scatter o’er me like ashes from a Kool filtered cigarette: Kool, what a menthol was meant to be. Brown and Williamson Company, Louisville, Ky. Oh, how I sigh with 50% less throat irritation. How I crave only your love because Kool has 7% less nicotine than our competitors.
That's just false.
ANGELICA (cupping her hand over the CB)
But HE doesn't know that.
WILHELM (to himself)
Then at least 35% for the love of--
(to the manatee)
What's your name again?
Hey, you're drivin' that asshole without a license?
Um... is "yes" the answer to that?
ANGELICA (back into CB)
How shall I live but one more day without you Gregory?
GREGORY (voice on the CB)
Little darlin', you gotta call me by my handle: Squats, 'member? And I call you--
"Shaving cream! Be nice and clean! Shave everyday and you'll--"
I'm gonna say the word "blowhole" now. Blowhole.
GREGORY (voice on the CB)
Holy macaroni! I know the sound of a manatee when I hear it! Golden tones... y'sure know your way around a racing form. Who d'ya like in the 4th at Gulfstream, darlin'?
[Manatee is visibly blushing and not so visilbly taking a dump on a stack of Vanity Fairs circa mid 1970s... won't THEY be surprised?]
I demand an exhumation!
Not what you meant to say.
[Wilhelm snaps his fingers, triggering 4 minutes of complete silence. Except for the "click-a-clack" of knitting needles, as Angelica utilizes the break in action to finish her toaster muffler, for those long Norwegian diabetes fund-raisers. The mood is broken by the ghost of Richard Mulligan, who has returned in search of his fake badge that reads "Virginia Lawman, Kiss me or get shot in the teeth" (he regretted the investment almost instantly). Upon locating the item, he hails a cab which appears in the form of a half camel/half investment banker and gets back to blazes lickety-split.]
Friday, August 20, 2004
Much has been made of the wily franco-parisian musquat. The world’s only known freely mobile, cognizant and strictly vegan plant. A tuberous root related equally to the tulip and the mung bean, the musquat is often found lurking around the jazz clubs and cafes along the Champs-Elysee, which makes its obscurity a mystery. The musquat enjoys enigmatic status despite widespread reports of public intoxication on cheap wine and habitually vehement confrontations with the locals, punctuated by belligerent squealing in its snarky pseudo-Algerian accent. However, it is conspicuously absent among the arrested or seriously injured owing to its innate ability to shift blame and bribe local constables. The musquat’s resiliency seems directly tied to its status as an endangered species. It is under these auspices that the musquat is able to create a volatile disturbance yet avoid physical harm with its familiar calls of “Whatcha gonna do, hit an endangered species?” and “Oh, you’re real tough when you got 4 billion people to back you up.” It’s widely disputed whether the musquat has a nearly extinct population or is merely an extremely unpopular creature.
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
Spent a few days up in the “wilderness” a week back, and unlike those thin doormats you see at the discount store, those suckers are real pretty. The trees, I mean. Real pretty. The trees. Rugged, absorbent, partial to rhythm and blues, they make nice companions when you’re sipping your fifth tequila sunrise. If only I knew how to barbeque better. But the trees, they don’t mind a crisp fillet. Real crisp. The fillet, I mean. No sir, the trees remain steadfast in their steadfastedness. If only I could be as strong and weatherproof as my bark-covered brethren. But I get tired standing after awhile, and I need to sit a spell. Sometimes I fall asleep quick. I often dream of cedars and maples and plantation grown hardwood in the Adirondack tradition. When I wake up, usually its dark out, which means I have to hurry up and take down the flag. Those VFW guys down the way are real hard-asses about that stuff.
Posted by Pierre du Pop at 10:00 PM
Monday, July 26, 2004
It was a night like any other (save the assorted naturally and artificially fruit-flavored yogurts raining from the sunny skies. As usual, I was in my knee-high waders and latex bodysuit, thus avoiding any ill effects. And for how many years was I laughed at? Well, who's laughing now? Certainly not the old crank at the newsstand... oh sure, he leaned back his head and guffawed in the usual manner, only this time he was quickly silenced by healthy dollop of raspberry justice!), and I was on the prowl... for a nice piece of whitefish (which is difficult to locate in sunny nighttime yogurt downpour).
We apologize for the previous piece of slop. An unexpected yoogurt storm temporarily interfered with our transmitters. We now return you to "The Ortolan: Nature's Savage Candy" already in steady decline.
Monday, July 12, 2004
When the dark clouds contort in the moonless sky and the wind sinks its teeth into the valley like a cheap fish taco from the local "roach coach" taqueria van (mild salsa, thank you very much) and the ground seizes and contracts, tensing like it has just realized that they not only put the hot salsa on the fish taco, they tossed in some habanero peppers because of your jackass "Jose, Jorge, same difference" comment and now the wind begins whipping the normally placid aqueduct into an undulating whirlpool as it gulps down gallons in a desperate attempt to cool and counteract the effects of the fiery feast... that is when the drunken chicken prowls.
The drunken chicken's gurgled clucking cracks the cold calm that surrounds the soundless town. The shopowners' doors swing shut and torches are doused as the civilians sink deeper into silence save the distant, uncontrollable sobbing of a few sensitive youths. The increasingly belligerent begawking is followed by a fierce crinkling clatter that can only be the sound of a hammered hen pecking feverishly at a package of beer nuts. And not far behind that, the snap of that plastic bag breaking open for to let spring its tasty seed that scurry down the stone-paved street like wee termite inmates making with the jailbreak from the pest control pokey. The flagrant fowl futily bangs its beak between the cracks of the cobblestone square in search of a solitary coated comestible. After hours of artless and saucy squawking, the rogue Rhode Island Red waddles wobbly into its henhouse solidly soused and stinking of Stoli from claws to comb. Her fine-feathered pen peers avert their gaze from the glazed-over and well-pickled poultry as she struts and stumbles toward her nest.
The morning brings a metamorphosis to the monster that stalked the streets only hours earlier. Without the benefit of Hyde-side or the recollection of her erratic evening episode, she strides out onto the range with Jeckyllesque jocularity, joyful and drinkfree. Grazing gleefully in the unfermented grain. Unaware of the wary square-dwellers currently collecting unclaimed beer nuts and free floating feathers. Reminders of the rampage, talismans of the terror, hallmarks of the havoc visited upon them by the vision of the drunken chicken.
Thursday, June 17, 2004
Ladies and Germaphobes,
The Rubber Bomb (patent lapsed) is an organization that prides itself on security and strict quality controls (consequently, you'd think we could get a decent bear claw around here!) in producing it's literary content (read: blithering babble). As a result, all of our published entries are encoding with advanced algorithms to confound and thwart our sworn enemies (read: loyal patrons). To keep the information flowing freely to our boon companions (read: arch rivals) we ask you to adhere to following guidelines in order to properly decode (read: try like hell to understand) the light banter and whimsical tales contained herein.
KEY: [word/phrase written] = [word/phrase to be used]
Perrier = Night Train
clay oven = acetylene torch
a clearing in the forest = alley filled with broken glass
years spent abroad = a weekend at the track
Henri Matisse = Bruce Jenner
a natty cap = 3 unmatched sweat socks and a cheese shredder
the azure sea = a rusted nail
beyond reproach = taking a leak in the front yard
a remarkable coincidence = who's the leprechaun and does HE have the key to the humidor?
wire whisk = rear spoiler from a mid 60's Impala
Highway Patrol = Dan Haggarty on a bender
the ocean floor = 2-for-1 night at the Boobs 'n' Wings
a vital contribution = face plant in the onion dip
Monday, June 07, 2004
RUBBER BOMB EXPIRED CODE QUESTIONS
1. Why can't the asphalt whistle?
2. Who's the card shark in the cellophane pants?
3. Is the Fruit Brute in season and by whom?
4. Which way to the radiator tree?
5. Who left the snickering crowbar out in the sun so long?
6. Are the mallets for rent and what are the going rates in Chuck Connors rookie cards?
7. Which brand of margarine is prefered by 4 out of 5 heads of state?
8. Where is that less than pleasant Sherpa eminating from?
9. How did the wombats take the fortress?
10. Why have you glued the camels to the tarmac?
11. Is it my turn to burp the gold ingots you simpering twerp?
12. Do you expect me to believe that and for how many Chuck Connors rookie cards?
Thursday, June 03, 2004
Posed the querulous query, "Hobbies?" We here at the Rubber Bomb responded in the following manner:
Forming independent letters into sounds and stringing them together in order to produce "words." Then (in a laboratory environment/parent's basement), breeding these so-called "words" in order to produces phrases (or "sentences," we've heard them called). Finally, orphaning these alphabetic behemoths in strategic locations whereby innocent readers are most likely to stumble across them, regard them with a combination of horror and pitiful affection and gather them up to read and write them as their own. Utilizing an array of highly unorthodox (read: patently illegal) surveillance devices, we monitor the progress of our budding verbiage. When these bastard word-strings bloom into the full flower of their bitterness... when the meaning of their existence mutates in the miasma of muddled lineage... when they rebel against their rearers and rip their roots from the fertile soil of their sole solid foundation to seek their syntactic framers, we will be waiting.
Just got back from Roland Garros and boy is my face red. (Wow, I . . . I do apologize. Right out of the gate, too. No time for anyone to prepare. Goodness. I suppose I could blame the four cases of merlot, but as we/they say in Paris, that'll be 5,000 francs Misseur Lewis.)
Upon my return: Everything in my office had been rearranged and painted coffee filter orange, save for the green tea bags, which I knowingly faxed to my broker before I left (less caffeine means a lower commission--I'm saving already!). Let's be clear: My partner is both shameful and shameless at the same time (void where prohibited). Once I was in Civil Brand for six years, and I came back to find that he'd laminated my paralegal. (I'm not paying that temp $55 an hour just to spinal flex! That type of effort is worth $40 an hour, tops. Besides, who will run my wagers over to the OTB?). Were it not for the fact that my partner won back my favorite plastic binder ($11.50 on sale. On sale! I tells ya the Plastics Council rules the Free Masons, who in turn command the Rose Bowl Committee, who in turn run a mighty fine parade with a modestly priced after-brunch) in a fixed game of hold 'em (is there any other kind?), I would take my pre-moistened clasp envelopes and saunter elsewhere. But as it stands, the rent is paid through the month, so I may as well relax and dream of meatless Fridays (I believe their next disc drops on the 8th).
Anyone seen my 6-iron?
Posted by Pierre du Pop at 1:20 PM
Wednesday, June 02, 2004
Act II, Scene XVI: Beside the Mandan Tree (filed Friday, 3rd District Court of Appeals), in the gloaming.
[The Lincoln whose headlights have been on all this time peeks from the wings and motions to its owner. Embarrassed, the owner tosses his keys onstage wrapped in a 50. His date (3-time IBF boxing champ Torreo "u-UH-glee!" Garza) is not impressed and weeps softly to himself. The Lincoln exits with a respectfully played "toot toot" of its horn. Meanwhile, a large jar of mayonnaise has been applying aloe vera to its label. It cringes in pain having overslept in the Portuguese sun. A knock on the door. The stagehands begrudgingly lumber onstage to construct one.]
Not in the [expletive deleted] script. Not in the script.
LOUIE (shamelessly playing to the audience)
We suffer for our art, Lou. We really do. Hey, there's my Mom! Hi Mom!
Grab a hammer Louie and if you're ma is handy, she can work the sander.
Take it easy fellas, take it easy. Hey, I said take it [expletive deleted] easy!
[The other two stagehands go silently and pleasantly about their business]
LOU (his rage increasing, his pants retreating)
Yo, I told you [expletive deleted] [expletive deleted] to take it [expletive deleted] easy!
How's yer ma with a plane, Louie. We sure could use a solid planer.
LOUIE (going hoarse as he screams to the balcony)
Well, it may be the life that we've chosen, but I wouldn't have it any other way. It's simple, plain living and hard work. It calms my nerves and puts my mind at peaceful ease.
[LOUIS collapses out of exhaustion, breathless. The others drag him off to thunderous applause. Another knock. The mayonnaise jar answers the pile of wood and nails. It giggles when a pajama-clad wash basin prances in. The wash basin throws Jolly Rancher brand hard candies into the audience who collectively shriek, groping and clawing their way for the exit.]
It is by thine good graces that I have found what was the very essence of mine own soul. Oh, but for the gruesome incident involving the cole slaw recipe --a mere ruse to disguise the appalling mustard stench emanating from the egg salad-- I too would be as free as the proverbial ethers to skip merrily. But alas, 'twill not be so.
[The wash basin is indelicately hoisted into the rafters and 3 dozen migrating geese swarm in tearing at the seat cushions]
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
Kind and gentle readers... piss off, no one's talking to you!
Nasty and abrasive readers,
Firstly, our field trip to Pimlico is this weekend and I need your forged trip slips and completed Daily Racing Forms (remember to show your work) by Thursday.
Secondly, how are you homeboys (and young ladies) hanging?
**Please note: we at The Rubber Bomb consider it immensely important to reach out and bond with today's disenfranchised youngsters and apathetic pre-teen population. (After that, eh, who cares anymore? Hit the bricks, fend for yourself, stop yer grousing.) We feel that it's critical to make a positive connection with these street-savvy hoodlums --forgive me, that was insensitive-- street-savvy "wastrels" BEFORE they turn to a life of violence and crime and subsequently beat and/or rob US. It is in this manner, that we are able to employ these lovable and developmentally damaged ragamuffins to strongarm the weak (not us, the OTHER, less foresighted weak) on our behalf and at our behest for pennies on the dollar. In so doing, we are teaching these losers --ooh, scratch that-- "non-entities" a valuable lesson in cultivating and capitalizing on cheap labor. Further, by serving our precious li'l pawns a balanced diet of demoralization and appreciation, we are able to hold in check their natural emotional evolution, thus maximizing our investment, by extending the window of juvenility and recklessness. Their innocent sense of invincibility and inability to identify potential danger are unique qualities that we find invigorating, exhilarating and exploitable. The Rubber Bomb is a leader in youth services, services that include (but are in NO WAY limited to) extortion, larceny, land and mineral rights dispute resolution, battery and arson. Please contact your local chapter for service availability and current rates.**
Thirdly, if anybody has seen my ottoman, please contact me immediately. The wisecrackers responsible are advised to return it along with the half-dozen bars of Zest. We know these two pranks were related as the same brand of peanut butter was recovered from bathroom tile and the matching Broyhill recliner. Thank you for your understanding.
Oh, did I mention nobody eats until these items are returned in tact? It'd be a shame to miss "solid food" night... that's all I'm saying.
Thank you for your cooperation,
Friday, May 28, 2004
(Not that I was, but) THINGS YOU'D FIND RUMMAGING THROUGH THE RUBBER BOMB DUMPSTER:
- 5 slightly molding bear claws from that crappy place up the street
- after-market bicycle chain (Schwinn)
- 9 remote controllers all marked "Downstairs Bathroom"
- a photo of Fergie Jenkins signed by Dikembe Motumbo
- copy of Cat Fancy dated March 1993 (selected personal ads carefully clipped out)
- empty jar of Goober Grape with air holes punched in the lid
- sealed jar of gefilte fish
- 14 unused passes to "Nutty Dames Exotic Cabaret and Coin Laundry"
- 5 sticks of "I Can't Believe It's Not Gum"
- 1 gentleman's hairpiece from the "Charlie Rose" celebrity collection
- paperback copy of "Raising Muskrats For Profit (Believe, There's Nothing Fun About It)
- same publication written in Gummy Bears melted to the quarter panel of an '84 Buick Skylark
- lithograph of a bumblebee throwing a javelin
- Prestone antifreeze bottle stuffed with Brazilian coins
- promotional Barbara Boxer "Got Boxer?" boxer shorts circa 1998
- last will and testament of-- That's it! I'm outta here...
Thursday, May 27, 2004
As the Hamms sign flickered inches from his face, Geraldine (all his friends called him Marsha Mason, no relation to the bowler) couldn't help but wonder if the municipal swimming pool was zoned for neon in the deep end. He'd attributed that tingling feeling to ticks, notoriously agile and reckless swimmers in their own right. Geraldine dried himself briskly, bypassing the standard cotton towel for a sculpture of Forest Whitaker (no relation to the escaped economist) that stood --legs akimbo-- in the adjoining playground. The sky had grown overcast and packets of relish began splashing on the (legitimate... and if you don't believe me check with the commissioner, you rotten [patent pending] Shriner!) Jai-Alai court. The indentured servants fleetly snatched them up as they fell so as to avoid a general spiritual and psychological panic. Once the downpour ceased and the condiment collectors rolled away in their motorized Pearl S. Bucks (no relation to the pocket square turned groundskeeper), Geraldine took a casual 12 mile dig and disabled septic service to the greater Muncie area.
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
Fish! Fresh fish... OH, you're awake. Let me just turn the siren down a moment. And these heat lamps have certainly gotten a touch warm.
Greetings from the latter half of the first half of the first decade of 2000s. If you've stumbled upon this blog, clearly, you're a fool or the person who sent you here was a fool AND is no friend of yours. There is but one purpose to this electronic notepaper, magnet and fridge set... and that is to wring all manner of meaning from these helpless letters that we've assembled into "words" and "phrases" (rest his soul).
Oh, this is indeed but a smattering of the vocabularic carnage to come. A rude and randy shadow of the true sham to roll out. For the most part, The Rubber Bomb takes pride in selectively, surgically and slowly (oh, my stars S-L-O-W-L-Y) handcrafting it's melange of blathering into a nearly impenetrable wall of words. Not so this outing. Perhaps the more horrific realization, is that this offensive offering is off-the-cuff.
If you cannot understand, consider it an affirmation of your solid mental fortitude. If you cannot abide, take it as a vote of confidence on your good taste. If you cannot care less, consider yourself among the higher percentile of humans who choose (and wisely so) to turn away from what they consider to be worthless wordsmithing. Without worth and with words, we are. Join us again, will you not?
Grazing towards greatness,
Werner von Bounce