Friday, January 26, 2007
My glockenspiel playing has eroded in quality. Oh it's a subtle difference to the untrained ear, but the real fans... they know. Oh, they try to be supportive. But when the entirety of the Hollywood Bowl chants in unison, "Not bad, try again. Not bad, try again." ...well, you gotta suspect something.
I have been eating a great deal more. Berries, mostly. Lingonberries... gooseberries, blueberries, screwberries and elderberries. Also mulberries. Salmonberries, bearberries, thrushberries, cloudberries, threenightvacationberries and pickleberries. And boiled eggs.
And now we've arrived at the denouement. Perhaps you thought we-- I MEAN I!!! It's just me here-- were (was!) rambling without purpose oh, these past 17 hours, hmm? (Sorry, we type slow --I TYPE slow.) Well, faithless readers, pull out your decoder rings, set that colander on your head and don't throw the macaroni salad at your sister! Here's tonight's big money code phrase:
"The contents of this site (hereafter referred to as "Malarky"), such as text, graphics, images and blatant solicitations for "cashola" are for informational purposes only. The Malarky is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, treatment or horse race handicapping (although we do like ThorazineShuffle in the 3rd at Arlington Park). It is not a substitute for a medical exam, nor does it replace the need for services provided by a medical professional or daytime television show host (except for Danza. Never listen to Danza). Always seek the advice of your doctor before taking any prescription or over the counter drugs or following any treatment or regiment. And we'd even double check with him on the Arlington Park pick... it's been a rough month around here."
So remember kids, write down that answer on the back of a crisp Andy Jackson and send it in just as quick as you can. And yes, Susie... we "can" make change for a fifty. (Isn't she sweet?)
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
If you're looking to compete on the biggest stage in the world for thrills, recognition and $1200 in unpaid parking tickets then the 4th Annual Amateur Live Adult Gopher and Ground Squirrel Refinishing and Upholstering Summer Nationals are for your neighbors and polite acquaintances. (Be a sport and pass this on, will ya?)
For only a $23 entry fee (tax, title, license, bowling shoes, Thompson Seedless Grapes, portrait of U Thant, hiccups and cleats extra), you just might find yourself competing in balmy downtown Brawley, CA (Go "Frisky Weevils!") next June with a shot at a portion of the guaranteed [undisclosed amount] in cash and prizes awarded each year (excluding 2003-2006) as well as a chance to take hold of the glorious Marshall Brodein Victory Chalice (he doesn't give it up easily, but you'll get a crack at prying it out of his feisty grip... a warning: wear a cup).
To be eligible, you must be a current certified card-holding voting member of the International Pipe Fitters and Food Canners Union, the American Brotherhood of Liberated Ex-Holistic Flag Folders AND the Federation of Junk Bond and African Tribal Mask Traders Collective as well as possessing a valid Idaho State issued class B double/triple endorsed driver's license. Once the prospective participant has completed the bonding process and 3-week live round ammunition training, a local qualifier will determine who is sent to the Philippines for a 2-year unpaid internship at the Little Debbie quality control and packaging facility. There is no limit to the number of qualifying attempts but Little Debbie retains right to exercise a seven year option on any successful participant.
Survivors of the Little Debbie internship advance to the finals in Brawley where they will compete in front of [undisclosed number] screaming fans at the area's premiere outdoor arena during Brawley's Summer Noon Concert and Rodent Renovation Series. Combatants will receive gas, food and lodging (or equivalent combination thereof) as well as a daily stipend in the form of scrip redeemable at any nail salon or shoe repair shop in the greater Imperial Valley.
Don't miss your opportunity to experience this exhilarating once in a lifetime annual event!
[ed. note-- Don't worry, you won't miss it. We knew it'd be right up your alley so we submitted your name and Soc. Sec. # and forged all the necessary documents. Good luck and don't bother showing your face around here again if you lose because we'll be so disappointed in you that it'd kill your father to be in the presence of such a good-for-nothing no-talent. Just on a hunch, we're renting out your room. He's a visiting dignitary who works for Little Debbie in some Asia-Pacific country. Nice knowing ya. Don't forget to wear your headgear and clean underwear.]
Friday, January 12, 2007
Hotlantus the Lesser minced down to the bank of Uglifugga River with a Mopar 340 polished chrome crosswind intake manifold and naught but a sprig of Kawakawa obscuring his naughty bits from general viewery. Hotlantus, feeling his oats --for he'd learned his lesson-- reached deep into one of the rusted out shaved ice carts whistling "Hocus Pocus" (by Focus) to the tune of "Danny Boy (Slight Return)." He knew the very cart for he'd marked it discreetly with a life-sized etching of Vic Damone as Gunga Din. (A kid can dream.) From it, he pulled a jug containing a three gallon mixture of gasoline, nitroglycerin and mango chutney. He lay firmly, but eruditely, atop the styrofoam hammock, lit his pipe with a well-aimed flaming arrow and was promptly blown to smithereens.
He then fashioned a fishing pole out of mud, bark, grass, bugs, twine, vinyl, macrame, fish, spit, radon, teeth, parliament, pvc, peach pits, herman miller aeron chairs, discarded ticket stubs, old and aging bats and gray squirrels, a copy machiavelli's mandragola, two parts lemon zest, one clove garlic, a night in prison with hakim olajuwan and a tube of calomine lotion pried the cold dead fingers of the indigenous people of iceland. He then fashioned fishing line from, well... a lot of things. He threw his baitless, hookless line into the water and began cursing a blue streak.
The halibut lined up for miles. They'd lived a sheltered life and weren't accustomed to the salty language save for the one time dad dropped the Precious Moments porcelain bust of Gerald McRaney on his fin after mom opined aloud about the whether or not the Pasat was ever going to get fixed and moved from the front lawn so that maybe her geraniums could get a little sunlight for once this century. Hotlantus was moved by their story and lovingly showered them with praise, Uruguayan currency and the remaining gasoline/nitroglycerin/mango chutney mixture that he'd stashed moments before his penultimate explosion into indecipherable matter back in 1721 (days before Mount Everest was invented by Murray Fogelman [nice man] for Resorts International).
The halibut (having no word in their language for "What are you, nuts?! Get that unholy chemical backwash away from me!") began reciting the Oath of the Common Prestidigitator and accepted their fate, secretly wondering if they shouldn't have thrown caution to the wind and gone back for another helping of schnitzel when they had the chance. I mean, screw the diet at this point, right? Hotlantus, bemused by the inconsolable caterwauling, began whistling along to the tune of "Old Man River" as sung by the Haitian Symphony Orchestra's second oboist, Dieter.
After a refreshing beating about the neck and nethers, the Office of-- DAMN! End of story. Gotta go "feed the meter" (a polite euphemism for having to "spike the melon.")