Daily Limerick
Archives: June 2003

Contains Mature (and immature) Content;If You’re a Minor, Go Away!


NOTE: DL has not yet taken the time to put "anchors" into the archives. Translation: You're gonna have to scroll all the way through the long-ass documents (use your "find" commands, squatlicks)!


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Here's "Behind the Rhyme" on Miss Muffet:

as she sat, coked-up, on that tuffet

munching curds and whey

what few dare to say

is she craved some meat in her muff-et.



Curiously, while perhaps the world's first professional hockey team/PR marketing stunt, the Anaheim Mighty Ducks, are in the final round of the Stanley Cup playoffs, the Disney channel is playing Mighty Ducks movies quite frequently.

Lord Stanley is undoubtedly going into convulsions in his grave. At least until the Disney corporation figured out how to animate him for some sort of McDonald's Happy Meal tie-in...

Here's a way to tell whether or not the latest politically correct health scare has merit--that is, whether there is any empirical evidence backing it up:

Are the lawyers involved?

You may note, for instance, that the courts aren't barraged with "secondhand smoke" claims right now.

Hmm. Wonder why?...

Here's the final word on fashion:

Fashion is the world's largest, adult-led game of follow the leader. It's one of the ultimate scams, on par with bottled water--a couple of companies say, "This is in; everything before is out!" and, unquestioningly, people listen. And spend lots of money in the process.

Ever notice that fashion isn't necessarily concerned with what actually looks good? (Need examples? Well: The '60s and the '80s--in their entirety. Case closed. In fact, case sealed.)

That's because, rather than being led by those who have the one true device which can conclusively rate attractiveness in women--that being the penis, oriented heterosexually, of course--and who are we kidding to say that fashion isn't pretty much all about women because, beyond what it takes to look good enough to get laid, guys really couldn't give a half-shit--the entire world of fashion is led by women and gay men, who, although they'll prattle about "high cheek bones" and "chunky thighs," really can't judge worth a quarter-shit a dame's hotness level.

I've written about this topic before, but I don't believe I've done it in this space. (About fashion, that is--not necessarily all digressions involved here.) So what was the final straw?

I saw a magazine announce to its millions of "duh--tell me what's IN!" readers that platform shoes are suddenly "out."

And here's another lesson, Slapper Yapper Grasshopers: Platform shoes are always "in."

That goes for stiletto heels, miniskirts, tassels and pasties, low cut blouses, and most anything that shoes mucho woman flesh, although it's always "out" on those who really shouldn't be showing mucho woman flesh, often because they HAVE mucho woman flesh...

One of those "family" kinda channels is producing a "reality" show about missionaries--you know, the dogmatic knuckleheads who tend to travel to dangerous countries with an aversion to their Christianity, evangelize themselves into loathing from the locals, force our government to blow too many tax dollars on saving them, and then get made out to be heroes somehow--when we really ought to leave 'em there to their fate, to teach a lesson to future would-be boneheads and rid our nation of some of the far-too-prevalent "chaff" we have?

Idiot missionaries, now with the Stupid Power of "reality" TV.

I'm thinkin' this is the Third AND Fourth Horseman of the Coming Cultural Apocalypse...

Speaking of "reality" TV, how far are we, do you think, from Hollywood's Master Plan of designing, and exclusively using, the completely Disposable Celebrity?...

And now, Sunday Story Time.

Today's edition: Texas Joe.

Now, I'll let you know right away that this is not the most interesting Sunday Story Time ever. But I enjoy this walk down memory lane--which begs the question, "Would looking at old Playboys you, er, 'enjoyed' as a child be a 'Walk Down Mammary Lane?'"--and could give an eighth of a shit what you think.

Texas Joe was a tall, afro-esque haired (but white) chick who was on a coed soccer league team that me and a friend participated in during grade school.

We started calling her "Texas Joe" because, according to my friend, she was from Texas and actually dubbed herself "Texas Joe," which is normally an unacceptable way of "earning" a nickname.

We would occasionally sing "Texas" songs to make fun of her. Ala, "I've got spurs, that make me jingle jangle." One we had sex ed, we started to sing, "I've got sperms, that make those egg cells jangle," but that had little to do with Texas Joe, although we got in trouble for singing it during soccer practice, despite the fact that we were actually singing the traditional version at that particular time but, then again, the coach must've known we were also singing the non-traditional version quite often at practice (bizarre karma, of sorts).

The most important thing about Texas Joe was that she wore the first live breasts I got to see on a girl my age (or perhaps it was the second--I don't recall when I saw Karen's, exactly, so that'll be the topic of next week's Sunday Story Time).

She bent over, conducting soccer-type activities and... There they were!

Texas Joe wasn't necessarily attractive. But I was never one to look a gift breast in the mouth.






TODAY'S POEM: Turquoise

The sky breaks like a matchhead.

The sky breaks like wax in my hand.

All the clouds are phosphorous.

Copper. Aluminum phosphate.

Opaque deposits dug up.

Shaped into artifacts.

Right from the roots of the pyramids.

Blue-green defines December?

I'm holding to the sky, the sea,

wading in its colors.

Veined mineral formations.

A warm map in my palm.

[If you'd like to physically thank or berate the poet, e-mail him at b_squirrel@hotmail.com. He will bite.]



The latest way to "put up dukes"

from our defense guys: Lil' Nukes.

Will these hit the hands

of those with dark plans?

They're perfect for in-training kooks.



It's been some time, but I have related my odd fetish for exotic, female world leaders here before.

For instance, I was hot for Pakistan's Benazir Bhutto (SIC?).

I've just read that imprisoned democracy activist and elected (but not allowed to govern) ruler Aun San Syu Kyi has been dragged from her home to the capitol.

I don't have much to say about this, of a witty or other nature. Other than the fact that I am completed infatuated with Aun San Syu Kyi.

You've gotta admit, despite the sick reasoning behind it, I do bring increased overall awareness of world affairs...

American Movie Classics is running the "Young Hollywood Awards."

How does this frighten me? Let me count the ways.

Classics? Young Hollywood? Oil? Vinegar? Huh?...

Waking up before your alarm clock goes off, and realizing you can still snooze a little, is one of those Little Things that makes life so darn delightful.

But lately, I've had this habit of waking up about five minutes before the alarm goes off.

Which is one of those Little Things that makes life suck ass from time to time...

I've got a new catch phrase. Just you wait and see--it'll be sweepin' the nation soon.

See, the phrase, "Be still, my beating heart" has long existed to relay extreme infatuation a man feels for a lady (or a lady feels for a man--but that doesn't fit my little catch phrase, so read on and stop reading so much into this!).

But what about an eloquent phrase to indicate extreme lust?

I present to you:

"Be still, my throbbing cock."

Start usin' it!...

And now for Laughing at Strangers for No Real Good Reason:

Stanley Windy. I hear he's a gas.

And now for Laughing at Play Titles for No Real Good Reason:

There's a Sondheim play called "Titlow."

He hee.

My transformation into Homer Simpson Meets Beavis & Butthead is near complete.



Under new FCC accord

conglomerates are free to horde

more media voices.

A handful of choices

play "Press" on Monopoly board.



Sorry for today's limerick. I know that we're utterly barraged by the media conglomerates' coverage of the fact that they've been green-lighted to gobble up even more...

Speaking of this FCC ruling, does anybody else find it ironic that, when coupled with the fairly recent [Disney] Copyright Extension Act, Disney has done more to damage the American way of life than the al-Qaida could ever dream of causing?...

Speaking of strange definitions of newsworthiness, did anybody else read about Iranians taking U.S. soldiers and citizens hostage? Did your local newspaper, unlike mine, put it on the front page? Or even the second or third page?

Operation Divert Our Focus Completely Toward Lowest Common Denominator Pop Culture (While we Tailor the Entire System of Law to Suit Our Pocketbooks) is near complete...

Another recent story: The U.S. has finally passed Russia in the overall percentage of the population we have imprisoned.

I think they're working on a way to make it an Olympic event...

And now for a Special Consumer Report:

Symantec, maker of Norton Antivirus (Utilities, etc.) sucks.

When I was outfitting my newish computer with new software, I purchased Norton Systemworks to keep my computer running smoothly and all that crap.

Two of the most important features in the package, Utilities and Speed Disk, will not work fully with Mac System X. There's no update planned or anything. You just buy it, get all pissed off because it's semi-useless, and wait for the privilege of shelling out big bucks for a newer version if and when they ever get their fucking act together.

It doesn't mention this on their Web site.

Mac OS X was not born yesterday.

But a lot of suits at Symantec were, at least mentally...

I had a pimple recently. Which... Well, the state of the pimple is a dried up scab at this point. Somebody yesterday said, "You have a cut on your head." (Don't you love how people point these things out to you--just in case you join a cult that avoids mirrors?) I sheepishly explained that it was actually a pimple, and the reply was, "Oh. You're lucky. It looks more like a cut."

So let me get this straight: You're more fortunate to be injured than to have a pimple.




As a child, I flipped for Flashdance

and J-Lo re-enacts that prance

in new video

causing "it" to grow

in a flashback inside my pants.



Short and late tonight, as I must do some packing.

I'll be heading to Toronto tomorrow.

Wife. Business trip. My flexible schedule.  Blah blah blah.


I've been gone so much lately, I'm not exuding a sparkling level of enthusiasm about it, despite the fact that I'll be visiting a country I haven't visited yet.

I need to focus on the positives. And not freaking out about fitting in with a bizarre, seemingly alien culture...

But at least it will be a civilized, urban center, able to handle e-mail connections and such. Unlike, say, Denver...

So Sammy Sosa was busted for using a corked bat.

He he.

He's innocent until proven guilty, or whatever the MLB equivalent is, I know.

But... Now Sammy is all the Cubs have, really. They need that one big draw to keep people focused on a day to day basis because, sorry, Dusty Baker aside, they ain't winnin'. Ever. Or at least not until Judgment Day Eve. So book your hotel rooms appropriately.

So the Tribune company can spend little money on the Cubs and concentrate instead on lobbying the FCC. New regulations are passed, although they may be challenged, allowing the Tribune to buy citizens up as slaves, I think. I don't know. They've been given the okay to gobble up even more media outlet snacks, in a nutshell; haven't read the reports at this time. So just MAYBE they can just buy your soul as an indentured servant.

And now Sammy's corkin' up the old bat.

I could go for a little corkin', myself.

Hmm. Corkin' up the old bat...

Boycott Volvo. If you don't, more or less, already.

Slappin' and Yappin' is continuing its Consumer Activism after yesterday's rampant success. Or at least lack of failure. Right?

(We're a real political force to be reckoned with, and we at Slappin' and Yappin' take that responsibility very seriously.)

Anyhow, in the Illinois town of Volo, about sized right to be dubbed a "hamlet," has a Cool Car Museum. Well, I think it has a better name than that. And "Volo" is in the name, too.

So Volvo's suin' 'em. Mostly about the Web site, because folks jonesin' for their next hit of Volvo can't bear being diverted to a Cool Car Museum for a moment.

Oh no.

So boycott. Or girlcott, depending on what's in your drawers...


The Chicago Tribune--or, to be honest, it may just be one of its "forms," like the free e-newsletter roundup, although that is usually summarizing actual Tribune dillios--recently ran a "news limerick" contest.

If you've followed even with one eye half open for a while, you know why this disturbs me.

It's not as if I have a copyright on the concept or anything but...

They're castin' around to see what they can haul in through readers, who happen to be, well, free.




Sam Sosa walks mano y mano

with rock stars--he's like Baseball's Bono.

As for Silver Screen

his actions now lean

toward baseball's "CORKY Romano."



A Eurotrash loser named Ian

found eating mass onions quite freein'.

His breath stunk like hell--

one whiff of his smell

showed why he was dubbed "Gyro-pean."


SLAPPIN' AND YAPPIN' 6/5-6/6/2003:

Well, whaddaya know? I entered the "Mobile Age" and now, for the second time in DL history, I missed a day!

Much of that explanation is below. In the S&Y I typed for yesterday but was unable to send thanks to... Oh, forget it. Since, I think I figured out a way I may have been able to connect last night but, well, what the hell does that matter now?...

Our journey to Toronto, and the land of Canadians (otherwise known as Canada), was abruptly canceled when we hit a deer.

We don't have one of those cellular deals. We waited a bit to see if a cop would happen by, as there is the insurance/accident report stuff to ponder.

None of the drivers on the road stopped for us. I think you would not only starve and eventually die, but would completely decompose down to a skeleton before a human being would play good Samaritan and actually stop to investigate your plight, what with the hazard lights and the arm-waving and all.

I cross the median, as there were homes on the other side with lights on. In doing so, I had to jump a fence. And it was a tall fence, I'll tell ya'. I high jumped. You know, threw my whole body into it, landing on my shoulder on the other side and rolling back up to standing position, already mid-run. It was as if I were in an action movie. Except that the fence jumping was the only real action. Well, hitting the deer qualifies as action, I suppose.

So, I was going to tell you that this was a very short edition, considering the trauma and mayhem and all.

But I digressed.



A fellow badly craved caboose

in Michigan's U.P., set loose

to do some wild campin'--

a movement seemed vampin'--

and he threw it into a moose.



A note on today's limerick, mostly to those who don't play close attention, which is probably a majority of you:

The "U.P." is the Upper Peninsula of Michigan...

I'm still "recovering" from the venison-related events of the last few days, so, in keeping with the Cheezy Saturday Tradition, I'll just leave you with an edition of Laughing at Strangers for No Real Good Reason:

Catherine Keebler.

Don't know anything about her, but would love to get her in the rack. Why? I hear she's Uncommonly Good.



If a young boy frequently jacks

off thinking 'bout how his mom's stacked

a strange twist, would he

bring Greek tragedy

which you could call, "Oedipus Rack."



The Sunday Daily Limerick: Perhaps TOO darn beefy...

Okay, good news first: The Cubs slided out of first place this week.

I will admit that, this year, it took much longer than normal but... Well, here's my first, and probably last, edition of Pigskin Picks:

Oops. I guess it wouldn't be "pigskin" picks.

Here's my first, and probably last, edition of Rawhide Picks--for the next 100 years or more:

The Cubs will not be world champion.

I'll admit, due to Tribune Company issues, and having to deal with boisterous Cubs fans each summer, I am probably biased. So this may not qualify as "good" news for all of you. Oh well, on to the bad news...

"Baby Bob" is back.

And it's high time to stop counting the Horseman of the Coming Cultural Apocalypse. There are evidently much more than four...

This little nugget is so chock full o' idiocy that I might lose brain cells even writing about it.

One of the two or three conglomerates that controls 99 percent of what we watch is planning an "All Men's Cable Channel."

We have the porn channels. We have ESPN. We even have ESPN2. I'm not awaiting this venture with bated breath. (Although the wordplay machine in my head just threw out "mastur-bated breath," which is an interesting and amusing concept until you think on it for a bit, when it turns a bit frightening.)

This venture is to be called, "Spike TV."

But wait! The Moronity doesn't end there!

Spike Lee is suing over that name.

If successful, this will mark the Seventeenth Horseman of the Coming Cultural Apocalypse and... Oh, wait. We're not counting anymore.

But, if he's successful, I'm suing everybody who ever wrote a "Dear John" letter. Oh, and the makers of that Godawful old TV show of the same name...

Read about an artist whose PR team dubbed him "The Leonardo da Vinci of Madison, Wisconsin's avante garde" recently.

This was not tongue-in-cheek.

You do know, of course, that I am the Shakespeare of Chicago's Idiot e-newsletter scene...

I make no secret of the fact that I love my Willie.

And I've been thinkin': I'd like to get the thing a penicure.

Although I'm not sure exactly what that would be.

It's a fun word to bandy about, in any case...

And now for a Fully Packed edition of Laughing at Strangers for No Real Good Reason:

Marcia Babler.

Be still, my throbbing ears.

Michael Fee.

(Some joker who, in a newspaper story, indicated that he was happy to pay $15,000 for a Cubs/Yankees ticket.)

Artist Curt Frankenstein.

Check out his resume on Monster.com.

And "sex talk" radio co-hosts Karen Hand and Dr. Kelly Johnson.

Like Peanut and Jelly: Johnson 'n' Hand...

And now, it's Sunday Story Time.

This is about the first live booby I saw close up. And touched!

Me and a few other kids--mixed boys and girls, thank God--were playing some version of "Truth or Dare" during recess on one of those giant, playground truck tires when it happened.

Somebody dared Karen B., who had the most ample boobage in our class, to display one of those babies. And dared most everybody else to touch 'em.

They were strange at that point in their evolution. Purplish-blue and hard and... This isn't a pleasant story, is it?

But the moral of the story is... Well, in taking a cue from Hollywood, I'll just steal another story's moral: The Ugly Duckling.

And so ends Ugly Sunday Story Time.






TODAY'S POEM: Mermaid's tears

Did Thetis weep upon this beach

for her fallen son?

Her tears are sprinkled through the sand

like confetti made of rocks.

It's soft and pure, this sadness laid

among the wrack and shells.

Wind-torn sails that books forgot

remembered on the shore.

Brass uniform numbers sunk in the deep

glittering in the sun.

Thetis wept. She tossed the tide,

and left me memories.

Now they sit in rainbow strata.

A jar beside the door.

A mahogany stand holds sea glass.

The sun now paints my walls.

[If you'd like to physically thank or berate the poet, e-mail him at b_squirrel@hotmail.com. He will bite.]



> Sorry about the deer. That must've been really unnerving...

Yes, and it's not the only "buck" that will be disappearing.

It happened so quickly, I'm not sure if it was a buck or not.

But the punnery will work, in either event. You could say it's not the only "doe" that will be disappearing.



McDonald's, in try'n to be edgy's

unveilin' a burger that's veggie.

Veg nuts won't be thrilled--

they'll share the meat grill

(while at it, offer a free wedgie).



I overheard a blurb on the TV yesterday announcing that my wife was watching, "ET on VH-1." ("ET" of course being "Entertainment Tonight.")

See? Media consolidation is only increasing the diversity of programming!...

My TV grid filled me in on another interesting tidbit of programming:


On the Cartoon Network.

But aren't cartoons... Er, generally not live?

I suppose this is the logical next step from those thinly veined, blooper-footage-conscious semi-candid ones we're largely "treated" to today.



Shmoes making programming decisions

share an eerie, "brain-synch" precision.

Come home and relax;

fix yourself some snacks

and flip on the ol' "Laci-vision."



I was thumbing through a "Things to Do in the Midwest this Summer" feature in my latest Chicago Reader and I found an interesting event in South Bend, Indiana:

Midwest Breast Fest.

Before you go reserving plane tickets, realize that there's more to the name. The full name of the event is: Midwest Breast Fest and Health Expo.

Even if you don't get a plane ticket, perhaps it'll be covered on the ol' boob tube...

This must be the summer of diseases which, with the help of 24-7 Laci coverage, are diverting us from shady FCC legislation and such.

The latest here in Illinois is monkeypox.

It gets nuttier. Monkeypox was spread to prairie dogs from Gambian rats and, from there, to humans.

In other words, I opened my newspaper the other day and an episode of South Park broke out.



> I never received the Sunday limerick.

Never received the Sunday (Daily) (L)imerick?

I went back and checked and... You're right. I goofed. I sent it TWICE to the "Special Sunday Only List."

I'm so glad you Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers are so on the ball. Otherwise, it might have went unnoticed for, say, more than an entire day!

The "lost" Sunday Daily Limerick follows this e-mail.

This sure is your lucky day!



They might put Ms. Stewart away

though "extra" role Martha did play

in the market scandal--

she can't hold a candle--

to wrist-slapped "stars" like Kenneth Lay.



You've undoubtedly noticed that S&Y has been especially cheesy lately. Almost as if every day's an extra cheesy Saturday Edition.

But you can bet your bottom ass cheek that this Sunday's edition will go beyond, "Perhaps TOO Darn Beefy" to "Too Darn Beefy... Beyond a Reasonable Doubt"...

Five NBA Players are going to Kuwait to entertain our troops.

Nope. There is no five-member band named "NBA Players" you're out of the loop on. Five basketball players will be entertaining the troops.

Could get ugly.

Think "Super Bowl Shuffle."



Though spring/summer clothes can be sweet

not everyone's flesh is a treat--

know what you can handle

and leave home the sandals

if you have some ugly ass feet.



After the terrorist incidents in Saudi Arabia involving cell-phone detonated bombs our Homeland Security Dept. and Friends are now on the lookout for... Well, cell phone-bearing terrorists.

Number one: I KNEW there had to be a cell phone/terror connection. And... Oh, this one's just too easy, even for me.

Could this mean that innocent cell phone squawkers will be harassed by Ashcroft & Pals? The same otherwise "decent" people who almost hit me in cars as I'm crossing the street while they yap away? The same folks who talk ten times louder than they would in person (for some reason) next to me on the train when it's early and I just want to thumb through the paper? The same guys and gals who are so cell-addicted that they don't mind the entire world hearing about their Aunt Myrna's bunions and Katie's no-goodnik boyfriend?

It's a shame, really...

The REAL scandal involving boredomball and Corky Sosa is NOT a bat! It is his upcoming endorsement of Armour hot dogs. (Of course, Wrigley Field and the field I'm STILL gonna call Comiskey Park have some guilt in the matter, but we'll tackle that another day, or perhaps we won't. And who are "we" anyway?)

Corky's doing some sort of contest with other ballplayers to shill Armour hotdogs. Those of you outside of Chicago may not realize that the world's finest hotdogs, Vienna hotdogs, are a Chicago staple, and with good reason.

So let's turn the investigation toward tube steak, folks...

By the way, the REAL reason the Cubs beat the Yankees is not entirely because the Cubs have a better-than-normal team this year (but will still not win, thanks to the laws of the universe).

The Yankees were just fed their first shut-out in 45 years.

If you don't follow, this means the Cubs beat a worse-than-normal Yankee team...

This, by the way, is a very frazzled time for me. Me and wifey are looking at buying a place for the first time, which entails a lot of work, and, as is usual for anything even remotely "keepin' up with the Joneses-like" (although this quest, of course, is actually also a battle against the Landlord Man), we have been spurred into action recently due to my wife's initiative.

And, I must give credit where credit is due: When considering the history of our relationship, my wife could not have picked a worse time.

I received one of the most important writing assignments of my career recently which, consequently, is also on of the longest--and it is also in the running for requiring the most "legwork"--interviews, research, etc. (Details, of course, will follow eventually--as you'll be able to find it easily on the Web.) Although I do not have a deadline per se, as it's not "that type" of story, so much anyway... Well, the sooner the better.

As you've possibly noticed, I've been in and out of town a lot lately--and, although I am now "mobile," this doesn't help matters, nonetheless. I've hit a deer and totaled a car. I've had to attend a memorial service. I've been doing extra contract work the last couple of weeks.

You get the idea.

So excuse me if S&Y is uncommonly cheesy for a bit.

However, I will still guarantee a Certifyably Beefy Sunday Edition. Although that adverb may change to describe it.



Seems Wrigley is going ahead

with a special gum for the bed

with Viagra lacings;

how will it be tasting?

I say they throw it in Big Red!



I found a random, yet curiously wise, message nestled in today's newspaper TV grid.

Witness the wisdom from CBS' prime time:

"'Baby Bob.' 'Yes, Dear.'


'Bout sums up the situation, don't ya' think?...

A drug has now been approved that makes short kids grow.

Because, of course, it's a "disease" now.

When pondering this, my dear Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers, likely with a rictus of fear upon your face, consider also that doctors were dispensing this drug, for this reason, before it was even approved.

Gotta teach kids young that they can't respect themselves until they change their physical appearance somehow...

A federal judge in Manhattan has ruled that Spike Lee has a point.

"Spike TV" is appropriating his...whatever it is that he's got working. Label it yourself.

You see, because you can get famous and declare your FREAKIN' LAST NAME to be yours and yours only now.

A Manhattan federal judge, I'll remind you.

I'll also remind you, once again, that it is more than okay to go back to hating New York.



There once was a fellow from Dover

who'd tell tall tales of four-leaf clover

while out in a glen

with chicks he'd befriend

so he'd see each fine ass bend over!



In keeping with the Cheezy Saturday tradition (and, by the way, and I think I've mentioned this before, I spell "cheese" with a "z" for "Zing"), here's all I'm going to say today:

Tennis chicks are hot.

I don't know what it is.

Soccer chicks? Eh... Okay. Volleyball? Not too shabby. Basketball? Hey, I've stared longingly at a pic or two in the paper but... I'm not sayin' there aren't some hot toddies from every women's sport. I'd get carnal with many representatives of the female sports scene and I'd have no prejudices against any particular sports because, well, the proof is in the individual pudding, or something like that.

But tennis chicks win the "Hot Award," at least as far as S&Y's concerned.

Oh, and figure skaters, too.

Hmm. Figure skaters.

Sorry for getting so deep on you today.



Each year, Hollywood's elite flakes

pump out summer flicks like hotcakes.

But "new" flicks to see?

They're rare--most will be

damn sequels, re-quels and remakes.



I was half-watching one of those cop murder shows--I'm not sure which one; an installment of CSI or one of the dozens of copycats spit out by our conglomerates and proving that we need less diversity in programming to the FCC--and a woman is murdered, and the detectives are pondering the husband's possible involvement, and somebody pipes up, "Do we have a motive?"

And I think, "They're MARRIED. That's an automatic motive..."

Tip your waitress!...

I'm sure you have noticed that, in contrast to generations gone by, there appears to be absolutely no stigma attached to selling your art for commercial purposes today.

Countless times, I've heard quotes from Conglomerate folk that, "Generation Y [note the originality of even the entire generation's name] thinks nothing of it; in fact, it seems quite normal to them."

Consider the source.

Consider that this Generation Y doesn't appear too upset about Conglomerate Folk telling them how they think.

And ask yourself: Will we see a generation that gives a shit again?...

By the way, I'm blaming my own '80s Generation, as well, so, by the P.C. rulebook, I am free to bash...

Why, sometimes it's almost like, if I didn't know better, I might think that the Conglomerate Folk, and the FCC reamin' politicians, actually WANT us distracted by "reality" TV, the sensationalism of the latest Laci-esque mania, etc., almost as if they don't want us paying attention to more important matters, for some sinister reason.

But I wouldn't wanna get all paranoid. It's not like power corrupts or anything...

I've been dabblin' in a theory I like to call "The Dark Side of Darwin."

Evolution produces more and more capable species with time, right?

But has anybody noticed that, concerning humanity, at some point this "improvement" seems to stop? A large proportion of the most intelligent segment of society has real problems getting' laid. Stupid people boink freely.

Those who at least pause to ponder, "Should I bring children into this world?" are more likely to live childless than those who just stumble through life down the paths they're "supposed to" in life. And, of course, the religiously deluded tend to birth flocks of like future religiously deluded folks, who will in turn... You know.

Darwin's Dark Side. It's the new catch phrase. Start bandyin' it about...

Okay, so obesity and related problems are close to becoming the number one cause of death in America, and there's naturally a movement of chowderheads interested in taking society to task over this, suing McDonald's, what have you.

At the same time, another group of chowderheads, whose membership boasts many members of the previously mentioned group of chowderheads, thinks the media should be "nudged" into displaying more images of "average" people. You know, on "Friends" and shit.

But the average person is overweight.

And there are some guilty sniveling folks whose heads have exploded pondering the righteous path on this one.

We laid off the smoking and drinking on most TV shows, to "set an example." We'll soon be moderating the consumption of fast food and stuff on our favorite Godawful shows. That works too well, we'll go back to...

Does anybody else find it funny that now LIBERALS are the pro-isolationist folk?...

And then here's Laughing at Strangers for No Real Good Reason:

Ann Marie Harm.

Friends called her "boo boo."


The New York Times' Jason Player.

Soul Mate: Kim da Field...


Cynthia Canary.

Music to my ears.


Michael J. Bucko II.

Nothin' like goin' by a "Lavergne & Shirley"-esque slur.






TODAY'S POEM: The birth of the phoenix

The conifers burn.

Each column of coned seeds

is beaded fire.

The air is smoke,

pushed out to the extent of heat.

Finding its borders.

A burning bird streaks by,

its feathers glowing

in silent light.

Somewhere far in,

an oak tower topples.

Sparks rise in swarms.

[If you'd like to physically thank or berate the poet, e-mail him at b_squirrel@hotmail.com. He will bite.]




Well, isn't that delightful?

One of the shortest, cheeziest, lamest S&Y's of all time, and the letters pour in.

Well, one letter poured in.

Can ONE letter pour in?

Well, in any event, it just goes to show you that I've forgotten lesson number one for doing a thing like this:

Know your audience.



A man felt his sex life was plain;

to spice up the ol' Ball and Chain

he took some Viagra--

lust gushed like Niagra--

which just upped his need to complain!



Now, here's a little headline from the June 14, 2003 Chicago Sun-Times that pretty much tells the whole story:

"Carnival Worker From Bolingbrook Accused in Rubber Mallet Killing"...

Okay, I couldn't resist reading the actual story, which was only a few paragraphs. And while my original assertion is still true--that the headline pretty much paints the whole picture for you--there is another nugget from the story's body that I couldn't pass up. You see, the alleged perpetrator in this situation qualifies for an edition of

Laughing at Strangers for No Real Good Reason (although, in this case, there is plenty of good reason):

John Harry Nuckles.

I'm especially amused in surmising that one of his genius ancestors couldn't spell "knuckles"--and evidently didn't bother to look into the matter before NAMING HIS FUCKING FAMILY!



An aging crazed loner named Flip

indulged whack-offs like tater chips.

When arthritis came

'twas never the same--

I guess you'd say, he lost his Grip.



I didn't catch what I imagine was a repeat, but last Saturday's "Saturday Night Live" featured Al Gore and Phish.

There's something truly wrong with a society that can boast those two together in a lineup...

I also read, in one day's TV section or another, that MTV will be airing some show largely to roast Carson Daly.

There was a time when a long, distinguished career was all that could earn you a roast.

There's something truly wrong with a society that roasts Carson Daly...

Britney Spears has been warned that, should she continue the partyin' lifestyle she's affected as of late, she will lose gigs.

There's something truly wrong with a society that holds musicians to the same standards as accountants...

Okay, from now on, assume that EVERY freakin' nugget in S&Y can be followed by a "there's something truly wrong with a society that [fill in the blank]"...

The American Medical Association whom, despite their campaign to appear humanitarian is basically a union for doctors, decided at a recent meeting that cigarette-pack warnings should be blown up larger, to cover 50 percent of each pack's area.

Huh? Cigarette smoking is bad for you? I'd have never known!

There's something seriously wrong with... Ahem...

Ads are currently running for a Chicago neighborhood's "Midsommar Fest."

Perhaps this explains the misspelling, but summer hasn't even officially BEGAN yet, much less hit the mid point.

This from a society that couldn't wait a freakin' year to celebrate the ACTUAL millennium...

For my part-time, in-office job, I completed an NEA grant package yesterday.

This entailed typing all of the many forms. With an actual typewriter.

Does everybody out there know what a typewriter is? If not, I ain't splainin' it.

The ribbon "ran out" and, although we had a replacement, I was there alone and hadn't changed one since, oh, junior high.

Much hijinx ensued. But I did get the grant into the mail in time.

The only entities I've witnessed requiring the use of a typewriter are a) government arts agencies and b) courts.

Another factor to keep in mind next time you're thinkin', "This is SO important, we should turn it over to the government"...

And now for Laughing at Strangers for No Real Good Reason:

Dicky Pride.

Can't blame 'em, though. I quite fancy my own.



One girlie's main force of attraction

was her brunette mane, soft and flaxen.

Had pride in her hair--

'twas fine, but down there

she needed to try out a waxin'. 



So now Corky Sosa claims that the only reason folks are being hard on him is, and you might've seen this coming: racism.

Evidently, bearing a corked bat doesn't play into the equation at all.

Well, I'm counting this as conclusive proof that Sosa's entire career has entailed corked bats...

Considering that Pete Rose is being kept out of the Hall of Fame due to ethical violations not directly affecting his playing, it looks like Corky's chances have been flushed down the ol' Toilet o' Fame.

There goes the rep, Corky...

Thanks to Herr Bloomberg and the New York City Taliban Council, a whole hubbub has erupted.

People leaving the healthy environs of New York bars are causing fights with neighbors, who are now dealing with massive clouds of smoke wafting up toward them so that all the health-seekin' bar patrons can be spared the unproven effects of secondhand smoke. Massive amounts of cigarette butts are piling up on the sidewalks, creating obvious clean-up disasters, as bars and restaurants report that business is down 40 percent--on top of the drop-off from the overall toilet swimming economy.

All I can say is: Hooray!

The New Prohibition is looking (shock) a lot like the old ones!

Enjoy your final term, Bloomberg.



Feeling an Iraq ratings pinch

ol' CNN dreamed up a cinch:

script out a rescue

with much dering-do

and make it a chick--Private Lynch.



Millions of housewives, wanting to read but not having a direct order from their Queen Bee, are now able to do so as Oprah has announced a new book club selection: John Steinbeck's "East of Eden."

Thanks, Big O, for helpin' out a modern struggling writer...

I forgot to mention somehow that May 29 was the anniversary of my first getting laid. It was 18 years ago.

It wasn't so hot. But I think you have to get a bum boink or two out of the way before you get down to serious porkin'.

Sorry for being so romantic and sentimental about the whole thing.

It was also Bob Hope's 100th Birthday. So I guess I got laid on the Hoper's 82nd.

Don't know what that has to do with anything, really, but there you have it. Me and Bob have our individual ways of "entertaining the troops."

I mention it because I always intend to "celebrate" the day and always overlook it.

So get thinkin' on the gift ideas for next year...

I was also thinkin' of the first time I had sex.

Although it was by myself.

I don't know the date. And it would be a LONG time until I actually got another human being involved in my sex life, but it did set me off on a rather active self-sex life, which continues to this day.

I remember thinking that I had invented something. And, boy, what a fine invention it was!

Porn of some sort was involved. I'd been an aficionado of porn for some time before my first actual incident of diddling.

Naked women were delightful to look at. And, as my cousin put it, they somehow made my "wienie freeze." One night I was getting' all hot and bothered, and I knew that lil' Willie played some part in this whole exciting naked lady thing, but I wasn't sure what--I just knew that there was some missing chapter in my porn viewing routine. One thing led to another and soon I was pullin' the ol' taffy.

When, er, the mission was accomplished (and, of course, it would be years before that entailed a mess), I remember feeling like I had to pee for like an hour afterward, although I didn't really have to pee.

And, although this seems rather gay to me now, not that there's anything wrong with that of course, I remember telling the neighbor boys about my "invention." They ran off, one by one, into the bushes and came back thinking me a genius.

As a further plus, they were from a semi-fanatical Christian family.

So "idle hands" aren't really the tool of the devil now, are they?



There once was a girl from East Lansing

the world's greatest dame at pole dancing.

You'd work up tough lumber;

spurt from your cucumber--

in merely a moment of glancing. 



Kodak is really floundering financially, thanks to the SARS semi-epidemic.

He hee.

So, let me get this straight: SARS has hit Asia the hardest. Asians are stereotypically portrayed as being nutty for cameras. Kodak suffers enormously when an epidemic hits Asia.

It wouldn't be very politically correct to draw the conclusion that... Oh, who'm I kidding? I have most certainly learned, thanks to the Diversity Happy age we live in, that stereotypes have no basis in fact...

Other than being a joke magnet of sorts, is "Photo Nutty" such a bad image anyway?...

I feel sorry for the editorial assistants at the Chicago Sun-Times.

The newspaper made the mistake of running the same exact "Ziggy" installment--two days in a row.

The old adage goes: Hell hath no fury like a bunch of old people who've had a favorite comic strip scorned.

Well, it's perhaps a new adage.



A shipwrecked dude boinked just the best-est

among the natives who were restless.

He boinked to his fill--

'twasn't long until

he boinked all the ones who weren't breast-less.



We can put a man on the moon, but we can't make a decent, disposable lighter.

Okay, take two (a little less of a cliché this time):

We can bring porn to the world through the Internet, but we can't make a decent, disposable lighter.

I do have a Zippo lighter, but right after filling, it can be a bit unwieldy, not to mention that... I'll spare you the non-fascinating details of why I even use disposable lighters.

But why do they always suck such major ass? My current dilemma is indicative of the overall situation: I have this translucent jobber that is quite clearly chock full o' fluid and yet somehow it gives out a rather flaccid flame.

Where's the Congressional investigation? Those always put things right, don't they?

Gotta love the Cheezy Saturday Edition, don't ya'?



When in a sex dry spell, there's Mandi

whose fine, full, red lips come in handy.

Her oral fixation

does cause jubilation

for she views a penis like candy.



I don't know how or why it works this way; perhaps it's because I'm a writer but, well, I guess you could say that I have a mild spelling fetish.

No, I don't cover my women in alphabet soup or anything. It concerns one particular spelling "trick."

Whenever there's a dame with an "e" sound at the end of her named--Mandy, Candy, Randy, etc.--and I learn that her name is actually spelled "Mandi," "Candi," "Randi," etc., somehow, her sex appeals goes up a few notches.

It's a sick world. I'm just a symptom of that...

S&Y has related certain rules herein, over the years, about how a Slapper Yapper Grasshopper should react to marketing, advertising, etc. in our increasingly corporate-sponsored world.

I really should put these together into a convenient list, ala "Ten Commandments for Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers Concerning..." or something. And this is a variation of a previous one.

When an advertiser uses the old "Celebrity Testimonial" technique, it shouldn't just subconsciously (or not so "sub" consciously) influence knuckleheads who are fans of the celebrity in question to buy the product, but it should also influence those with their wits about them, who also happen to be sick of the likely overexposure of said celebrity, to NOT buy the product--even if they might otherwise buy it.

I happened upon a "Chrysler" publication featuring Celene Dion on the cover.

Once again, Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers: We have to start taking our culture back...

Speaking of the New Millennial Marketing Frenzy, I came up with an apt metaphor yesterday.

I've often engaged in conversation with people about "The Man" and such. Although I've been dubbed "anti-corporate," I argue that's really not the case. We live in a capitalistic society and there's nothing inherently wrong with making money, providing jobs, providing a service people want, etc. There are often problems with how corporations are run, etc., and prevalent corporate culture, but, well, blah blah blah.

We have, in this world, necessary evils. Marketing and advertising are like the spider's means of sustenance.

It seems almost evil that a spider traps hapless insects in its web. The poor prey lies immobilized and in a state of sheer terror as the spider walks over and injects it with a poisony drug, and then it lies in a drugged-out state, again with a dose of sheer terror, until the spider eventually drinks its blood. Did I mention that sheer terror was involved?

The spider and the fly--an ugly situation, but one necessary under the balance of nature.

Much like marketing and advertising in a capitalist society...

Happened to re-watch "The Blues Brothers" the other night. This helped me realize that Hollywood hasn't been kind to Chicago in quite some time. Aside from the fact that movies set in Chicago are now usually filmed somewhere else, like Toronto, even the ones that actually ARE filmed here are, well, not good, let's say.

Remember that fairly recent flick in which one of the boy banders met some chick on our elevated subway system?

But one example, folks. One extremely frightening example, true, but just one example.

So, if you wanna see a good flick that gives you a good view of Chicago and the whole Chicago Thing, even if it is almost 25 years old now, rent "The Blues Brothers"...

And now for Sunday Story Time:

My grandfather on the paternal side, whom we called "Pappy," used to spend a lot of time in the chicken coop.

At one point, the chicken coop actually housed chickens. Chickens and a monumentally kick-ass garden were a fact of life for my grandparents, supplementing a meager truck driver's income to raise three children, keep a house, etc.

But by the time I knew Pappy, the chickens were long gone and my grandpa worked on his stamp, coin and other collections out in the enclosure that was always called the chicken coop.

It was more than just stamps and coins and whatever. Every married guy, especially those with a full family, needs a chicken coop. Even freakin' Mike Brady had a den!

A guy needs to get away. It isn't that he doesn't like his family; he just needs that time by himself. A place to be alone with one's thoughts. A place for peace and quiet. A place to have a smoke or a nip on the bottle, nag-free. A place to indulge in porn.

Today, it is often a garage or work shop. Otherwise, there is usually a computer involved. I like to think of my computer and the Internet as my chicken coop.

I have yet to score a place to have a material chicken coop--an actual room or whatever, a physical space--but with my laptop, I have a portable chicken coop. At times, the traveling chicken coop is on my deck. This summer, it may roll on out to a park.

Sometimes, I even swear I can smell the lingering, near-eternal scent of chicken shit past.

Strangely enough, it's not an unpleasant smell.






TODAY'S POEM: The Man in the Planet

"Why do women smoke?" I asked.

She drew in a lungful of smoke and exhaled,

followed by a smile's glint.

"Not because of you."


The woods deepen the night.

They give it scent and form.

A thousand branches blowing,

a small wind on my face.

The blowback of smoke.

A shivering cigarette.

Ashes, ashes

we all fall down.

The stars are solemn lights.

Lighter closed in hand,

its flameless metal feel.

Waiting for a sound.

The stars are solemn lights.

They do not know me, and

I do not know them.

Yet their shapes are friends.

Ursas overhead

the night of the earthquake.

Shook the scent of pepper trees.

Cracked the wall against my bed.

Spilled a cup of pens.

Rattled dishes in the sink.

Bear stars never roar.

Their thunder never storms.

The drive away from home

was quiet and unsure.

The guiding map a sheet.

It could not contain

the rising rock, the sudden drops,

the streets lined deep with cars.

Everyplace I went,

green, red, yellow lights.

The woods, I must admit,

were not marked on my way.

I lost the compass point

I'd hoped to ride along.

But something of the moon

matched the broken radio.

So I wandered from my car

to a dirty path.

Soon deep in the brush,

and on into a clearing,

and on down past a stream,

and on past sitting cabins,

and on past bracken hills,

and on past broken shale,

and on past endless trees,

and on past endless trees.

The stars are still their shapes,

bright against the black.

I lay upon a stone,

cold and shivering.

The slow burn of a cigarette.

Alone with hazy thoughts.

Saturn shines a distance.

The man in the planet.

[If you'd like to physically thank or berate the poet, e-mail him at b_squirrel@hotmail.com. He will bite.]



There once was a fellow named Dieter

was so poor, heat house with space heater.

'Til he dreamed a scam--

and hit a grand slam--

as the world's first "Psychic Breast Reader."



I read today about European protests targeting genetically modified foods.

Now realize that I don't know what my opinion on what the hipsters are dubbin' "GM" these days. I suppose it's dangerous on one hand but, done properly, may not be so bad, considering that we've been creating GM stuff since the dawn of time (isn't breeding--animals and vegetable/fruits--a form of GM?).

But I must ask: Didn't it used to be the "Right" that opposed "toying with nature"? Only, they did it in God's name.

Which is only more proof to my argument that Political Correctness is the New Religion...

The recent Cubs-Sox series at Wrigley Field has caused quite a hubbub here in Chicago.

I happened to catch part of an especially lame radio show the other day in which callers were encouraged to check in with their experiences at the game.

Someone called in appalled that some fans were using profanity. Oh, horror of horros!

Sports, as some of you younger Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers may not know, were once a Safe Haven, where men could be men without fear of societal judgment. This isn't to say that women or kids weren't allowed--just that the Manly Safe Haven was intact and visitors respected that. Children weren't dropping like flies, by the way, from the curse words and cigar smoke. Fathers just explained to their kids that they were on Adult Male turf and that kids should not emulate everything that went on there

And it seems like the time to remind people that every square inch of this fucking world does not have to be Disneyfied...

Being summer and all, I noticed a woman today, be-sandaled, who had no little toenail. Or, if she did, it was microscopic. I wasn't about to drop something and take a closer look. I was, quite frankly, horrified.

She was a hot mama otherwise, and this incident led me on a bout of soul-searching wherein I discovered something about myself: I don't think I could do a woman, no matter how hot otherwise, missing a little toenail. But that's just me. I'd ask for letters on the subject but, I mean, well, you know the situation here. Slackers.

This all prompts another S&Y regular reminder: Don't wear sandals if you have ugly feet...

And now for a double edition of Laughing at Strangers for No Real Good Reason:

Catherine Bonk.

Boy, I'd like to... Er, "Catherine" her...

And Deva Suckerman.

She has a large family, and they're all into reproducing in quantity. I know this because I've heard that one's born every minute.



In ev'ry Canadian county

gay marriage is now approved bounty.

Up North, there's less danger;

this doubles its rangers--

'cause there's a mount-er for each mountee.



Did I not tell you that the judicial system, namely the Supreme Court, is the only wing of government that uses, or perhaps is able to use, common sense?

Despite all the poo-pooing, claiming that The Supremes are "basically Republican," their decision upholding the legality of affirmative action seems to indicate otherwise.

Of course, they kinda fucked up on the library/porn issue, but one out of two, unfortunately, is a brilliant record in government of any kind...

Britney Spears is getting a star on the Walk of "Fame."

For anybody who still thought the walk, located in a rather slimy section of Hollywood (or is that redundant?), I might add, meant a freakin' thing.

Perhaps they should attach a "sequel," of sorts, to the Walk. That would be well in keeping with the Hollywood Method--and I think the addition of Britney cries out for a "Fifteen Minute Walk of Fame"...

Sean Duffy is running for Congress in Wisconsin. And readers simply must vote against him or screw with his chances in some manner.

Why am I telling you this, you may ask? DL doesn't live in Wisconsin and doesn't have a large readership among cheeseheads.

But Mr. Duffy is a "'Real' World" refugee.

I guess he already has some position in local government. Which is frightening enough by itself.

He simply HAS to lose. If we start showing "reality" TV contestants that these stints of moronity actually lead to some sort of real real world success... Oh, just take a moment to shudder...

Remain in shuddering position: Duffy's wife is another "'Real' World" refugee.

Somebody, quick--stop them from reproducing!



> Regarding genetically modified food:



The letter writer refers to the logo of some nutball group in Los Angeles which is fond of sending press releases to outlets such as the Los Angeles Daily News.

I don't believe there is a real instance of a string bean morphing into a scorpion-like form. Outside of drug experiences, at least.

Which may explain the group's logo, come to think of it.



New York as a health club's reborn!

Even in its bars, smoking's scorned!

This New Prohibition

backfires in its mission--

the streets have more butts than gay porn!



I read today about a disorder known as "Restless Leg Syndrome."

This little problem is the reasons some people are always moving and shaking their legs--something to do with circulation or something. It is especially bad at night, making it hard for the victim and whomever the victim is sleeping with to get some shut-eye.

RLS is more commonly known as "Jimmy Legs"--the name given it by popular sitcom character Cosmo Kramer.

Life imitates... Seinfeld?...

In another case of advertising/marketing people not quite thinking things through, I heard a guy on the bus the other day, shouting into his cell phone, "Can you hear me now? How about now? Can you... Can you hear me NOW?..."

A friend of mine left a message on my answering machine recently. He expressed displeasure with having to wait through all the "beeps" to leave his message, suggesting I get myself a digital answering machine.

I have another friend who is fond of leaving wacky outgoing messages on his machine. He often chides me that my message is "boring," as I've practically given up on the goofy messages.

Here's a philosophy that you, Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers, should follow as well: The phone and answering machine is for MY convenience, not for the convenience (or entertainment) of you annoying callers...

And now for an edition of Laughing at Strangers for No Real Good Reason:

Dean T. Sword.

An alleged murderer, at that!

I wanna see him fight Sean Penn. Just to see who is, in fact, mightier.



Each summer, the News seeks to please us

with scare tactic topics that tease us.

Last year? Child abductions.

And this year's compunction?--

The fright of Blockbuster Diseases.



I often refer to the Chicago Sun-Times' "Help Wanted" ads as the "Driver Ads."

I don't think this is unique for newspapers, but I could be wrong, with Chicago being centrally located and perhaps a "Truckin' Central" of sorts.

Most of the ads are, duh, for "drivers." But  recently, I've noticed that the Sun-Times is sprinkling driver ads out of alphabetical order. And I'm not sure why.

Perhaps those placing driver ads wanted it this way. Perhaps they figure that, with the job market so bad, they'll get more people applying because somebody looking under, say, "health care," might stumble upon a "driver" ad and think, "Hmm. I've been trying for months to land a job in my field, but why couldn't I be a trucker?"

Or perhaps they are hoping for higher quality driver applicants. I'm sure you're well aware of the truck driver stereotypes that exist.

Or perhaps I'm not thinking of another angle. Not that any of you hee-haws would write in to start an actual discussion in DL...

I'll leave you with a truckin'-related ditty from childhood:

Born in a barn and raised in a cave,

truckin' and fuckin' is all I crave.



In a Wisconsin rest-stop born

'mong shops for fireworks, cheese and porn

bizarre fetished Billy

did blow off his Willy

one dark masturbational morn.



Hmmm. Let me see, here... S&Y's been telling you Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers for some time that the judicial system, namely the Supreme Court, is the only wing of government capable and/or allowed the privilege of utilizing common sense in its dealings. Right?

The cover on my newspaper today reads: "Justices Strike Down Ban on Gay Sex."

Perhaps there was some pot-smoking going on in the recess chambers. Perhaps they forgot that they're supposed to be partisan--which is what so many were arguing back in 2000, when Bush and Gore became the two major presidential candidates most alike, making people like me wonder why they just don't merge parties into the "Republicrats," because, after all, the rallying cry of attempts to covert actual thinkers to the Gore ticket was "The Supreme Court and Future Partisan Appointments," was it not?

Perhaps S&Y was wrong, after all, about the wisdom of the Supremes. We live in a nation threatened by terror; our economy is still floundering; corporate corruption runs rampant. The source of all our problems can only logically be one thing: What people are doing behind closed doors.

Perhaps I'm overlooking all those congressmen taking a firm stand against these ridiculous laws, which were inspired by the ignorance of millennia past. Perhaps I'm overlooking the scores of politicians, senators, governors, mayors, what have you, decrying the ridiculosity of it all, unashamed to push for the right of gays and lesbians to marry without hiding behind some "I-believe-gays-have-rights-but-er-well-"family values"-yeah-that's-the-ticket" argument.

I may well be an idiot. But perhaps it takes an idiot to raise a nation.



A shoe-fetished feller would hump

chicks wearin' their heels--thump thump thump!

If you'd call him weird

he'd state plain and clear:

Why do you think they call 'em "pumps"?



Today's cheezy Saturday edition features an edition of Laughing at Strangers for No Real Good Reason: Al-Qaida's Turki Nasser al-Dandani.

Jive Turki.

Mmm. Turki...

By the way, this is an exception to the rule laid out in S&Y recently about names ending in "i."

For one, this is a guy.

And the whole foreign language thing may alter the rule, as well. I was concerned with American kinda names like Mandi, Candi and Randi.

Hmmm. Mandi, Candi AND Randi...



Officially, now, we're in summer;

the sequels and remakes grow dumber

this Recycling Season--

use that as a reason

to make your own flick: Hum and Hummer.



In coverage of the Supreme Court ruling banning laws against sexual practices in the privacy of one's home, the nutrod, different-shade-o'-Taliban, Christian right pea-brains had a field day getting their crackpot comments aired.

One of these drooling send-backs to the 17th Century proclaimed that this ruling is going to cause, "sexual chaos."

Uh-huh. Because we all know that residents of the 13 backwoods states with sodomy laws still on the books were holding off on oral and/or anal sex, just waiting for their primitive legislators to give the green light!

Not to mention that his comment can be interpreted in a number of ways. For instance, having "come of age" in the Boring '80s, I wouldn't mind seein' a bit o' "sexual chaos" in the streets...

I have a delightful idea for a new cell phone marketing campaign:

That guy strolls across the screen with his annoying, "Can you hear me now?"

A zillion people around him stop what they're doing, turn around and say, "Yes! We can ALL hear you now!"

It would be honest, anyway...

Which reminds me: I went to a blockbuster concert recently--and a commercial broke out...

I was wondering yesterday about that guy who married Liza Minelli. You know, the one whom everyone thinks is gay.

I don't know much about the guy, or Liza, so I hesitate to offer an opinion, which, I know, is strange of me.

But I did think up another possibility to explain the situation.

There must be SOME reason folks feel the guy is homo. That doesn't mean they're right, of course, but prevalence of opinion usually means there are some reasons for that opinion.

So I think that maybe he appeared gay because he did, in fact, think he was gay. But, with time, he found out he wasn't really gay--he was just a straight guy with a Liza Minelli fetish.

Think about it. If you found yourself ridiculously attracted to Liza Minelli, you'd wonder just how the hell that happened, as you would with any fetish. Since nobody but gay guys seem to give a shit about Liza, you may logically conclude that you must be gay--even if you're female!

I'm not saying that this explanation is likely; but, you gotta admit, it would explain things...

I had a discussion with somebody, a little while back, about what a bitch it is getting by as a self-employed person. There are problems getting loans for homes, cars or what-have-you because lenders are sheepish about viewing non-"accepted" avenues of employment as "steady." (As we all know, jobs in corporate America are so darn secure!) There are all sorts of little problems, actually, including that pesky matter of your actual health and life--getting health insurance.

Why, one would almost think that The System doesn't value the entrepreneurial spirit that much.

Naw... That's part of the American Dream. And most people look at me like some sort of over-optimistic hippie when I mention it. And just because groups of people obtain obscene levels of power, that wouldn't lead to any sinister plans of any sort. I'm just being silly, aren't I?...

I've waxed paranoid in this space before about how and why I believe "reality" programming to be Hollywood's preferred version of the future. (Disposable celebrities, as opposed to big name stars gaining any precious power; the plot to eliminate those pesky writers from The Industry altogether, etc.) But I've come up with another reason:

Elimination of artistic talent altogether.

Think about it. If stars are a great writers or actors or musicians or whatevers, there's a much better chance the public will grow fond of them, thus leading them to take more precious thousands from the billions Industry executives are hauling in, interfering with Industry plans to produce whatever the hell they want.

The idea of "sleeper hits" and such is too much for the Industry to bear. They want to know that if they put on a show featuring grass growing--or, it's equivalent, such as "Big Brother"--people will watch. Public opinion must be eliminated.

Which is why, if you're sick of "reality" programming, you ain't seen nothin' yet, as they say. We now have, what, maybe 15 percent off our celebrities as folks with no real "talent"--other than good looks, cattiness and the out-of-control ego to crave being on TV for ANY reason whatsoever. (And it's not just TV; since the advent of MTV in the '80s, "musical talent" has been growing less important than looks, attitude and tabloid sass by the day.)

That percentage will only be going up, unless people actually do something about it, even if that entails seeking out smaller, less-accessible entertainment options. So, as I said, that percentage will only be going up...

And now for Sunday Story Time: Coffee Gaiety.

I am not a "macho man." That is, I am not the type of guy always questioning others' manhood, makin' rules left and right about what is and isn't manly. Or, at least, I am not as much the "macho man" as a man can be.

I've spouted off a few rules on "manliness" in this space over the years, sure. About how men shouldn't wear sandals or get all chatty on cell phones. So, let me rephrase my initial assertion yet again: I am not a "macho man" in the same way that "macho man" is generally interpreted. I'm not much for sports, guilty of bein' more than a tad "artsy"...what have you.

I guess all guys have these nutty standards. Even gay guys I've known tease each other about levels of gaiety. (For instance, I've heard one man accused of "lacking a gay gene" because he wasn't silly for showtunes.)

Coffee is one topic that has been subject to my "macho rules." And never were these rules more manifest than when I regularly hung out at, and briefly worked for, a now-defunct coffeehouse known as Café Amore. (It's very name could be questioned under macho rules!)

It was most manly to drink one's coffee black. Adding sugar got a wee bit girly, cream was certainly girly, cappuccino was extra girly and a latte... Well, you might as well throw on a speedo and some Liberace if you're drinking a latte. (Not that there's anything WRONG with that, of course, but, well, do I really need this disclaimer every time I wax along the fuzzy P.C./P.in-C. borders?)

Goofy rules, I'll admit. And they're all goofy, I suppose. But we evidently have some primal need to set these standards and so, as long as we're not beatin' folks bloody in the streets for sippin' lattes (or whatever), what's the big whoop?

When I'm around anybody from the group of friends who enacted the Coffee Gaiety Statutes (as a group, we've mostly wentour separate ways), we go right back to the old teasings.

And I still giggle at guys who appear heterosexual and yet drink lattes.






TODAY'S POEM: Surrendering to change

just sit.

      clear of the drips.

stay dry.

    do not stare into the sun --


        watch the rainfall gather

    into a veil

for the world to throw off.

          her hair shining,

     pebbles catching, falling, breaking.

                                              her lips

                    (mm god they glisten)

burning breath.

                the clear streets,

          the clean puddles.

                     she turns


(god they glisten -- just one word,

             one word of purchase,

                                                 one --

                                           or two)

    she disappears.

          (big pines in the wind

   drip sodden

November sky)

                            I do not ask why.

just sit.

[If you'd like to physically thank or berate the poet, e-mail him at b_squirrel@hotmail.com. He will bite.]



When they found his bat with cork shards

Sosa tried a'splainin' it hard.

But proof of his guilt

came crashing, full-tilt

when he played the random race card.



My newspaper today is besieged with coverage in a massive section called, "Tragedy on the Porch."

A porch collapsed at a party. Eleven people died.

"Tragedy" is, of course, the right word. But the coverage?... Well, I'll leave it alone. Suffice it to say, this is a great time for politicians to pass sleazy laws and such, now that we're consumed with the latest tragedy.

But I'm going to do something even slimier.

Kind of like how, when a cop is killed during a drug raid, some alternative-party politicians will mention that, were it not for the War on Drugs, the cop wouldn't have been killed.

Sleazy, but true.

So I'm gonna go out on a porch... Er, out on a limb... and say: If it wasn't for the unfounded, second-hand smoke scare, I doubt there would have been as many people on the porch.

Sorry for sleazin'.

Yet, well... Sleazy, but...

There was a Gay Pride parade in Chicago this weekend.

Last year, my Chicago Sun-Times had much coverage of this event, before and after.

My wife wanted to catch the parade, and I'm not opposed to showing support, but we had a hard time finding out exactly where and when it was, from the Sun-Times.

Hmm. Bush, Ashcroft. FCC Media Monster legislation amid challenges and such.

Could it be? Naw...

I'm going to take this opportunity to state my opinion on parades: They're lame.

The Gay Pride is a rare exception that is actually entertaining. I think.

But in seeing it two years in a row, I've noticed that the entire first half or more is politicians taking photo ops.

At least half of the remaining parade entries are basically advertisements for the same slimy corporations that besiege us with advertising everywhere else.

Do these pols and companies really have strong support for gay rights? Or...

Oh, I'm just too cynical today, perhaps.


Visit SLOOP CENTRAL: http://home.earthlink.net/~sloop49


In July of 1999, one month before the All Limerick Slam at the 1999 National Poetry Slam festivities, I was bitten by a radioactive Leprechaun and the Daily Limerick was born. Suddenly, my path in life became clear. I was born to be a crusader for uncensored truth, justice and Limerick! Actually, I wanted to get an AUDIENCE for the Limerick Slam I'd be hosting, but I was so amazed at the lack of enthusiasm for the project that I thought I'd send a Daily Limerick indefinitely! Plus, I won the Limerick Slam accidentally and wanted to give something back to the Limerick Community! (Not too much, as there was no prize in it for me!) (And what the hell is the "Limerick Community" anyway?) I then committed to at least a year of the limericks--a milestone I've already passed a few times! At this point, I'm not entirely sure why I'm continuing this, but I have no definite plans to stop--so perhaps I'll do this for the rest of my life, if we have enough "subscribers"!

In late 2000, I added the "Slappin' and Yappin'" section of commentary to the endeavor. I've been a humor writer since...well, almost since birth, I had award-winning humor column in high school and college, I write for and interned at MAD Magazine, I've occasionally sold a column or op-ed here or there, but I've had no legitimate home for the things--hence, "Slappin' and Yappin'." Soon, the "Letters to the Idiot" section followed and, in 2002, we decided to beef-up the Sunday edition, just like the Big Boys, by adding outside contributor Mike Chmielecki's poetry with "Mike's Accursed Verse."

We'll probably keep on mutating from here!

By the way, I guarantee QUANTITY in limericks--one a day. I do not guarantee QUALITY in limericks.


If you want to be on Sloop Biederman's, e-list for comedy, sketch and/or poetic performances (in Chicago, Los Angeles, miscellaneous street corners or elsewhere), let me know!


(c)1999-2003 John "Sloop" Biederman. All Rights Reserved.


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