Daily Limerick
Archives: May 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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NOTE: A limerick is a humorous poem that is generally of a sexual nature. If you are offended by such a thing, please delete this message immediately and realize YOU WILL NOT BE ADDED TO THIS LIST UNLESS YOU SPECIFICALLY ASK TO BE--THIS IS MERELY A SAMPLE!

You'll find a sample limerick below as well as a sample of "Slappin' and Yappin'," our commentary section, of sorts, on our nutty, copiously-corporate-sponsored world! There's also a taste of the "Letters to the Idiot" section! That's right, what began as simply a limerick service is now a full-blown... er, at least a lukewarm attempt at a blog and e-newsletter!

So you've spotted that guy or gal who's causing a dance in your pants--but what, oh what can you possibly say to pick him or her up? "You've got more legs than a bucket of chicken" is nice, but it takes a special kind of person to appreciate it--namely, people who don't know English too well. Perhaps you should throw out a LIMERICK! For limericks truly soothe the soul and part the thighs. If that doesn't work, some quotes from "Slappin' and Yappin'" will surely break the ice.

Well, perhaps not. But in any event, you can simply reply to this e-mail and get a free limerick (and "Slappin' and Yappin'")--every day! No, you haven't died and went to heaven! And, no, you haven't died and went to hell either!

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The "Natural" porn trend is fresh

for some, phony boobs just don't mesh

with self-love excursions--

we've some strange perversions--

attracted to real woman flesh!



Does anybody still celebrate "May Day" anymore?

When I was a shaver, we were told in school that May 1st was May Day and you were supposed to leave flowers anonymously on your sweetheart's doorstep. Or, if you were a kid, or all "family sentimental," on your mother's doorstep.

So I filled a little basket with dandelions and left it on our doorstep, but my mom caught me. And I made her go back inside so she could be "surprised."

Considering that, at that point in life, beflowering your mother (note: that's Beflowering, ya' pervert) was practice for one day courting an actual sweetheart, this incident was a foreshadowing, of sorts, for the junior high and high school years to come...

Speaking of possibly lost holidays, do you recall Slappin' and Yappin's wondering, in a recent April, whether Arbor Day was still celebrated or whether it was overtaken by that damn hippie Earth Day, which was started by a psycho nutball although nobody likes to talk about that?

Well, upon entering scenic Nebraska during this road trip, it was proclaimed via billboard that Nebraska is the "home of Arbor Day."

So if you really want to celebrate it next year, you know where to go.



So now, Ms. O'Connor, Sinead

wants out of Fame's bright promenade.

Won't catch me objectin'

but, upon reflectin:

her float has long left that parade.



If I may wax a little journalistically geeky--and I may because, well, who's gonna stop me?--I saw a new top-o'-the-column headshot of Maureen Dowd and must say she's lookin' hot.

Who's Maureen Dowd? If you have to ask, you're not journalistically geeky enough to understand...

Was in Simi Valley, Calif. yesterday and somebody mentioned that there was a "bikini bar" nearby that usually attracted washed-up lookin' biker babes. Which is in keeping with the reputation of Simi Valley.

Which got me to thinkin', "Maybe they should spell it S-e-a-m-y Valley."



Like some strange candle to a moth

a crook ran to David Lee Roth's

who trapped him in yard

which hit the press hard--

and Roth's bored agent's mouth did froth.



So, I'm sorta vacationing in Southern California--a place which S&Y has made well-known its mixed feelings about.

However, there's always one thing you can count on SoCal for-weather. Warmth, sunshine, etc.

Right now, I'm outside with my trusty laptop (which, by the way, I need to give a name to--preferably a female name, preferably not my wife's name because that seems too sentimental, and preferably a slutty name, so send suggestions, Slapper Yappers, although I know you won't because you're a bunch of slackers) and... Let me start again, because that was one honkin' long parenthetical:

I'm outside, carefully avoiding sitting under the roof of a gazebo to avoid the dripping water. While keeping an eye upon the sky and... Goddamnit, it's drizzling! And it poured from late afternoon onward yesterday and is suppose to rain more tonight!

I know I invoke the "I am the Real Life, Adult Charlie Brown" clause far too often, but this is coming off a stint in a CHILLY Las Vegas, which wasn't too bad because it enhanced the nippage by the pool... although, if you know anything about Vegas, there is a good deal of vacationing nippage that you'd rather not have enhanced and...

Well, Good Grief is all I have to say. And I'm out of here before I start digressin' even more.



Self-named, riding Reagan age laurels

Bill Bennet's our keeper of morals.

But now we've all learned

gambling cash he burns

to sate his repressed lack of "oral."



Yesterday featured yet another DL/S&Y Historic Moment.

Me and Mike Chmielecki, of "Mike's Accursed Verse" er... "fame," or something, engaged in a Meeting of the Minds, as I'm out near the Accursed Verse home office in Encino, Calif.

So you'd probably expect this to be an especially high quality DL, with the capability for, um, on-the-spot news and such.

But you have no such luck. This edition is just as crappy as any other.

We didn't accomplish too much. But we did meet every goal! Namely because we didn't have any...

Somebody at the barbecue Mike and I intended pegged my jalopeno/honey chicken as likely to "warm the cockles of his colon." Which got us to wondering just what the hell "cockles" were. Also, due to my choice in coffee mugs, I became an Honorary Texan, which licenses me to engage in a boot-stompin' good time whenever I so feel.

Though I didn't don any boots, I still feel a boot-stompin', colon-cocklin' time was had by all...

I boiled some eggs this week. Namely because I saw some brown eggs in the fridge where I'm staying and, in the darkness, thought they were Easter eggs, which gave me a taste for hard boiled eggs and... This is all very exciting, I'm sure, but it reminded me of the first time I boiled eggs myself and I boiled the water first, then threw the eggs in, which promptly exploded all over--but made a delightful egg-drop soup, despite the shells...

And speaking of cooking disasters, one of the first times my eventual wife came to my paltry single guy apartment, I was making popcorn in the pot, as God intended it to be made, and, as the oil was heating up, I decided I simply had to take a leak, which I ran and did, somewhere during the act of which the oil in the pot caught fire and shot a tower of flames into the air, blowing the top off the now-ceremonial popcorn pot...

It brings me great nostalgia to bring you a Southern California edition of "Duh! Factor" today, in which I relate to you a real stupid headline from a "legitimate" newspaper. This is from the Los Angeles Daily News, my Alma Employer (or whatever you call a former employer)--which, I must note, is also the former employer of Accursed Verse himself--in it's May 1 edition:

"Greenspan Says Deficits Harm Economy."

With that kinda genius, no wonder he's practically Financial Monarchy right now.






TODAY'S POEM: Your bouquet fell

From these hands, your bouquet fell.

A green plastic cone,

heads peering out -- not yours yet.

Distracted by a watch on the ground,

a gold lobe keeping bloodbeat rhythm,

a balance beam from which the days fell.

I dropped your present, where silent bells scattered.

Stems intermingled like fences through fences.

The sky turned to bones as my coat grew cold.

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



To families on Vegas vacations:

ev'ry freakin' inch of this nation's

not kid-friendly, Einsteins--

hit Disney World, next time

and stop the Great Disneyfication.



A man who craved fine, Asian chicks

Worked strange, fetishistic "rice tricks."

He'd often be sated

through techniques x-rated

performed orally--with chop sticks!


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

You've hopefully noticed that DL completely dropped the ball yesterday. That's right--there was no May 5 edition; instead it was folded into the May 6 edition today.

What you may not realize is that this is the first time this has happened over the almost four-year history of Daily Limerick.

Oh, I've been a wee bit late before and sent off this trash past midnight. And I've went out of town in the past and sent a few days worth of limericks ahead of time. But this is the first time I completely missed an edition.

Ironically, it occurs just as DL was finally able to "go mobile"--and thus, theoretically, file on a daily basis for a change despite the fact that I am traveling.

I looked up local dial-up numbers for all the towns I planned to be in well ahead of time. But I was unfortunately not prepared for one destination that lacks the infrastructure to fully support modern communications.

And, no, I didn't end up hitting Afghanistan--in Afghanistan, news reporters were actually able to set up their Web cams and such. I'm talking about somewhere far more desolate, far more removed from the trappings of contemporary society:

Colorado. Denver, no less.

Although it's never stopped me before, I won't bother you with the details. Suffice it to say that, although I was able to dial-up from my Vegas hotel, somehow it just wouldn't work in Denver. On the way out, I ended up using my Chicago dial-up number. On the return visit, even that wouldn't work.

This second time, I even asked at the front desk about the correct procedure, what with all the damn "hit 9" and/or "hit 8," with or without a "1" crap to dial out.

I tried multiple techniques for over a half hour. No dice.

So in order to set a clock to Mountain Time, first subtract 10 years...

Two guys walk into a bar and... double the number of customers therein.

While in Los Angeles, I mostly stayed in the suburbs--although there's a good argument that all of L.A. is one big suburb. But I was definitely in the 'burbs--away from the Valley o' Porn, the blink-and-you'll-miss-it downtown, Hollywood, etc.

Amid an intense pun session... er, amid a tense meeting on DL business matters with Mr. Accursed Verse himself, a cousin of my wife's decided that we just had to get out of another cousin's house (where we were hanging), as, other than video games, nothing was going on there.

So we headed off to a bar, which happened to be the only bar within a radius of a few miles.

There were about four people in this bar. This was a Saturday night. After 10 p.m.

Or I should say four people were OUTSIDE the bar. Smoking. You see, California was a groundbreaker in legislation banning smoking from inside even bars.

So these lucky folks got to sit outside what should be a popular establishment, instead an opposite-of-happenin' bar, protected from their own secondhand smoke.

You can draw your own conclusions from all this, Slapper Yappers...

I found out that some Nevada legislators are all in a snit because, despite increasing cigarette taxes, little extra cost is being passed on to Nevada smokers because the tobacco companies have absorbed the extra fees to keep their prices low.

So, let me get this straight. Legislators actually want their citizens to suffer?

You know, there are still some people out there who actually think that the government has some slight interest in pleasing the people who elect it...

The "Page Three" columnist for the Chicago Tribune is John Kass.

He happens to be a good writer who often makes some good points, although he's known to get his Fruit of the Looms in a twist over stuff like (gasp!) nudity in theater.

But I was just thinking today that a nickname for any "John" is "Jack."

Therefore, you can honestly say that this man is a JackKass.

He hee.

I take my giggles where I can get 'em.


LETTERS TO THE IDIOT 5/5-5/6/2003:

> Am I the only one scared that your succession of "Blah"s prove to be the

> funniest Slappin' and Yappin's ever?

Man, this is the week for DL fuck-ups. I sent you a buttload of limericks WAY ahead of time...

Oh well. You still get more than what you pay for. I  hope.



Outside of the casino scene

there're games for which many are keen--

you give up some coins

for spin of the groin

through state-of-the art slut machines.



Two Colorado DJs were fired for playing the Dixie Chicks against the orders of their radio station's brass.

The radio station can at least look at the bright side: Those DJs won't be able to get their opinions out of Colorado via e-mail!


Even President Bush has declared the Iraq War over. Not to mention that the Chicks didn't even specifically mention the war, from what I understand and... Why am I bothering with logic here?

As the War on Terror contemplates bringing our brand of "Freedom" of Speech to another part or the world...

There is a annual tradition at a Glenbrook, Ill. high school in which junior and senior girls play each other in a "Powder Puff" football game around this time of year.

This year's installment brought extra attention to what was normally considered an innocuous pursuit.

Normally, the seniors play some pranks on the juniors. This year, however, there were numerous injuries--in addition to stunts including the wrapping of one girl in pig's entrails and manure smearing festivities.

I guess this is just another milestone in the Civil Rights Movement.

Congrats, girls! You're almost "equal" to the frat boys in the sick and twisted prank category!



When Sally turned tween her mom told her

that boys would soon treat her much bolder.

Warned her to contain

the boobs she'd soon gain

in o'er the shoulder boulder holder.



In briefing over the TV Grid today, I saw that Marilyn Manson is slated to appear on... Letterman or Leno. Forgot which--and my commitment to journalistic integrity leaves me too lazy to look it up right now. Does it really matter?

What's important is this question: Why is Marilyn Manson on ANY talk show at this point--besides, perhaps, a cable-access one?

I didn't think the guy was capable of shocking anybody, anymore at this point. But landing on a prime talk show does register, slightly, on the Shock-O-Meter...

Has anybody out there any proof as to the existence of a competent apartment/condo complex supervisor? (Although it's shorter, I'm firmly against the use of the word "super" in this context, so don't expect to see it here again.)

I have a back door that sucks major ass and lets in all sorts of air. Ever since moving in, our superintendent has been promising that he'll fix it "next." I've been here over a year. And then there's... Well, as you can imagine, there are other things that need superintendent-izing.

However, I noted today that we have some rather expansive flower beds and such--Mr. SuperINTENDENT decided that was high priority, I suppose.

I'd prefer a door. Perhaps I should take time out to stop and piss on the flowers now and again.

Oh, that'll only make 'em grow better, I suppose.

Depends what you've been drinking.

I'll think of something.



Now Washington, of "Kotter" fame

(for years, his career's been quite lame)

's'named 'gain in the press rooms

for throwin' some "boom boom"

in public at his current dame.



You may or may not recall--more than likely, it's the latter, you damn slackers--that I recently encountered a subway musician playing what can only be deemed as "Christmas Music." The encounter was last month, and it disturbed me.

Well, I heard this joker doing the same thing today. It wasn't just a fluke.

Now, enough of this nugget, so that I can bring you a related nugget, and then return to this nugget with a punchline, of sorts, and amaze you with my mastery of literary gimmickry...

But first: Do you like it when I insult you, Slapper Yappers? Perhaps it could be a part of my new, punk-rock-goes-blog image to continue it...

Perhaps not...

Anyway, this all brings me to a conclusion I've reached. After hours of study and thought, and the recent witnessing of a street/subway musician who actually brightened my day, I have discovered one simple step that street musicians can take to make this world a little brighter:

Learn to freakin' play your instrument, first!

(I have yet to figure out why so many out-of-town Neil Young renditions come from the street/subway music scene, however)...

Which brings me to a theory I have as to why this chowderslap is playing Christmas tunes in Spring:

He really, really wanted a guitar one year for Christmas, and probably received the gift early. He took lessons and/or pored over songbooks to learn some tunes--which happened to be Christmas tunes, predominantly, given the season--and then came to the realization that playing guitar takes hard work and a long-term commitment--perhaps  not realizing that he could focus on teeth whitening and gym workouts, move to L.A. or N.Y. and still have a shot at a music career--and so he gave it up.

Hard times hit, the nutblaster hit poverty level and--voila! Time to break out that guitar and play those tunes he practiced so much a while back... which all happened to be Christmas tunes.

Elementary, my dear Slapper Yappers.



> Please remove me from your list!

Somebody's still into Marilyn Manson, evidently.

> Your Slappin' and Yappin' registered slightly on the Shock-o-Meter. Damn

> thing's busted, though.

Well, S&Y's ALWAYS kickin' ass on the Schlock-o-Meter, in any event.



The nude figure models in Philly

are pissed that they pose where it's chilly

so union they'll form

to make sure it's warm

in classrooms to bear tit or Willie.



There is an argument, in comedic writing circles, that parody is dead. Or should be dead. Unless, of course, you've been doing it since it was thriving--for instance, MAD Magazine is immune to any such possible boycotts.

Why? Well, it's just an old form, overdone, etc. Not to mention that we live in an age of media saturation--decades ago, for instance, a high percentage of the general population could be expected to have seen "Gone With the Wind" or even the "Sid Caesar Show" but today, despite misleading statistics pronouncing "record" box office or Nielson draws (which don't take into account other things like inflation or the population's increase), there are too many options to assume that any one movie or show was seen by a significant portion of the population, thus unable to keep parody from being anything other than an "in joke."

I won't get delve into this can of nightcrawlers any further--but, on a side note, do worms actually come in cans?--but I will make a pronouncement on a similar note:

If nothing else, stop doing "Jesus Christ Superstar" parodies. For the love of God. Or, if you're an atheist, for the love of Jennifer Love Hewitt.

What I wouldn't do for the love of Jennifer Love Hewitt.

Hmm. Jennifer Love Hewitt...



In response to yesterday's eloquent letter, which read:

>> Please remove me from your list!

Chuckles checks in with:


> Heh, that sounded desperate. :)

Yes. The "!" is mightier than the sword.



From Wizards, Mike Jordan was fired

(from MANAGEMENT, hadn't retired).

Our economy's status?

Firing of the field's greatest?

Screw the pundits, things look pretty dire.



John Walsh--you know, the "America's Most Wanted" cat who been honored to the point of colon-tickling--injured himself in a skateboarding accident.

I don't have any commentary to offer. But the visual is quite entertaining...

I was thinking the other day about an incident going years back, when I actually smoked cigarettes (before returning eventually to cigars, as the Lord intended). A draconian raise in cigarette taxes had just hit Illinois, I was walking down the street smoking, and a homeless looking woman asked me for a cigarette. I forget if what the situation was--I either had none to offer or simply didn't want to give any away.

She pleaded for smokes. In fact, she offered me a blowjob.

So, while zipping up my pants afterward... Just kidding.

Not only does this story illustrate how insane cigarette taxes obviously only affect (once) Big Tobacco, but in thinking about it recently, I wondered how often this woman offered such favors in exchange for... smokes, or whatever.

I figured she wasn't a "regular" whore but... An occasional prostitute. A hobbyist of harlotism. Dabbling in brazen strumpet behavior.

A freelance ho'.

Which amused me. So screw you if it doesn't amuse you, too...

Do you know what annoys me?

When you meet a hot, fine-ass young chick who prattles on about her "boyfriend" as if they're going to marry and put Romeo and Juliet to shame.

Okay, it might happen. But the stats are against them.

He's usually just as young--and has a lot of wild beave to sow. Plus, although I'm married and thus not interested, I'd like to think she'll let a few more members of my Brotherhood enjoy a little of that delightful tale.

Oh, I'm just sick. But it does annoy me to hear a dippy yet fine one prattle on in such a way...

Ever notice that "Marital Law" is one letter away from "Martial Law"?...

I was listening to a radio show the other day, hosted by rock critics from the Chicago Sun-Times and Chicago Tribune. One mentioned that he had worked for Rolling Stone once and had to take a drug test.

For all those still believing that Rolling Stone has been remotely "counter-cultural" since the '70s...






TODAY'S POEM: On Hearing of the Collapse of the Old Man of the Mountain, This Native Writes

Daniel Webster once remarked

something about god and man

while peering at the stern

granite profile.

Which grew by years in reverence,

epoxy, and cables.

To hold the old face fast against

its natural, sculpted ledges.

The smell of lilacs gone.

Now the wait for rain

in the boughs of pepper trees,

casting their dark scent.

So too, the white birch

with its curling paper bark

writes slow ribbons to the dust,

skeleton to skeleton.

Purple finch, I cannot say

that I have once heard your call

tremulous as a June day.

Sleek crows now pick through the yard.

This morning one was beating

against the window, waiting

for the dry flutter hustle

to turn back to silence.

Cannon was fogged in, I read.

Somewhere between 12 and 2

a charge echoed to build the dawn.

Saying "It is Spring."

Gray veil lifted from the Notch,

as the distant sun burned through.

This face of ancient intent

had put his affairs in order.

We are left with excerpts,

the backs of minted coins,

reminders on each plate

and sign.

A ghost of rocks

now clings to the sky.

[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 freewheelin' gypsy

who ate fine cuisine and got tipsy

each night, through her hustle

which--not talkin' Russell--

owed much to the influ'nce of Nipsy.



I read a piece about Air Force One today. It was all very interesting, but what most caught my interest was a section on specific presidents and what they did to pass the time aboard the plane.

Clinton liked to hang out in the press section; Bush does not. Clinton liked to play cards; Bush just watches as his aides play Risk.

It was then that an eyebrow raised on this reader.

Risk, for those less geeky than I, is a strategic boardgame of world domination.

I suppose it's relieving to learn that our Commander in Chief doesn't take place. Unless that's only because he sucks.

If I didn't know that everybody was already doing so, I'd advise you all to keep an eye on Bush and his aides...

I also learned today that the FAA is going to change some rulings to allow people to fly with certain animals--most interesting being monkeys--if they so need them for emotional support.

Now, I'm wondering exactly what I can tell my doctor so as to be approved for airborne monkey transport to fulfill my emotional support needs. This wasn't originally on my "list" of things to do in life, but I think I can die happy if  I can truthfully say that I carried a monkey onto an airplane...

I saw a review of some show that's airing tonight, or soon, about Adolf Hitler. The review commended the star for his portrayal of Hitler's "Nuttiness."

Now, when I think "nuttiness," I think of madcap hijinx, things like dancing with a lamp shade on one's head at a party.

Perhaps the original definition has been tainted with time, but I don't find Hitler to be "a nutty guy"...

American Movie Classics is now airing "How Stella Got Her Grove Back," a 1988 movie.

Now they just need a wacky VJ to regularly announce that "It don't have to be old to be a classic..."

I am the only one who finds Michael Douglas ridiculously creepy?



A nympho who lived in a trailer

found into her park, moved a sailor.

This white trashy demon

so craved the, er, seaman

she flat-out asked him to impale her.



Is everybody basking in all the media coverage of the pending FCC ruling that will allow the 2 or 3 conglomerates currently controlling 90 percent of our media to control even more? You know, all the front page stories--not, of course, hidden in business sections and such--and TV newsmagazine exposes?...

You may notice, every now in then, that a prominent player in the Entertainment Industry takes a special liking to some person, show, etc. For instance, rather than focusing purely on profit, for a change a network will show a strange love for something like, say, "Watching Ellie." (A Godawful show--in two Godawful versions--that was given more breaks than a postal employee shift, which happened to star the daughter of a Dreyfus fund bigwig? Hmm, maybe it does always entail profit, in one way or another.)

Well I've come to the conclusion that the Entertainment Industry really, and I mean REALLY, wants Kelly Clarkson to become a raging, full-on star. (Is that the first time you've seen the modifier "raging, full-on" not referring to a hard-on?)

Like Jim Belushi, she seems to be everywhere on the talk show circuit and such, despite the fact that her popularity doesn't quite merit the coverage.

Do you know why?

If the industry could eliminate the pesky idea of "popularity" and "generating appeal from the bottom up," they could completely control who becomes a "star" and who doesn't. They're pretty damn close but, with their asses wide open and lubed for the loins of the FCC, the Final Solution seems closer every day...

I read today that most temporary restraining orders are issued without investigation or discussion.

So I'm thinkin', "publicity stunt." Perhaps I can get a temporary restraining order against Kelly Clarkson...

I work with a young, hipster, neo-hippie girl who has "that smell."

No, I'm not tossin' out a Lynyrd Skynyrd reference. That... obnoxious perfume or whatever the hell. I don't think this particular odor is petuli (SIC?)--I think I know the smell of patuli (SIC?--yes, I am, what's it to you?), but I could be wrong, as I generally avoid people bearing the scent.

But it struck me today that it really smells like perfumed mothballs.

And what could be more sexy than perfumed mothballs?



For pure saturation: Four Stars!

(Though less than a handful it mars.)

The media covers

it as panic lovers

presenting, "Circus of the SARS."



Despite a terrorist attack on U.S. citizens in Saudi Arabia, along with the "Powder Puff Hazing" story, the tale of the Texas woman who killed her kids with rocks has been dubbed by our networks and newspapers as the most "newsworthy."

Another TEXAS woman.

Does the Frequent Fryer death penalty system contribute to the legitimacy of death as punishment there or what?...

What the hell is going on in Arby's marketing department? Is somebody with multiple personalities the chair?...

Have had a glance at the upcoming season's network schedules and simply must ask: Please, please, PLEASE bring us YET ANOTHER sitcom about some New Yorker/Los Angeleno moving back home to face their small-town, Midwestern roots. We evidently can't get enough of 'em!...

Speaking of things you don't hear enough about, I've long had a beef with policies, ala the Chicago Transit Authority's, not allowing smoking IN THE OPEN FUCKIN' AIR ON THEIR PROPERTY.

Not, of course, that they enforce it much. Nor that they could. But I read somewhere that there were other reasons for this. One is because CTA employees were taking smoke breaks--and we can't be having employees taking a break, can we? That reason is completely unacceptable, not to mention following Segway-esque logic.

Another reason given was to prevent fires.

Problem solved: Put ashtrays out. They have 'em all over San Francisco.

Of course, they feel that would "okay" smoking. Lord knows there's not enough laws in place to discourage smoking! And it would put another $20-an-hour, nepotistically hired yahoo out of work...

I've mentioned this idea before, but just come up with a good name for it.

We need a law in place so that, next time some chowderhead brings an idiot lawsuit before the courts, we can immediately toss it out under a common sense provision.

So when this knucklehead lawyer trying to make Oreos illegal because they contain trans-fat appears before the judge--and more legal boneheadism is undoubtedly in the works because who'd have thunk that a dollop of sugary cream between chocolate cookies wouldn't be a fine, nutritional dietary staple?--Oreos' lawyer can simply invoke: Not guilty by Reason of Inanity...

With the warm weather, it's high time for my annual advisory: If you have hideously ugly feet, leave the sandals home, Quasimodo!



A girl got first butt sex--'twas subtle--

the whole concept, she nearly scuttled!

The first was hung small

so she sought large balls

to offer a meaty re-butt-al.



You may have noticed--probably not--that this is the second May 15 edition you have received. Thanks to a fuck-up yesterday.

See, I typed everything up yesterday, somehow thinking it was the 15th and... Oh, I'll spare you the excitement of explaining how it happened. Just note that it's been corrected.

A one-of-a-kind, Daily Limerick, wrong-date fiasco. DL's own "Dewey Beats Truman." A tale for the grandchildren...

"The Bachelor" was unfortunately on at my house the other day. Naturally, I wasn't watching, but in overhearing the doofuses on the show, I thought, "Is there a lower form of human than a 'Bachelor' contestant?"

With time, I realized that this was a studio-audience edition.

There are people who not only watch "The Bachelor," who not only watch the third, warmed over edition, who not only take time out of their lives (if they have them, which is doubtful) to watch a "staller" episode (one interviewing the dumb broads booted off)... People who not only go to see this sorry commentary on all humanity live--but those who are so pathetic that they actually feel moved to ask questions of the bottom-feeders on the televised show.

So, turns out there IS an even lower form of human that a "Bachelor" contestant.



The mountains of Denver: Sublime.

They practically beg you to climb.

But seein' the chicks

does tingle your dick

perhaps 'cause you're in "Mountin' Time."



I feel it is my duty to get the word out about a source of toxic waste that, to my knowledge, has garnered little, if any, public attention.

We, the consumers, are left to dispose of this noxious waste and yet, apparently, we don't think twice about the long-term consequences. It ruins our very garbage bags to dispose of it. The hazardous output shows no signs of slowing down, either--in fact, more and more of this waste appears to be spit out every day. Those producing this hazardous byproduct are never held accountable for it--and common sense would seem to dictate that measures could easily be put in place to recycle some of this output. But, nay, these fiendish capitalists--either blind to the environmental horrors they're unleashing or, more likely and more sinister, simply unconcerned with anything other than the almighty dollar--they spew their toxins willy-nilly, their filth like drool from a hideous, otherworldly beast, salivating over the prey known as profit.

Ahem. Perhaps words like "toxic" and, well, even "hazardous" are a little much.

I'm talking about dry cleaners--and their seemingly endless flow of those wire hangers.



Strippers and "sex workers" in Vegas

for bizness, do practic'lly beg us.

There's no need to ponder,

"are pubes dark--or blonder?"

for cash, see what's between her leg-as.



I think I've mentioned this before but I'm just tickled mauve over the idea that the Saturday version just keeps getting cheesier while the Sunday edition just keeps getting beefier! Not to mention that I'm even working on the Sunday version ahead of time!

Like the Big Boys!...

(Note my refusal to spell "boys" well, "boyz")...

This just in! Saw a magazine cover yesterday and must announce, it's official:

Drew Barrymore's has big fat ass!...

(Gotta love Saturday editions, don't cha'?)...

Ever notice that the word "aspirin," minus the apostrophe, is the word "aspirin'" ("aspiring")?...

Viva la Saturday Daily Limerick!



Though at me, fun many would poke

for questioning "secondhand smoke"

a new honkin' study

proves that data muddy--

told ya', 'twas one big P.C. joke!



Does the phrasing of the first line here call to mind Winston Churchill for anybody else but me?...

Prepare for an especially beefed-up Sunday edition today!...

Perhaps too darn beefy!...

Which would be a good slogan: The Sunday Daily Limerick. Perhaps TOO darn beefy!...

I've been "holding" this revelation until the drills were over but... I couldn't help thinking, in following the mock terrorism drills in Seattle and Chicago this week, that it would have been a great time for a real terrorist attack.

Well, not a "great time," exactly, as nothing about it would be "great" but, er... You know what I mean. Who would know which participants were pretending and... Perhaps I should just shut up...

It's long been S&Y's conviction that, despite the dangerous and scary nature of our modern world, we can take comfort in the fact that our enemies, like most folks who are logically addled by religious fundamentalism, knuckleheads. Intelligent thought and education are their enemies--and that's good news for us.

Well, here's another little story to bolster my theory, and I just read about this one:

Before the al-Qaida boneheads successfully bombed the U.S.S. Cole, they had tried a similar stunt. However, their suicide boat sank en route to their terror fest because they loaded it with too much weight in explosives.

Picture the Three Stooges--only ethnic, evil and far more dangerous...

I also read of a ship called the U.S.S. The Sullivans.

I wonder what the story behind that one is...

See today's limerick. Read and or hear the news yourself.

I've been telling you (and others) so for years.

Common sense: Despite the hysteria, the vast majority of cigarette smokers do not die from their habit. Statistical fact. Now, of course smoking is one of the more dangerous habits one can have, still, but... Well, I'm not getting into that here. You can read about that everywhere else. And the subject here isn't smoking, but "secondhand smoking."

And considering what a typical cigarette smoker smokes--20 or more cigs per day--and considering that a smoker purposefully inhales and holds in the smoke from said cigs... Also consider that, when you light a smoke, the concentration of smoke, greatest, of course, at the tip, dissipates rapidly, even a couple of inches away and... How in the hell could any study possibly conclude that those around smoke--especially considering that the issue is usually dragged out concerning bars and restaurants, where people don't spent a large percentage of their overall time-could possibly see effects evenly remotely close to those of actual smokers?

Another example of how political correctness is used as an excuse to completely circumvent logic...

Funny how the American Cancer Society, too, is all pissed off about this new study. (Oh, you're not supposed to bash a group that has good intentions, I know, but letting anybody get away with P.C. doublespeak/logic-twisting/etc.  only brings harm in the long run, despite intentions.) You'd think that the ACS would be all "Yahoo! People are safer than we thought!"

But health, of course, is not the only issue here...

This is also a good time for my reminder that political correctness IS the new religion.

Exhibit one: Early indoor smoking bans came in California (P.C. stronghold) and Utah (Mormon stronghold). The chowderhead seeking the strictest ban in Chicago, Ald. Ed Burke, says he's so concerned because his dad died of lung cancer.

But his dad was a smoker. Not a secondhand smoker.

But, like in religion, if we're trying to "save you," the logic doesn't matter, does it?...

The band Great White has set up a legal defense fund.

Authorities: Take anybody that gives money to this fund and freeze their assets. Arrest them. They can't possibly be of any good to society...

And now for the new Sunday Sports Section (sort of):

Hooray! The Lakers were eliminated from the NBA playoffs.

Don't know why that makes me happy. I care very little for basketball. Perhaps the natural tendency to root for underdogs.

But "Yay!"...

And now for the Special Sunday Nonsense Section:

What happened to Good n Fruity? I was picking myself up some birthday weekend snacks and noticed their absence in the grocery store.

Come to think of it, a special section for "nonsense" is kinda redundant...

Sunday Nonsense: Good n Fruity

At the end of every month, I print up the month's worth of DLs, to see how they read, note frequent mistakes, ironically foil the paperless society aspect of the e-newsletter, etc.

Although I do briefly read over and edit all the entries, I noticed that there have been a lot of boners in DL/S&Y/Letters to the Idiot over time. And I'm actually thinking of leaving them "as is" when I get the archive up on my Web site, which we hopefully be before the Cubs win the World Series and the world comes to an end. In any event, I don't want to make major editing changes, even if I do decide to correct typos, etc.

I'm really only bringing this up because I love using the word "boner" to connote the now-semi-archaic meaning and open the floodgates to humorous yet immature double-entendre...

And now it's time for a new feature: Sunday Story Time. In which I blather off a tale from my own life that doesn't fit into my typical joking patterns.

I once wrote "graffiti" on a bathroom wall.

It was in grade school, and I was (obviously) feeling a bit rebellious--and perhaps a tad randy, although Randy got pissed off over that. (Actually, that should be spelled "Randi," so as to not fuel speculation into my sexual orientation.) I went to the bathroom, had read the dirty etchings many a time, and decided I'd go for it.

I pulled out a pencil--not even a pen, a Goddmaned lead pencil!--and my hands were shaking. My heart was pounding. You know the descriptive drill. I thought twice, three times, perhaps more, about whether I really wanted to do this and the consequences of "vandalism."

I was able to scrawl out "Screw, man, screw!" on the stall, in a shaky and barely readable script, before dashing out, heart pounding, etc., etc., etc., wildly looking over both shoulders and fearing The Bust.

Ah, the life of crime. So sweet and yet so, so wrong.






TODAY'S POEM: When a Poem Works

The casual juxtaposition of pronouns and colors.

The jump and verve of feet and notes.

How words line up dutifully in the valley

and wait for the advancing crash of syllables.

When the structure is tugged by its ribs to reverse

and implode - eyes meet eyes,

sight for the first time -- as lashes touch lashes

and lips to lips, we find our tongues.

That is a poem, one which hobbles up

with no change in his pockets

and unerring grace.

Messy and torn,

whether careworn or not,

and his smile means less

than the sign he has written.

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



Chief limericist, for what it's worth

today celebrates day of birth!

Last big milestone spent--

can be president--

and he'll "run" to maintain self-mirth.



Today's limerick is factually correct--having just turned 35, I am declaring my candidacy for presidency. So send millions, if you have 'em.

Otherwise, not much is changing. I'm considering sending out a press release about this candidacy but... I don't know. So maybe nothing has changed except the fact that I'm officially a candidate.

Or am I? Do I need petitions and such to be "official"? I may have to just consider myself a write-in.

In any event, remember this candidacy in about a year and a half...

So here's my birthday dilemma: I don't know what to do.

With my flexible in-office schedule, I took the day off. However, I didn't coordinate anything, so I have no friends who have the day off.

I have plenty to work on but... I feel I should take a break from working today. There's porn, of course, but I can't fill a day up with porn. I do have to "break in" this new computer, and I haven't checked porn sites yet, now that my Internet access is all the more speedy... but, again, I can't fill up a day with that.

I'm about to go eat lunch somewhere, but that's another thing I can't fill up a day doing. My first idea is to go somewhere close, to get home and work--but I don't want to work. So I can waste time finding a proper place to eat. Perhaps afterward I'll go to a coffeehouse with my laptop and... What, work? I don't like the idea of hitting an Internet café and viewing porn out in public. Perhaps I can seek out "fun" sites, Internet cartoons and such... Hmm.




Oh well. Happy Birthday to me.

Perhaps I should just enjoy having nothing to do.

And if you have suggestions... by the time I get them, my birthday will be over.




Unfort'nately, unlike Geraldo,

'Though Hussein's regime sure did fall-do,

we're not sure we got 'em

and with this "Where's Saddam?"

joins Elvis, Osama and Waldo.



Prepare to be shocked (and perhaps awed:

A new study comes to a couple of jaw-dropping conclusions. Number one, boys feel more pressure from other boys to be sexually active than girls do from other girls. Number two, alcohol and drugs increase a teen's likelihood of being sexually active.

Once again, those Studyers of Things have shaken up our understanding of the world much like the revelation that the world is round did, so many years ago...

Both Us and People magazines have cover stories exploring the "Behind the Scenes" doings on "American Idol."

Proving that, like great minds, pathetic, journalistic Entertainment Industry ass-kissers also think alike...

Okay, so nobody went for my "Porn on Ice" idea, but I have a "reality" show pitch.

Why should we care about a bunch of intellect-and-attention-challenged-but-pretty  chicks competing for a an intellect-and-attention-challenged-but-pretty-and-rich bachelor? As dictionary definition losers, they all have little to lose and even less to gain. But where's the real conflict? Oh, sure, there's conflict between the moron chicks, but it's rather mild--competing for the right to pretend like they'll eventually marry the guy.

My idea: "Mid-Age Crisis." That's right! A bunch of intellect-and-attention-challenged-but-pretty chicks compete for the gifts, affections and perks of a comfortably successful, middle-aged, married man lookin' to bang a hot, intellect-and-attention-challenged-but-pretty young woman, so that he can feel his life isn't "over" yet. Plus the "fun" continues, and even gets better, once the chosen affair begins!

Don't even try to tell me that network execs would have a moral problem with this.

Think of all that can go wrong! And isn't that what "reality" viewing is all about?

"Porn on Ice" is still an option, too, investors...

Have you ever noticed that Latinos are more accepting of pot-smoking than other ethnicities, as a rule?

Nothin' like stereotyping!

But this isn't a bad thing, as far as I'm concerned. Leave it to white boys ala John Ashcroft to get nutty in the opposite direction.

I'm just wondering why pro-pot-legalization activists haven't turned it into a racial discrimination issue.

Well, I was wondering. Until I pictured the stereotypical "activist" in my head...

And while I'm on the topic of cannabis, why are people more forgiving of folks who did it in the '60s and '70s? It's "more okay" because "everybody" was doing it?

Doesn't do much for allegations that our society appreciates individuality, now does it?...

Why is misspelling words so damn cool? Is there such thing as a hip-hop song with proper spelling? What's it like spell-checking a hip-hop CD insert?

Questionz, kwesshuns, questyuns...

(Are you blown away with my coolness?)...

It's been a while, but here's an installment of Laughing at Stranger for No Real Good Reason:

A sportswriter for the Baltimore Sun is named Peter Schmuck.

And to top it all off, the name is quite limerick friendly.



> For your birthday, you should wonder what you should do for your birthday.

> Oh, right...you did.


> Happy belated birthday.

I had my cake and ate it, too.

Actually, it was pie. I prefer pie.

Having nothing witty to add to your pointing out my patheticism, I'll leave it at that. And start pondering what to do, next birthday, for 364 days.



Male golfers would like to say, "Scram!"

to that Annika Sorenstam

but she'll help golf see

more diversity--

but she sure as hell won't add glam.



Illinois Gov. Rod Blagojevich, considering the hot new way to fix states' budget problems is to allow casinos rather than anything radical like fiscal responsibility, has come down firmly against allowing slot machines in bars and such, claiming that slot machines are the "crack cocaine" of gambling.

And, of course, the government prohibition on gambling is going just as gangbusters as that oh-so-successful Drug War...

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

Le Titi de Paris.

Actually, it's a restaurant, so I guess this is really Laughing at Strange Establishments for No Real Good Reason.

I'm not sure how "Titi" is pronounced. But you should be able to guess how I'm pronouncing it.



With each lame "The Bachelor" installment

ratings, slowly, surely are fallin'.

Our cultural trip

toward apocalypse

is getting some much needed stallin'.



Speaking of "reality" TV...

Let's start over:

Rhyming of "reality" TV, last night, while hearing what I would dub an offensive laugh track in the other room (and knowing, by the way it played, that it was of the prevalent type that is used to mask the fact that the writing is horrific), I recalled a time, before "reality" TV, when, in pondering the world of TV, I thought, "Well, at least it can't get any stupider."

Damn, was I wrong...

Although we don't need any more "proof," I pondered up another reason why a "reality" TV-spawned marriage can't possibly work:

It's the perfect nagging supplement.

Think about it. For the average person, one is dubbed "unlucky" if their wife happens to have met, seen, etc., even ONE of their exes. Because wives, by definition, will endlessly bring up exes--even the ones they HAVEN'T met--and the more they know about one, the more utterly harrowing the process can be.

These "Bachelors" would marry a "winner" (and the word has perhaps never been more ironic) who has met, in effect, more than a dozen "exes"--and actually lived and interacted among all of them!

This situation is otherwise known as "Hell on Earth"...

I've unfortunately watched a few minutes here and there of "Extreme Makeover" and must commend these mothers on the fine message they're sending their children:

You, too, can have self esteem (when you can afford to cosmetically alter yourself into a completely different being)...

And I'll end it all by proclaiming:

I'd do J.K. Rowling.



There once was a fella named Chuck

in seeking out hobbies: no luck.

You don't see this comin'?

Your brain's just not hummin'--

of course, Chuck only liked to fuck.



Pizza Hut now features "The Pizzone."

It has all the ingredients of any other pizza. Only the toppings are inside the crust and you dip it into the pizza sauce.

Do you recall "The Edge" pizza?

I'm guessing their marketing department sits around all day dreaming up new things that could be done with pizza. And there's not a lot of them left. But once in a great while, after a big, fat doob, one of the marketing guys' eyes light up and he says something like--and imagine him holding in his smoke as he does--"Dudesicles--have we ever done an INSIDE-OUT pizza."

Another answers, "whooah."

And a new Pizza Hut ad campaign begins...

P.S. Who the hell orders from Pizza Hut, anyway? Oh, that's right. Not everybody lives in a town that features great pizza...

As its becoming a trend, I should name this semi-regular feature:

Folks You've Never Thought About Doin' Whom I'd Like to Do Up:

Judge Hatchett.

No, not Judge JUDY, moron.



Though family bonds are quite sacred

some of my wife's dame kin I've take-red

in Fantasy Land--

in real life I plan

to simply, 'fore death, see them nakred.



Somehow, my home has become Euro Trash Frat-esque Party Central.

My wife works at a downtown Chicago hotel, which is part of an international company.

So I've spent more than my fair share of time around foreigners (mainly Europeans... er, Euro Trash). And because these types tend to be less-than-up on the inside knowledge of Chicago life, they end up with shitty deals on apartments and, coupled with the extroverted nature of my wife, this has led to our place being the Party Place, as its rather spacious and, might I add, quite a good deal.

One of these happened this week. Thursday night, another one of those seemingly twice-a-week going away parties. Since I'm now out of town, in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, I should've been packing that night, not to mention extra work needed to do pre-three-day-weekend.

But instead, I was mixing with a bunch of people who not only drink like most people drink solely around the age of 21, who not only have difficulty communicating in English to begin with, who not only overstay their welcome even though we wanted the weeknight fest to end a bit early, who not only mostly focus on topics of familiarity to them all--namely their employer (which, of course, I do not share)--but who are... shall we dub them "Gypsy Types."

I've noted the general, stereotypical profile for Gypsy Types, especially single Gypsy Types, before--and Euro Gypsy Types seem to share the same traits as American Gypsy Types.

What type of person becomes a Gypsy Type? Here's the common scenario:

You wonder what to do with your life. You have no real interests. You're at least somewhat an asswipe, and thus don't have a lot of good friends or good relationships with family members, so staying around your home country/region/what-have-you is not so crucial. So you pose the question to yourself:

"What should I do with my life?"

And you answer, "Hmm. I have no interests. Don't know what I want to do. Nobody really likes me that much around this town. What to do, what to do?...

"I know! I'll just move around! See the world! I'm not very interesting, but I can constantly make conversation, ala, 'Been to Egypt?... No? I have... It's cool... Yeah, hmm... How 'bout this weather... Uh huh, yeah... Been to Belgium?... No? I have...'

"That's it! I can leach onto the locals, crash their parties, drink beer like it's freakin' water, trash their apartments, show no regard for basic courtesy... It'll be great! And I'll bang lots of stupid American chicks simply because I have an accent and they assume that I'm 'cultured,' even though I'm a big shithead!"




> John Biederman:


> It has come to my attention that you are privy to private information

> regarding the Pizza Hut Corporation. Rather than have you bloodied by New

> Jersey thugs on the street, we have decided to pay you off via a large

> settlement if you sign a waiver denying any knowledge of the inception of

> P'Zone, Thin Crust or any other type of food service product we push onto an

> unsuspecting and increasingly ill-refined public.


> Your fulcrum,


> Mike Rawlings

> President and CEO

> Pizza Hut Corporation

Wow. I've gotta remember just who is on this list before I go a-bashin'.

Sorry. I didn't mean to pissone your marketing dept., Mike.



Their virtues, so many extol--

but one plus to children's quite droll:

You see them with others

'specially spoiling mothers

and they're a form of birth control.



Today's definition brought to you in "HDIC"...

High Definition Idiot, See?...

On Friday, driving through Wisconsin, I saw a sign for an establishment, "Fireside Fireworks."

Call me a fuddy-duddy, but I'd keep the fireworks somewhere other than fireside...

If you haven't seen VH-1's "I love the '80s"... Well, I don't know. All I can conclusively say is that you haven't seen it.

The idea of the show is to recount the events, mostly the pop-cultural ones, in a cheesy, documentary style fashion, having celebrities comment about their memories of the particular songs, trends, etc.

These are mostly celebrities who are famous NOW, as opposed to those who were celebrities during the '80s, although some fit both bills. And the commentary is about what the celebrities in question were experiencing during the pop cultural event at hand.

The absolute worst thing about this show--and, believe me--by the way, what the hell's with "believe YOU me"?--as I was saying, believe me, there is intense competition for that title, you know, the title of the worst thing about the show, which I figured I'd remind you of because I've been digressin' so much in this sentence, I... Okay.

The worst thing about the show: When discussing the songs, the commentating celebrities often sing the song a capella. Not all of these celebrities are professional singers. In fact, even the ones who are come off as bad, a capella.

Anyway, it sucks. But I've digressed...

I'm just nutty for tacos lately.

I'm ordering 'em everywhere. Mexican places, burger stand places that happen to have tacos, what have you.

My only explanation is South Park.

There was a recent episode in which Eric Cartman, an 8-year-old character, decides to do his class-required presentation (for some sort of Latino event) via a hand puppet named "Jennifer Lopez." (Only the "J" is pronounced with a guttural, ethnically-correct "h.")

Anyhow, his hand makes a video, gets really famous, replaces the "real" Jennifer Lopez (if such a thing exists--and, by the way, will the real Jennifer Lopez please stand up, please stand up, please--man, I'm just nutty for digressin' today, too) and... Well, there's a song his hand sings about J-Hand's "taco flavored kisses" and somehow that phrase titillates me and now I have an insatiable desire for tacos.

I am, of course, a student of the human condition...

My neighborhood is so bad, we brag about finding a "prime double parking space"...

Oh, I tell ya'...

I wear a derby hat. Visit my Web site and see it in the section of "About Sloop" which is named, cleverly, my "head shot."

Anyhow, despite the fact that the hat was featured on some character in perhaps every other film up until the fifties or so, I find it odd that many people first see it and mention "A Clockwork Orange."

Even strangers. "Like your hat. Very 'Clockwork Orange.'"

Stop it. Stop it now. That's not what I'm going for...

And now, it's Sunday Story Time:

A recent issue of "The Onion" had, for it's "infographic," the question (and I may be muddling the phrasing) "Why we are breaking up with our significant other."

One of the reasons on the bar graph: "They call pizza 'za.'"

I'm guilty. Of doing it NOW. Although I never did it when it was... er, "hip." Sort of.

But I recall, in my "University of Illinois at Champaing-Urbana New Student Guide, 1986-87" there was a guide to slang. The theory was, new students, especially freshman, would want to be up on the latest words the kids were using, and what better source for all things hip that your college's PR department?

Anyway, one of the terms was, "za." Which perhaps should be "'za." But I don't' think slang necessarily need follow proper grammatical rules. In fact, today, proper spelling is evidently unhip, but that leads me to digressin' backwards, which is something from the family of déjà vu, I believe, perhaps vuja de, and now THAT is one interesting comment, if you're looking for one, so think on that and send letters... But, here's the point, as flimsy as it may be:

I never heard anybody use the word "za."

So I've taken to using it now as a kitschy, campy kinda thang.


Perhaps you shouldn't take my musings on what is and isn't "hip" too seriously.






TODAY'S POEM: At an Esteemed Resort in the High Country

This place is no different,


Grout lines dutifully grid stone tiles

  set in the lobby floor.

The clerk behind the counter

  carries only the slightest accent.

He concerns himself with his partner,

  a blonde with a gentle voice.

The phones are not free.

The concierge smiles.

  She makes not enough in tips.

A cluster of businessmen

  laugh boisterously around

  a glass, stone and wicker table.

They exude an absurd aura

  of control.

This meeting place of high esteem

  is no different, inside.

Outside, by the windows,

  high, brown-grey hills,

  carved in rock and dust.

  Burning against the sky.

Outside, I have found a poem.

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



A man shot a load in his wife

which caused events leading to strife

that screwed up his keggers

for he got her preggers--

and all I can say is, "That's Life!"



Here's an especially early Holiday Edition to help suit your holiday planning needs! Although practically speaking, the ACTUAL holiday is less the holiday because the day and night before is more the holiday because you don't have to get up the next day... And this all might have you wondering just what the hell I'm doing up so early on a holiday?

I'm not sure--and even my theories aren't so exciting. But I'm up early, sitting out in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan air, swatting at bugs (it would sound more professional to say I'm "working the bugs out," and I am, in a manner of speaking), penning Slappin' and Yappin'... and, well, it's safe to say that it DOES get better than this...

By the way, I hear some critter milling about in the brush and wouldn't it be your lucky day if it were identified by the time I'm finished blathering on?...

I'm a die-hard New Jersey Devils fan! At least for the time being!

Okay, here's an explanation.

Regular readers, at least that rare breed that actually pays some modicum of attention, will know that I have my problems with the NHL. I'm not going to go into relating the reasons right now (and soon I'll be able to tell you to just "check the archives" on the Web site--so make yourself a note to do just that, if you need to, in the allegedly near future; why wait to start telling you that?).

But I do sincerely hope that the NHL eventually rectifies their stupidity problem and, call me a dreamer, I can go back to being a fan.

But if Anaheim, that is, the "Mighty Ducks," wins, and the NHL not only boasts a team named after a Disney movie but boasts a CHAMPION named after a Disney movie, all is lost...

By the way, did you know that even the black people in Anaheim are white?...

Speaking of New Jersey, here's an addition of Laughing at Strangers for No Real Good Reason focusing again on a location:

Nutley, New Jersey.

Me and a friend of mine always thought we simply HAD to find a friend or cohort to bestow the nickname "Nutley" upon, so far to no avail...

Isn't it odd that suddenly, since the latest survey calling the Great Secondhand Smoke Scare of the New Millennium a bunch of hooey, the whole movement has went curiously quiet?

Couldn't have anything to do with the fact that about three corporations ultimately own all our media and nobody wants to piss off anybody, like Michael Bloomberg for instance, in power, could it?




An S&M dude longed to climb

the mountain of Everest, sublime.

His sherpa left ground;

he couldn't be found

for he was tied-up at the time.



Have you noticed the urinal splash guards, or whatever the hell they are, emblazoned with "Say No to Drugs"?

I don't think these Reagan era curios are ever going away.

Pissing on a government slogan.

Are they pro or con?...

And speaking of government-allegedly-"for your own good" policies-that-seem-to-have-went-awry-but-not-if-you-consider-that-the-wiley-bastards-are-too-smart-for-that-to-be-the-real-story, if you pay any attention at all to your state's budget--which, along with the other 49, is in the crapper--you'll probably note that tobacco taxes are one of the few things that aren't being raised.

Why? Isn't tobacco the Evil Thing Destroying the American Way of Life that it's made out to be?

As the highest taxed commodity that exists in America, politicians need to maintain the proper balance between astronomical and not-quite-astronomical-enough-to-stop-you-from-smoking-and-pouring-money-into-our-coffers.

And they're quite frightened because balancing the budget on the backs of smokers has actually caused a significant number to quit.

(Do you think that people who quit a "bad" habit for purely financial reasons have a great chance of continuing to abstain? Ponder that for a bit.)

It's sick and frightening, to begin with, that government thinks it has any role in personal decisions affecting our health. More sick and frightening that the public has bought into it.

And beyond sick and frightening that we live in a society that not only embraces this government role, but also a society governed by folks who fake the role while doing just the opposite...

I've blathered on here recently about the -intendent of my building. (He is not "super" in any fashion, I try to avoid that prefix because the tendency to shorten it disturbs me, and my building's is more properly a "subpar-intendent," anyway.)

Today, he was sweeping the sidewalk.

Sweeping the sidewalk.

Sweeping the goddamned sidwalk.

It's the sidewalk in front of our complex, but it is outside our gates and thus, for all intents and purposes, beyond the scope of his duties.

But not dreaming up dumb-ass work like that could lead him to actually fix one of my screwed-up doors or something, and we wouldn't want to do something rash, would we?

Sadly, I've accepted the state of things. It's just too ingrained now to change. But if I catch him sweeping the street, I'm gonna have to take action...

Misread an advertisement for a street party as "Man Fest."

It was "May Fest."

And it was damn easy to misread--being in some Old Englishy font.

Could lead to an interesting crowd of attendees.



A young man was dyin' to stick it,

drove to lover's lane, for to kick it

with some slut named Di--

a cop happened by

and he got a "no porking" ticket.



Sultaana Freeman is all over the news because she's challenging Florida law that won't allow her to have her driver's license photo taken with her in a Muslim face veil.

Yo, Illinois lawyers! Sex is my religion and I demand that my drivers license photo be of my penis instead of my head! Fuck the law enforcement consequences!...

An idiot who had nothing better to do with his life than travel to the North Pole, which, in case you haven't heard, has been done before. He ran into some trouble and had to be rescued.

Give him the bill...

A group of comedians is lobbying to have Lenny Bruce's 1964 obscenity conviction overturned.

As the U.S. legal system proves it moves just as fast as those Catholics...

There were Chicago tryouts for the zillionth installment of the "'Real' World" yesterday.

A bonehead was quoted in the newspaper as saying it was worth the long lines and competition because, in landing on the "'Real' World," she would have a "good job waiting for her" once the show was over.

Sure. No starting off as fry cook--she'd go right to cashier!...

A new survey finds that most drivers admit they're a "road risk."

But, of course, America has a fear of riding with rigorously FAA-tested pilots...

A double dose of Laughing at Strangers for No Real Good Reason:

Al-Jazeera spokesman Jihad Ballout. "Damnit, you moron! I said, 'Great Satan,' not 'Great Satin!'"

And there was also an obituary for Lena Butterworth. Written in typical, syrupy stle.



There is a strange subset of man--

flag-wavin', but his master plan

feels "free" makes us soft--

Bloomberg and Ashcroft

are two 'Merican Taliban.



The Bush Administration now says that perhaps Iraq has no Weapons of Mass Destruction--because  they destroyed them.


For those busy voting on their "American Idol" faves, here's how this works: Accuse a country of having WMDs. Even when the country denies it, and other countries doubt it, continue the accusation. Conduct some form of search for these WMDs--it doesn't matter how serious the search is, because you don't need to find any. Accuse them of hiding the WMDs.

Then, attack them.

In case happenstance is smiling on you, look for these WMDs after you successfully "liberate" the country. (Pay careful attention to the language used, by the way.) When you don't find them, claim they must have destroyed them all.

Repeat as necessary.

Again, Orwell was an optimist...

Chicago Idiot... Er, Alderman Edward Burke, most active lately in his quest to protect bar-goers from secondhand smoke despite their not wanting his protection (and curiously quiet about the whole thing lately), is now seeking to enact legislation to protect .0001 percent of us from drinking too much beer at sporting events because he's figured out THAT'S why fans have ran onto the field like idiots recently.

Although it gets a bad rap, suicide is a fine option for some folks, especially those looking to improve the world...

I overheard a conversation today about how "we didn't learn anything from Columbine." You know, the Colorado high school shoot-'em-up, SARS of its day, which had everybody freaked out about school shootings despite the fact that more children died in pools that year and school violence, overall, was in fact down?

The conversation included talk about how terrible it is that schools still honor their honor role students and sports stars--but not everybody else. Because what's better than receiving a "token" honor?

Lest we forget who the real "victims" were here: The killers, of course...

Hey! You go to clubs? You know, those bar/dance joints where you have to wait in line to enter, all for the privilege of paying a cover charge and double or triple the average bar's drink prices?

You have? Well, then you're an idiot...

Here's a fun little game: Give a strange woman a funny look. Smile and perhaps giggle a bit--but stop your faux amusement if she looks your way.

This is recommended for chicks who seem bitchy, blather annoyingly on cell phones, or otherwise "wrong" you. Because this game can ruin their day...


And now for an episode of Laughing at Strange Fonts for No Real Good Reason:

(Yes, it's come to this.)

Perpetua Titling and Felix Titling.

With all the fine fonts available, you have to be a real boob to use one of those.



The point of Saddam's de-induction

was his Weapons of Mass Destuction.

Since we haven't found 'em,

just why did we pound 'em?

He destroyed the things, post construction!



McDonald's is trying out a new veggie burger.

Oh, my. I could rant about the multiple levels of stupidity, direct and indirect, for hours on end.

I get the feeling that nobody from McDonald's marketing is reading Slappin' and Yappin' because IT WON'T WORK!

For the same reason I wouldn't run right out to that corner Vegan café if they added a T-bone steak to the menu...

I've been known to peruse the theater listings in the Chicago Reader, which does a very good job of rounding up what's going on in the theater scene.

I've been doing it for some time now, as someone who's dabbled in sketch comedy and similar ventures and plans to in the future (and also as a writer who likes reading about what plots and stories are being performed, which tend to be more original on the stage as opposed to the screen). I'm no drama expert, but I do have a word of advice to playwrights, producers, theater groups, and their ilk:

We don't need any more plays--especially one-person shows--about actors, actresses, playwrights or other theater people!

And please, please, no more plots about New York actors trying to make it in L.A., with all the comical differences between East and West Coast life fueling material.



Her driver's license, feels Ms. Freeman,

should sport Muslim veil, like a beeman.

If Florida courts

don't say "eat our shorts"

what's next?--porn stars' facials o' semen?



Imagine my surprise in glancing at a guide to Chicago's "Blues Fest"--you know, one of those events where mostly suburban folks come into the city, spill beer and spew vomit over one another while crowding together for a completely miserable experience to see the same blues performers they can see on any given night in the city?

Why the surprise? One of the featured performers is Barry Goldwater.

Er, actually it was Barry GoldBERG.

And to think, to see the former, I might have actually attended for the second time over the eleven years I've lived in the city...

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

A member of the band Logwave: Steve Schlitz.

Who are his bandmates? Bud Wiser, Mick Elobe, Sam Adams and Ann Heiser-Bush?


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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