Daily Limerick
Archives: December 2004

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)!



Afghans and Iraqis hope that

there 'lection process will be at

a Western-style plane--

should look to Ukraine

'cause they got the whole thing down pat!



Wishing you a Limerick-y Holiday Season...

Five Years. One Original Limerick a Day. Whoop dee fuckin' doo...

A company called DNC Financial Services has went ahead and calculated the cost of buying all the items in "The 12 Days of Christmas."

For anybody interested, it's around $64,000.

Me? I'll settle for new pajamas or something. In any event, I'd probably pawn the gold rings and cook up the geese a'laying. I could put the ladies dancing to some sort of use, I suppose, but I'd rather not deal with the lords. And I'm a bit frightened over what they're exactly leaping at.

Now, DNCFS is not doing this purely to contribute to the Christmas Spirit. Their little, er, report, or whatever it is, mentions a bevy of items that would be much cheaper than the traditional song's assortment. Such as new cars.

Hark their Heralded Angle sings...

I could very easily pull up the ol' S&Y Psychiatric Couch on a day like today.

Yesterday I learned that, well... How to put this?

It's best not to do much puttin', to be honest.

Let's just say so much for livin' a romantic comedy.

Unless you're in the mood for charges to be filed against you...

Oh, okay, I'm exaggerating a bit with the talk of "charges" and all.

But stay away from the "romantic comedy" thing, anyway, at least until some chick drags you to a theater for one.

Wouldn't want Hugh Grant to come sniffin' around, anyway...


Take raw Ramen noodles, crush them up inside the pack (careful not to rip it), open, pull out the spice packet, sprinkle spices inside, enjoy. Bastard.

Sure to delight the whole dinner party!



Celebrity worship begins

o'er Julia Roberts' new kin.

Unlike paparazzi

I'd rather see shot-sees

of her other well-noted twins.



Wishing you a Limerick-y Holiday Season...

Five Years. One Original Limerick a Day. Whoop dee fuckin' doo...

Recent events have me considering the idea of constantly traveling with my attorney.

Only I couldn't afford it.

Why? Well, I've alluded to a few things recently but... Would rather not give details. Or I might REALLY need that constant-companion attorney.

Oh, it's all much less exciting than your imagination. And especially less exciting than my own imagination.

I really like the idea of the poet version of Hunter S. Thompson, though...

Laughing at Strangers for No Real Good Reason:

General Hossein Salami.

Good pals with the Earl of Sandwich.


Leonard Dufkis.

A City of Chicago worker tied-in with the current city Scandal O' the Week--and his name tells us exactly how he got the job, too.


To deal with divorce, I've unfettered
my hang-ups--became a go-getter.
But chicks liked by me
do see the Big D
as a modern-day Scarlet Letter.


Wishing you a Limerick-y Holiday Season...

Five Years. One Original Limerick a Day. Whoop dee fuckin' doo...

"Gilligan's Island" was one of the stupidest sitcoms in television history.

Perhaps I exaggerate. It WAS phenomenally stupid, but there is a helluva lot of competition.

Let's try again:

"Gilligan's Island" had one of the most out-of-whack stupidity-to-popularity ratios in the history of television.

There we go.

It's right up there with "Full House."

But, as testimony to the power of "reality" TV, it's been made even stupider.

Never, ever underestimate the power of Hollywood to continually lower the Cultural Common Denominator...

Anna Benson, wife of the New York Mets' Kris Benson, has unleashed some hubbub over comments she made in an interview claiming that all ballplayers cheat, she knows Kris cheats, and she has warned him that he just better not get caught or she'll sleep with the entire team.

When I wrote down a note about this news nugget, I intended to ponder a bit the attitude that "ballplayers/men/people are gonna cheat"--a form of giving up on the romantic notion of love, or a form of realism, depending on your point of view.

But as someone who has never cheated on anybody--not even back in grade school when kid couples were dubbed themselves to be "going out"--I have blathered on the topic before.

But... sleep with the entire team?

That would take a lot of balls.


Talk about takin' one for the team.


I shouldn't have even brought this one up, I suppose.


Mets' Kris Benson's wife has been sayin'
if he's caught with other dames layin'
she'll do the whole team--
spurring dugout dreams--
and then we'll see balls-out ball playin'.


Wishing you a Limerick-y Holiday Season...

Five Years. One Original Limerick a Day. Whoop dee fuckin' doo...

The Target corporation is under fire for banishing the traditional holiday Salvation Army bell ringers from its entranceways.

Members of the media have been pulling punches. It's time somebody said what a lot of us are thinking:

Hooray for Target!

Yeah, yeah, yeah. The money helps the poor and all. But I can't stand the bastards. Oh, some are fine examples of humanity, I suppose. Yet I always seem to run into those pushy asses who make you feel guilty about NOT tossin' something into the pot. Have they heard of the working poor? It's one thing to expect Mr. LivinLarge to ante up to the DID I MENTION THE BELLS ARE ANNOYING? kettle, but oh... And how come we don't hear about the Salvation Army's take on gays more often during this season of jollity? Or about the cases where folks are tossed out on their asses for refusing to Jesus-ify?

The evangelical cat's out of the bag.

Ain't nothin' wrong with dislikin' da Salvation Army.

But I'd rather mix with the Salavation Army...

There's a trend in live shows toward neo-vaudeville. It's been going on for a while.

Last night I hosted a show. Predominantly music, but affected by this trend.

And let me just say this: Hell hath no fury like a juggler scorned...

I love making chicks laugh.

Oh, it's all fine and good when the guys laugh. But last night, a table full of chicks was laughing quite a bit at my humor attempts and it was some of the most satisfying laughter I've felt in a while. It didn't hurt that they were hot. The entire table of 'em.

I know, I know. Freud would have some things to say about this...

I also discovered why I went from being a writer to a now-frequent live performer, even though, after more than a decade at it, I'm convinced I'll never attain the competence behind the mike that I have in front of the keyboard.

It gets me out of the house. Gives me an excuse to actually do something.

And it doesn't hurt that I can say, "I have to go out half of the week! The last thing I want to do on a Saturday night is work--that is, go out."

Such a mystery, isn't it--my problems dippin' the pen into the feminine inkwell?...

How come you never hear, "Is there a poet in the house?"...


[name changed to protect the pathetic]
> i had a feeling you were divorced. i asked CLAMFACE once
> if you were divorced and he did'nt answer me. a while
> ago i noticed the anger towards woman and was curious
> why you were so venomous, but i did have an idea why
> and i was right. why am i telling you this? i don't
> know. i read your limericks everyday.



I try to be tongue in cheek... Oh, do I try for that tongue in cheek... Ahem.

Now, really. I'd like to think of myself as more "bittersweet." I'm attempting not be become pure "bitter," but I have actually behaved far more sweetly than is necessary or practical in the past, and even present, and perhaps I get out some of the aggression here in S&Y. You lucky bastards!

And yes, your opening inference is correct--the Big D has altered the landscape of my life. But this isn't the place for detailed rumination on such trivia. At least until I find a self-serving angle wrapped up in an enigma and fried up in a cheap shot batter.

Oh, boy. Shoulda quit while I was in a stage somewhat resembling "ahead."

Thank you! Good night!



When gifting near strangers our task it

calls for decor on the gift basket

Bush spirit'd seem bolder

if his "gift" to soldiers

included a bow on each casket.



Wishing you a Limerick-y Holiday Season...

Five Years. One Original Limerick a Day. Whoop dee fuckin' doo...

Happy Martin Van Buren's birthday! Don't do anything Martin wouldn't do...

This should have went in to the SPECIAL "PULL-OUT" ERECTION COVERAGE I ran up through the election but... Better late than never, they say. (A maxim created long before S&Y came around to brazenly contradict it on a regular basis.)

I have heard people, or read people (letters to the editor, etc.) explain that they were going to vote for/voted for Bush so "he could straighten out the mess in Iraq."

That's a bit like... Let's say I'm up for a job performance review. And let's say I walked around nude on the job for a week and am now digging my way out of the legal fallout. So I keep my job because since I started it, perhaps I'll be the best at getting out of it.

Get it?

It seemed so much more eloquent earlier today when I first thunk it...

There are some miscellaneous baking goods in my cabinets.

I was combing through them the other night, having run out of acceptable snacking supplies.

There were these candy pearls. Plastered all over the box of the candy pearls were warnings NOT to eat the candy pearls.

Candy you're NOT supposed to eat.

I looked at the ingredients and they were mostly made of sugar. But one of the box warnings went into detail. The decorations have trace amounts of silver, which legally requires the company to identify them as "non-food."

Again--a box of sugary and, might I add, delicious looking cake pearls, and I'm NOT supposed to eat 'em.

Is anybody else out there mysteriously stumbling over life metaphors, by the way?...

Long-time readers (ya' warped bastards) know that I have a Nut Magnet.

Meaning nuts, kooks, whackjobs--whatever you call 'em--they come to me. They interact with me. They are attracted to something about me.

Now, although I may have just called them derogatory names, I nonetheless empathize with the koo-koos. In fact, I enjoy their company. They tend to be non-conformist and nuttiness shares a fuzzy border with spectacular or, dare I say glantamerous intelligence? (There's that word again--banter it about the water cooler; repeat.)

Naturally, the addle-minded community has been well-represented in the Little Black Book of my life as well. And considering I'm now back out in the field, alternately sniffin' around the dames and cowering in fear at their power to humiliate me I came to a realization today.

Just as I enjoy the company of riffraff, I can't be throwin' all the blame to fate for my love life because, well... I kinda like the nutty chicks.

Aw, who'm I kidding?

I love the nutty dames!

Which is even more frightening than the idea of just having a Nut Magnet...

Still often thinking of recent deeds and events and saying to myself, "You're such an idiot/ass" as I go about my daily grind.

Just thought I'd keep you informed on that one...

A reader told me the other day... Wow. That's kinda odd.

As time's wore on, I've actually gotten input, not through e-mail (as most would logically be), but through voice. Interaction. Human comraderie.

Anyway, he was amazed when I said something about Mike, of "Mike's Accurse Verse" er, fame (or something in the genus), telling me he thought Mike was an alter-ego or something.


By the way, I admit overuse of the "hmm" word throughout S&Y history, but this is most certainly a situation calling for "hmm." Although I may be suffering from the "Boy Who Cried 'Hmm'" syndrome.

Anyway... Mike is real. And he's not an alter ego and... Well, I am on one hand flattered, as Mike's work is glantamerous. (Feel free to banter that word about. I think it has potential.) On the other hand... I guess I just find it odd.

Did any other Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers think the same?


Hmm indeed....

Mike himself checks in with this nugget on the subject, which I posited to him:

To all readers who mistake me for John Biederman. Follow these handy steps.

1. Put down the crack pipe.

2. Realize that there is more than just you and one other person in the

world, despite what the melting walls are chanting.

3. Realize that if John "Sloop" Biederman wanted a pen name to hide under,

he'd probably come up with something a lot more elegant than "Michael


4. Realize that John can actually make friends outside of Chicago, me being

one on them.

5. You can start sucking on your pipe again, you friggin' addicts. Please

don't vote next time around.


SUNDAY STORY TIME: Not that there's anything WRONG with that

Not too long ago, I was out with this dame and, during the sparkling conversation, I made some reference to not wanting to be perceived as gay--something about the shirt I was wearing because, after first buying it, I didn't wear it much because I thought it was gay-ish (and I don't buy myself clothes much, but that's another story).

Anyway, it was a joke. But I made another similar joke a little later and she asked me if I had some "problem" with gaiety. (I forget her actual phrasing.) There's usually at least a sliver of truth in jest, blah blah. I of course gave her the general spiel, that I'm all for gay marriage and gay rights and blah blah blah but do enjoy toying with humor that's just a touch offensive but not too much (probably a reaction to living through times of rampant political correctness). And that could indeed explain it.

But I've been wondering lately if it's something more.

Now, don't get any funny ideas. I'm not about to come out of the closet here or anything. But I have noticed, or perhaps re-noticed as I was married for a few years there, that more than a few people seem to entertain the notion that I might be gay. Oh, of course they're generally joking around. But, again, there's the theory of some truth in jest involved--meaning, in this case, that a "sliver" of them is indeed wondering.

So, hey, this has always been a forum for honesty often at my expense (alongside the exaggeration and semi-regular attempts to pump up my veneer of coolness)--so why am I a bit hung-up? Well, number one, I have a theory that all hetero guys are a bit "homophobic" (at least under its maximum P.C. definition). I'll admit that I'm a touch so. At least, I don't want to be perceived as being gay, even if I don't have a problem with actual gay people being gay.

But also... I HAVE had people, whether in jest or not, seem to ponder the idea of me being gay a bit more than I am comfortable with.

Toggle back up a bit and look at the title of this SUNDAY STORY TIME. There. Shouldn't have to say more on that.

I started with a nerdy history as a youth, mixed with shyness, a proclivity toward bookish pursuits and thus some social inadequacy. Since first getting laid, I've went years--literally--without lovin' (and that's naturally accompanied with a lack of dates, girlfriend, etc.). I've even created imaginary girlfriends to tell my parents about (oddly enough, I accidentally named two of them "Kim"). And when I had the ol' drinking problem, I wasn't the "party drunk"--I was the hermit and pass out type.

So although I am the oldest child of my parents and their siblings (they were both eldest children), I was the second-to-last to marry and am now one of the few still without kids. And, now, I'm no longer married.

Adding fuel to the speculative fire, to pay bills, I had a male friend move into my two-bedroom condo. To be honest, I've even went from being in disbelief over the fact that I'm divorced to being more flabbergasted that I ever was actually married.

And it's starting again.

Although it is disturbing to have your sexuality seemingly questioned--again, even if just in jest--in a way it's also a compliment. Rather than being satisfied with the real reason for my state of affairs right off the bat, ala "Of course--he's a putz!" at least people are perhaps wondering "can he really be that much of a putz?"

Not that there's... Well, actually there IS something wrong with being a big ol' putz.






TODAY'S POEM: Maps that map themselves

I'm becoming more and

more the pessimist

with every night.

It's awful.

How do I stop it?

I can't look into my glass

without seeing faces.

Haunted, brambly paths

I never wished

to take.

The eyes make up most

of the ocean. The

lips are sweet

as candy


And her thoughts comprise

a fondue pot, bubbling

hot chocolate,



I think I'm getting on

by getting out. Oh,

it's awful. How

do I stop


Because the air

wets my face,


I'm the horr-

id blade.

Lodestones and keys.

Maps that map themselves.

I love you I love you I love you.

We need to learn

the curve.

[If you'd like to physically thank or berate the poet, e-mail him at b_squirrel@hotmail.com. He won't bite--although he may chew a bit.]



Inviting the Media's stingers

Target Corp. has banished bell ringers.

More shoppers rejoice,

though with public voice

most play "tsk"-ing, "shocked" insult slingers.



Wishing you a Limerick-y Holiday Season...

Five Years. One Original Limerick a Day. Whoop dee fuckin' doo...

The French police, aka gendarmes (my daily pathetic attempt to appear important, interesting and intelligent through knowledge useless outside of a cocktail party) have been, as part of anti-terror training, using actual explosives in drills.

As the events behind this news nugget unfolded, spokespeople frequently mentioned that the explosives, in this case plastic explosives, had no detonator.

When the French police lost a bag of 'em.

So typical of the Europeans. Bashing America at the same time the emulate our example...

Read today that a hip new kids' activity is the "fainting game." (That is, if you can count on mainstream, adult-geared media to clue you in on what's hip.)

From what I can gather in my readings, it involves a wrestling maneuver known as "the sleeper." You get behind the guy/chick, wrap your arm around their neck and push the back of their head forward with your other hand, pressing their chin against your forearm. Cuts off circulation to the head. Causes dizziness and can even cause... Well, they call it "the sleeper."

And the dizziness is a type of high--a pathetically cheap one, but a high nonetheless. Naturally, kids have gotten dizzy from the act, fell and gotten concussions and other sorts of injuries. Enter the hubbub.

So, now are they gonna whack wrestling 'cause it's a "gateway drug"?



Today's sounding of the koo-koo clock comes from PR folk answering my query about the costs of their services. You see, I am writing a grant proposal for a City of Chicago arts program and... Well, I didn't ask for an opinion on the Web site. Unlike the usual case, the Web site doesn't so much exist to promote my "act" or whatever the hell you call it, but my "act," or actual life, more exists to plug the Web site.

No. That's not what I mean. I... Well, you get the idea.

Anyway, what have you to say, oh Sage of the East?

>Your website needs some work, too.  It just rambles from one thought to another.

>I think it needs a good introduction and should be divided into sections or


Just what would you have if we took all the rambling out of this site?



To bad Homeland Security

replaced its big cheese so quickly.

Top cop in France who's

watch saw 'splosives loosed

would fit in harmoniously.



Wishing you a Limerick-y Holiday Season...

Five Years. One Original Limerick a Day. Whoop dee fuckin' doo...

There's a growing trend in television of asking viewers to log online and vote on what the ending of particular show should be.

As Hollywood inches closer every minute to a time where it'll be completely writer-free...

Jesus was snatched from a Nativity scene in downtown Chicago!

Well, actually it was a facsimile of Jesus. (Word is the real J-Man just left Chicago. Bound for New Orleans.)

That's not the strangest thing about this story, however.

Turns out, Baby Jesus is frequently snatched from Nativity scenes. They seem to leave Mary alone--I mean, that would be sacrilege, I guess. And the rest of 'em? Well, poor old Joseph has never caught on so well, perhaps due to the fact that he's known for being divinely, if immaculately, cuckolded, and, really, if you're gonna steal a figure from a nativity scene, taking a Wise Man is hella-lame.

Rampant Jesus theft is STILL not the strangest thing about the tale.

In reading a run-down of local Jesus thefts, I discovered that one guy was caught when he brought lil' J.C. to his local Appleby's.

I don't exactly identify myself as a Christian, despite the disturbing level of Christmas Spirit I exhibit each December. But I'm not necessarily offended, regardless of the J-Man's real role in the scheme of things, by his likeness being stolen.

But couldn't you take him somewhere, ANYWHERE, for tater skins and a beer besides Appleby's?...

In giving Burl Ives' "Silver and Gold" a close listen-to last night, I realized it's a capitalistically piggish song.

"Silver and Gold, Silver and Gold, everyone wishes for Silver and Gold..." I always figured that line was followed up with something... Well, something about how life, and Christmas, is about so much more.

The tune doesn't get very deep on the subject, but it does relate the singer's delight in seeing silver and gold on every Christmas tree.

And that's about it.

Okay. So it's not really capitalistically piggish. It's not necessarily PRO silver and gold as much as it is... Observational. Ala, "Ever notice that everyone wishes for silver and gold? What's the deal with that?"

It does have a sad tone to it, however. Perhaps written by someone who came home with a bronze...

I now have evidence that I'm making progress recovering from my "attempt at making life a romantic comedy gone horribly, terribly wrong."

Today, upon the first instance of thinking about "events" and calling myself an idiot, I noted that this instance came later than is typical. Therefore, I decided to keep track.

I still have some waking hours left, but four instances as of this writing seems pretty mild.


There has most certainly never been a day of singlehood lacking at least one...

Women have "I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar."

Hmmm. Seems a bit dated.

Women have Alanis Morissette's, "You Oughta Know"... Hmm. Women have No Doubt's "I'm Just a Girl."

Okay, women have, "I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar," but what do us guys have for empowerment and all? Especially after mistreatment at the hands of the allegedly "fair" sex?

I'll tell you what we have. We have Johnny Cash's "Understand Your Man."

And it perfectly relates my divorce experience.

Except I didn't leave with only what I could carry on my back.

And there's a line about giving all one's stuff to the Salvation Army, which doesn't relate.

And, well, the general tone connotes a guy just upping and leaving one day.

Well, the refrain is suiting, anyway...

Laughing at Strangers for No Real Good Reason:

Bonnie Swerringen.

A Republican pol and avowed fan of Barack Obama--so will she be there at the ceremony holding the Bible?


Robert Lichteneckar.

All is fair in the backseat of a car...

Damn, was this a lame edition of LASFNRGR.



Now "Gilligan's Island" has stood

time's test--so dumb, who'd think they could

make it any dumber?

"Reality"'s numb-er

proves true magic of Hollywood!



Wishing you a Limerick-y Holiday Season...

Five Years. One Original Limerick a Day. Whoop dee fuckin' doo...

Hardee's has come out with a new "Monster Thickburger." They brag about its being heftier than either a Big Mac or even a Double Whopper.

And, of COURSE, there's freakin' hubbub from the crowd seeking to get government and everybody else to protect us from ourselves.

Naturally, I applaud Hardee's.

And as long as they're showing the rare guts to give us the political incorrectness we so badly crave, I say they get Kirstie Ally as a spokesperson for it...

From the, well, the radio listings today (yes, they do still have 'em in some locales):

"Cialis presents the Seattle Symphony."

Ahem... C'mon, people!... They've traveled a LONG way to play for you... Have you no decency--this is a goddamned concert hall!...

You may recall, a ways back, I marveled at the inanity of a "comic" strip called "Sof' Boy" that ran locally in the Chicago Reader.

I've been monitoring. Haven't seen "Sof' Boy" therein since.

Could it be?... Nah.

Could it?... Nah.

Then how come it hasn't worked with Nickelodeon re-running "Full House"? Or the mere existence of "reality" TV? Or... (For more examples, see "Slappin' and Yappin'," 2000-2004)...

This thought was inspired by a poem sent to me by none other than Mike Chmi...than Mike Chmiele... Than Mike, of "Mike's Accursed Verse," er, "fame":

Why can't us poets get nude models?

I write limericks for Chrissakes. I could use a nude model!...

Laughing at Strangers for No Real Good Reason:

Ernest M. Whiteman III (actually, a Native American of the Northern Arapaho tribe).

Probably goes right to the top of any resume pile.



>Hey Venomous,

>Yes, I e-mailed you through the web site.

>Are you still smoking the old stogies?

>where are you working now?

>You should go down and live in Mexico for a while. I think you need the break. Or >you can join the Army like me LOL.

>How many visitors do you get a day on your web site?

Answers, in order:


I try to smoke new ones, but the cheap ones aren't always fresh.

Wherever they're watching me.

Mexico? Hmm. Army? Double-hmmm. How 'bout the Mexican army?

Haven't figured out how to monitor that yet.

(Scintillating, isn't it?)

But my Army, er, contingent shows that I should have a USO show...

By the way, I don't mind the nickname "venomous" so much.



Nativity scenes bring a catch--

look out, or babe Jesus is snatched!

Thieves find the endeavor

uncommonly clever

but each year, scheme's multiply hatched.



Wishing you a Limerick-y Holiday Season...

Five Years. One Original Limerick a Day. Whoop dee fuckin' doo...

So Dubya is calling on all of us to do something to help military families. Open our homes, donate time and money. What have you.

Perhaps I should try this technique:

I'm calling on each and every one of you Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers to write a nugget for S&Y on a daily basis...

Donald Trump has a cologne out. Reportedly, its release brought record crowds to Chicago's Marshall Field's store.

Trump? Cologne?

Guys, guys, guys. There's only one thing they could possibly bottle about the Trump mystique that attracts the ladies--everything else about him, in fact, actually works against you.

So unless that cologne smells like money...

Some Chicago-area Catholic order is building a memorial to sexual abuse victims.

In keeping with the overall technique of first buying the most exquisite of stained glass in order to feed the poor...

I scan over newspaper advice columns regularly to... Well, to keep up my pessimism toward the future of the human race, I guess. That and because I pretty much skim everything in the newspaper.

Anyway, today I noted a columnist advising an idiot to get pre-divorce marriage counseling. Not to save the marriage--but to make the divorce go smoothly.

How long are advice columnists going to pretend they're anything other than an elaborate counseling industry scam?...

The lyrics to "Winter Wonderland" fit nicely into a limerick rhyme scheme, for anybody interested...

Pulling up the ol' S&Y psychiatric couch, I'm announcing the return to my life of The Song.

Yup. Used to have a Song all the time, years back.

It works like this:

I pick a song from my collection to be a theme, of sorts, in keeping with the general events in my life. Then, I try to play the song at "key" times--before leaving the house in the morning, after returning from work, before any "planned encounters," pre-bedtime, etc. There is no time limit on a Song's run; as life events change, or I just get sick of it, so does The Song.

I was actually doing this before I realized I was doing it again. It started with Kiss' "Doctor Love." (I was in a much more optimistic mood, then, concerning my life-as-romantic-comedy philosophy since gone hideously, preternaturally wrong.)

Now, it's Johnny Cash's "Understand Your Man." Relating to the Big D and perhaps telling somebody off at some point (which is ridiculously unlikely). Or at least using the "Meditate on it" line.

However, in taking the Walk Down Memory Lane accompanying The Song's return (it's been many moons since it was last utilized), I struggle to remember an instance where it actually, well, worked. Oh, it improves my mood, I suppose, but concerning tangible results, well... But since I'm resurrecting it anyway, it kinda makes me wonder why I wasn't approached for the Dept. of Homeland Security opening...

Laughing at Strangers for No Real Good Reason:

Richard Baldi.

Known for wiggin' out.


Lionel Brazen.

Don't ask him for gossip--he certainly don't have the subtlebutt.



DAILY LIMERICK 12/10/2004:

Gloria Estefan's the latest

Big Star to pen children's book pages.

Our Great U.S. Novelin's

now more celeb grovelin'

and Lit'rature's lost to the ages.


SLAPPIN' AND YAPPIN' 12/10/2004:

Wishing you a Limerick-y Holiday Season...

Five Years. One Original Limerick a Day. Whoop dee fuckin' doo...

The day after Bush urges each of us to do something to help military personnel and their families, a report surfaces with news that Iraq II war veterans are already turning up homeless.

See? We really have to get our acts together, citizens, while the president works on the truly pressing matters--we're two months from the Super Bowl and the threat of Nipples of Mass Destruction ominously beckons...

So Nick what's-his-face and Jessica Simpson have broken up, jeopardizing their one-joke "reality" hit.

So Hollywood execs, naturally, are... Giving NICK his own show.

Ol' Boy Band Balls. The one without the talent (or at least the amusing level of stupidity).

Have we learned nothing from Sonny & Cher? Isn't it best to just let Nick quietly exit show biz, thereby more quickly finding his true path serving a greater cause... Like Disney?...


I am a big fan of En-Cor frozen dinners. Salisbury steaks? Glantamerous! Their new entree-with-a-side-dish offerings? Fan-fucking-tastic!

But their new "Sonora-Style Enchiladas"?

Music may in fact be the fuel of love, but not THAT music...

At first, I thought I'd stumbled into an isolated incident or two but... What compels wannabe rappers to recite their raps aloud--emphasis on the "loud"--in public, especially on public transportation?


Have a stumbled upon the real reason so many of 'em carry guns?...

Speaking of riffraff... Is it just Chicago, or is Popeye's Chicken a riffraff shelter nationally?...

I'm always hearing a certain descriptor when I wear one of my favorite shirt styles, so I just hafta ask:

Is there even such thing as a NON-mock turtleneck? And, if so, what the hell does THAT look like?...

My little habit of self-name-calling, which usually kicks in when I'm recalling recent words and actions of my "romantic" life, proves just how multicultural and diversity lovin' DL really is.

The other night, waiting for a bus in a Puerto Rican neighborhood, taking in the Spanish-language signs, without even putting thought into it I addressed myself as "idiota"...

And for those of you who think the self-deprecating humor of S&Y can wax a little TOO cruel (seems to be mostly, but not only, a "chick thing")... I fully realize that, given time, I'll get over my recent attempt at living a romantic comedy gone horribly, harrowingly wrong.

Just so you know: Deep down, I DO realize that, in seemingly no time, there will be new faces and new memories to prompt my mumblings of "you're such an ass"...


DAILY LIMERICK 12/11/2004:

So Don Trump's got a new cologne

misguided go-getters now own.

But, guys, Don's hot chicks

aren't from scents or tricks--

it's money, and money alone.


SLAPPIN' AND YAPPIN' 12/11/2004:

Wishing you a Limerick-y Holiday Season...

Five Years. One Original Limerick a Day. Whoop dee fuckin' doo...

Chicago sports radio personality Mike North initiated a "cigarette collection drive" for U.S. soldiers in Iraq.

Many, many soldiers will be made ridiculously happy by this drive.

But some lung association do-gooder(s) are all pissy about it.

Of COURSE they are.

I've prattled on more than enough in DL/S&Y over smoking and Those Who Would Protect Us From Ourselves. So I am hestitant to prattle too much further.

But I wanted to throw a big "hooray!" out to Mr. North.

Maybe soldiers can institute a "butt collection drive" for Mr. Poopy Pants at the lung association...

One of my nonprofit gigs had a Holiday Potluck thingy yesterday and I attended festooned with a Santa hat and even a Christmasy themed Peanuts shirt.

In the hallway, a woman, er, complimented me, I think, by saying I looked "good but strange."

You've undoubtedly heard before of the "Underhanded Compliment."

I guess this is an example of the new and improved "back-handed" variety...

The other night night I was hosting this music show at a venue that's... Well, let's just say it's not known for a hip and/or upscale crowd.

A woman rushed the stage multiple times--not out of adulation over the performer thereon, but out of a strange mix of intoxication, insanity and a desire to sing into the microphone.

Before she was ultimately tossed out of the establishment, she guerilla-kissed me. Twice.

I'm not including this nugget to make myself appear deceptively cool and/or studly.

Well, maybe just a LITTLE bit.

But it brings to mind an interesting dilemma for... Well, she was damn attractive.

So the angel and the devil appeared on their respective shoulders when... Let's face it. The devil shouldn't even have a forum, considering.

But I did briefly wonder if I'd be up for guarding possessions and fragile items around the house should I decide to... Ahem.

Of COURSE I let the angel win!

But life did throw me its own back-handed compliment. Wanting to kiss little old me, evidently, may indeed be a sign that you should be thrown out of an establishment before you become a greater danger.



Do-gooders wish Mike North would shelve

his smoke drive for those 'mid war's hell.

For Chi-Town Deejay

the soldiers cry, "Yay!"

but some'd protect us from ourselves.


SLAPPIN' AND YAPPIN' 12/12/2004:

Wishing you a Limerick-y Holiday Season...

Five Years. One Original Limerick a Day. Whoop dee fuckin' doo...

Do they sell boxers with the ol' Charlie Brown stripe on 'em?

Yeah. Just what I need. More o' that kinda symbolism, yeah, sure...

DL/S&Y has a long history of publishing an Extra Cheezy Saturday Edition but... Well since goin' Web, we've been a bit off kilter. So take today's Cheezy Sunday Edition and be happy, ya' squatknucklers...

I have some words to explain. Yell from a mountaintop. What have you.

I believe they fit perfectly with my Romantic Comedy Gone Horribly, Terribly Wrong:

"Neuter me, and make me the happiest man on earth!"...

SUNDAY STORY TIME: Sunday Story Time has a goiter. It will return as regularly scheduled Dec. 19.






TODAY'S POEM: Mike's Accursed Verse has the gout. It will return as regularly scheduled Dec. 19.

[If you'd like to physically thank or berate the poet, e-mail him at b_squirrel@hotmail.com. He won't bite--although he may chew a bit.]


DAILY LIMERICK 12/13/2004:

Monster Thickburger I like lotsy

but Hardee's has irked the Health Nazis

'cause many are fat--

(but) they're not forcin' that

so do-gooders, new hobby: Yahtzee.


SLAPPIN' AND YAPPIN' 12/13/2004:

Wishing you a Limerick-y Holiday Season...

Five Years. One Original Limerick a Day. Whoop dee fuckin' doo...

Although I'm far from an expert on punk, I do know that The Pixies were (and still are) a seminal force in the movement. You can't take that away from them...can you?

Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't even consider that a valid question--much less one that I would ask. But they were actually featured yesterday in the Bible of Celebrity Worship/Lower the Common Denominator Journalism, USA Weekend.

So pardon me if I'm a bit boggled today. My mind's blueprint of reality seems to have suffered a rip. It's like seeing an ice cube on fire or something...

CAUTION: Do not read today's last nugget unless you are in the mood for a bittersweet, slice-of-life vignette.

So me and a couple of friend/cohorts put on this playlette Saturday night. (Length-wise, somewhere between a sketch and a play.) It's a sort of genre with me--the "Peanuts" gang all grown up, experiencing grown-up trials and tribulations, wherein I play Charlie Brown.

This all began, oh, 8 years ago or so. A woman sorta dumped me, I imagined a grown-up Charlie Brown at Lucy's psych booth saying, "Why can't I have a normal summer fling like everybody else?"--and I wrote a sketch around that, gathered some friends and put it on at an open mike.

It went over quite well, we were asked to do it at some other shows and the sketches became a regular "thing." They're often done around holidays, as is the nature of "Peanuts," and they often have a good dose of real events from my life written into them as, well, I write them. I try not to be too self-indulgent and I avoid real details while relating more or less real situations. Universal situations--woman goes gaga for guy; guy goes gaga back; woman changes her mind right away. Etc.

It's been a rough couple of weeks. I was asked to do a "Peanuts play" for a holiday party and at first I balked. It has been almost a tradition, and a couple weeks before the party I thought "what the hell?" so we threw one together. As it worked out, I was overburdened with slotted performances over those two weeks--but, after the playlette, have none until after the holidays, at least at this point. So it was like an artistic adrenaline rush to this climax and... Anyway, afterward, I was waiting for the bus.

I was at Clark Street and Irving Park Road in Chicago. Waiting for the southbound Clark bus. And it seemed to be taking an awfully long time.

This took me back (fuzzy up your mental lens now)... Waiting for the Clark bus at Clark and Irving shortly after performing the very first Peanuts play. Seemed to be taking an awfully long time. Had just thrown my artistic all into a play, providing an emotional outlet and the pathetic ever-so-slight hope that the silly playlette could knock her deeply in love with me.

At the same time, beginning to phase back into reality; realizing that the little bit me and she shared is most certainly over. Strangely, however, feeling something besides sadness. Oh, there was a tinge of sadness, but there was also a surge of hope. A revelation that all somehow felt right in the universe, despite my mortal snivelings.

Summer, 1996. December, 2004.

Quite a corner, that Clark Street and Irving Park Road.


DAILY LIMERICK 12/14/2004:

With Bush, War Pres., think you could bet

for soldiers, 'twas good as it gets.

Though world's better place

it's just not the case

for first Iraq II homeless vets.


SLAPPIN' AND YAPPIN' 12/14/2004:

Wishing you a Limerick-y Holiday Season...

Five Years. One Original Limerick a Day. Whoop dee fuckin' doo...

Much ballyhoo is emerging over a new Motley Crue reunion and... Ahem.

Half of you guys never even fucking went away. I promise, cross my heart and hope to die, that I'll celebrate, get tickets, whatever--even though I never liked you hacks to begin with--if only you really, truly go away for a while first--no sex videos, nothin'...

Speaking of steaming piles of '80s cultural feces that should just go forever away, I understand the weepy holiday song "Do they know its Christmas?" a group effort by some of the '80s Finest Pap Artists (not a typo), has been re-released.

And here's an event which has me theorizing that the Lowest Common Denominator is not necessarily constantly growing lower, but perhaps has always been snake-belly-in-a-wheel-rut low:

The re-release is selling like Viagra at a congressional holiday party.

BUT this time around, relief organizations and such are giving the tune a long deserved ripping over its general lame-ity, especially its lyrics. (There IS snow in Africa being but one of many critiques leveled.)

So retro has a...GOOD side?

I... I... Ieeeiieeee.

I have to go take a shower; something of some sort needs to be washed off of me...

At one point in my single past, I embarked on a period of "Lookin' for Trouble."

I decided that, since I was continually stumbling into trouble anyway, despite actually steering away from the Big T, perhaps if I pursued it, I would eventually end up stumbling into... I don't know. The Good Life.


Anyway, in the spirit of my recent tendency to go retro with my own history--especially as it concerns unsuccessful whackitudisms--I've decided I should be "Lookin' for Trouble" at this very point in life.

Only, well, there's a disclaimer or two in order here. First, my version of "Lookin' for Trouble," well... Let's just say it doesn't usually make for good music video material. Sometimes, yes. But not usually. Secondly, this "trouble" of which I speak pertains almost exclusively to the opposite sex, specifically those members of said sex who I find attractive. And, as a rule, regards only those who also find me attractive, at least enough to engage some level of flirtation--and, I'll further note that those who find me attractive tend to be overwhelmingly looped-out-of-their-skull nutty.

I don't know if I forgot my point here, or if I never had one to begin with, but there you go, squat-tugs...

Just a depressing thought, 'cause we're so short of 'em these days:

Chicks who treat guys bad have a greater chance of living eternally through literature.

Discuss and explain.

Aw, who'm I kiddin'?

Ass Pipers...



> I love today's Slappin' and Yappin'.

>[Obviously, the chowderhead...er, the letter writer refers to yesterday's edition.]

> Very heartfelt and true. We all have

> that corner, once we're ready to find it. I sound all new-agey, so feel free

> to empty a shotgun into my brains. But still -- I think hope is the one

> thing that keeps us going when life has turned to shit.

All right. As long as we're gettin' weird... I just re-read the piece.

You know, in writing it, well... It actually depressed me more to write it.

But in re-reading it now (and I rarely re-read S&Y), it sorta inspired me.

Who'm I callin' ratloaf, squat-tug and ass piper?


DAILY LIMERICK 12/15/2004:

Now, sculptors and painters we coddle

but artists, like poets, we'd throttle.

I'll make you a deal:

'Bout this I won't squeal

if you'll just allow us nude models.


SLAPPIN' AND YAPPIN' 12/15/2004:

Wishing you a Limerick-y Holiday Season...

Five Years. One Original Limerick a Day. Whoop dee fuckin' doo...

Now there seems to be a gathering movement convinced that, at its current pace, the Iraq Quagmire will spawn a "New Hitler" (much to the delight of future History Channel programmers). Among other data, members of this movement cite the defeated/wanna-prove-themselves attitude of the German citizenry following World War I paving the way for a nutrod to come in and rile everybody up.

I must confess to something. I'm not sure there's actually a "movement" involved here. In fact, as far as I know there's no movement. I'll admit I'm unsure as to how many members are needed for form a "movement" proper, but I tend to believe it takes more than one man--especially in a case like this, denying that the world is a better place without Saddam Hussein.

And come to think of it, damn it, what does he know about the situation? Damn President of Iraq, Ghazi al-Yawer...

The census bureau tells us that 26 percent of us were living alone in our households in 2003--up from 17 percent in 1970.

It's funny how, the more people there are, the lonelier things get.

When I go up to a family home in Michigan's Upper Peninsula, people FIND me. They stop by to see who's at the Biederman Camp. (They call homes "camps" up there.)

People die in city apartments and nobody freakin' knows until the rotting smell bugs the neighbors.

And take a look at the most populated areas on earth--for example, the Mid East. Not the finest example of camaraderie in action.

And of course, the world isn't gonna grow anything BUT more populous.


Upbeat Christmas sermon, take two...

Chicago Transit Authority public buses talk to you. Well, not specifically to you, loon-job, but they address the riders collectively. Calling out the names of stops, making announcements discouraging "smoking, littering, loud radio playing," etc. There's a newer one prompting riders to watch out for possible terrorist activity, although I don't think they use the T-Word.

Well, this announces a list of things to look out for, "unattended packages" and the like. It also advises riders to be alert and/or notify authorities "if you see someone acting suspiciously."

Now, if I were on a public bus or train and did NOT observe at least one joker acting suspiciously, I would most certainly notify the authorities--perhaps even breaking out the duct tape and plastic sheeting...

Somebody the other day asked if I was "still seeing" this chick I never really was seeing but who... Oh, spurred a Seinfeldian romantic disaster of sorts, but details aren't important.

I was, however, advised by this person to "Be Careful--there are a lot of nuts out there."

And if you remember anything, anything at all, about Tales from the S&Y Psychiatry Couch (again, a separate entity from the S&Y Casting Couch), you know that's a bit like giving reptile advice to the Crocodile Hunter...


So you're desperately scrounging for snacks and you stumble across some graham crackers--which are okay but need a little...something.

Are there cake-making goods around? If so, squirt some frosting onto those graham crackers and...mmm. So good!

Ingenuity is the mother of stomach-tweaking snacking, they say.

Well, perhaps they don't. But I do.


DAILY LIMERICK 12/16/2004:

Fella who was mainlining Mylanta

wanted mid-life crisis fix from Santa.

At the mall, copped a lap

asked for sports cars and crap--

for the mistress, a pair of implantas.


SLAPPIN' AND YAPPIN' 12/16/2004:

Wishing you a Limerick-y Holiday Season...

Five Years. One Original Limerick a Day. Whoop dee fuckin' doo...

Due to fewer and fewer volunteers over the years, the Salvation Army is planning to introduce mechanical bell ringers.

Because, of course, the average Salvation Army victim...er, giver does so not out of anything like, oh, that overwhelming glare, and sometimes banter, of guilt from a human source...

Somehow, I don't picture much geekitude on the romance scene throughout most of history.

Seems to me, people just banged. And they mostly didn't know about birth control or syphilis, so Brutus banged Corinthio's wife and it would bring a child, while ol' Tyrus would die of the clap for bangin' Slutolia, and nobody would much understand exactly what happened nor their actions' role in the matters.

In other words, when one could argue that the world needed populatin', people just banged away. Oh, there was the occasional guy they'd dub "light in the loafers," or the shy-as-shit librarian, but they were rarities.

We got a lot of geeks and nerds and Melvins and what-have-yous these days. That is, guys and some gals who're just too big a doofus to land the ol' Tantric Tango with any degree of regularity.

There are even varying levels of geekitude these days. I'm a personal example. I frequently encounter some clod who actually makes me feel studly, but I've been known to wax pretty darn pathetic myself. And I've lived the Total Dweeb life in all its glory, up until about halfway through high school, so I feel your pain--and even bite my lip when telling you about it.

Anyhow, my theory is that geekitude is one of nature's tools--a balancing factor for humanity, absent many of the population controls operative in most species. As we get more and more populated, geekitude will only increase.

Sheesh. Am I becoming Nostradamus' pessimistic, sleaze-ball great-great grandson, or what?...

I've mentioned in this space before that I have a Popeye-esque thing workin' these days, whereby I walk around mumbling, although I keep it in my head 99.8 percent of the time. I'm mostly calling people names, "sliploaf" and "screwtoad" and "stump-pump" and such, or more specific slurs, such as "old bag" and "fat boy."

I've been through some heavy shit lately, Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers, and I have my bitter days. Made all the more ironic by the Santa hat I've made regular as of late--it's one warm hat, you know--and near-omnipresent-in-the-outdoors stogie.

I'll have you know, however, that my spirits are in damn good shape, all things considered. As a friend of mine said, "You sure have a right to be bitter, but you're not." There are bad days, as I said, but... Well, I'm generally an optimistic.

But today, amid my mumblings, I found myself cursing attractive babes! And not for doing anything--usually a mumble curse requires you to be walking real slow, or not paying attention to where you're going amid a cell conversation, or cutting me off, or...something. But today, oh today, I was just yelling...in my head anyway. "Bitch!" "Whore!"

I can handle the idea of workin' a bit bitter here and there. But I didn't intend to turn into a rapper or somethin'.


DAILY LIMERICK 12/17/2004:

So now Motley Crue is reuniting

and I guess we're to find this exciting

but for these things to play

you should first GO AWAY

(one of many reasons I ain't biting).


SLAPPIN' AND YAPPIN' 12/17/2004:

Wishing you a Limerick-y Holiday Season...

Five Years. One Original Limerick a Day. Whoop dee fuckin' doo...

President Bush, addressing a prominent complaint against his administration--and one leveled almost as much by "conservatives" as "liberals"--as "easy to solve":

"People can buy more United States products if they're worried about the trade deficit."


If you're gonna promote this "do-it-yourself" presidency, Georgie, why not just step down and let the country run itself?...

Illinois' governor, Gov. Idiot for short, is leading a push to impose penalties as severe as prison time for those caught selling adult-rated videogames to minors.

The more things change, the more politicians find new, hubbub-generating, pedantic non-issues to divert attention from their utter incompetence solving real problems and incredible thirst for deceptive self-benefit...

Jacob McGrail, a burglar in Northwest suburban Chicago, was busted for robbing a home for one hell of a take: cigarettes, prescription drugs and a hamster.

Hell. Throw in a box of those new Fiesta Fruity Pebbles and it beats any New Year's Eve plans I've line up...

Today I saw a reference to the, er...interesting peccadillo known as the "pirate fetish."

Of course this couldn't make the rounds 20 years ago, when I worked at Long John Silver's and REALLY, TRULY needed any leverage I could get...

An update on the overwhelming power of Slappin' and Yappin':

It was last reported here that, after S&Y pointed out that a comic strip of the Chicago Reader (and possibly syndicated nationwide) was too hellalame to possess any value, the piece-of-crap-masquerading-as-something-resembling-a-comic "Sof' boy" disappeared from the Reader's pages.

Well, it did go away for a while. But it's back in this Friday's edition.

They found it for a while. But evidently the publication's overall sense of humor and/or all that is right and good in the world is once again missing...

Hey, you don't expect a manifesto every day, do you?

Saw a woman wearing a button reading "DL" in line at the grocery store tonight.

Don't know what it stands for.

But it's gotta be... YOU know.

What else could inspire a level of passion causing one to festoon their body with the ultimate token of appreciation, a cheap ass tin/plastic pin-on button?


DAILY LIMERICK 12/18/2004:

Now girl elves get bored quickly, like pups

so when they've sipped from their eggnog cups

and they moan and they yap

Santa says, "Hit my lap

and I'm sure something fun will pop up."


SLAPPIN' AND YAPPIN' 12/18/2004:

Wishing you a Limerick-y Holiday Season...

Five Years. One Original Limerick a Day. Whoop dee fuckin' doo...

Patience, Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers! We're attempting to seg back into traditional Extra Cheezy Saturday Editions...

A group of First Amendment-confused nutjobs known as the Parents Television Council periodically surveys references to God on TV--because, of course, the proper place for religion is the "reality"-laden public airwaves--and they have a new one out.

Since the last in 1997, references to the G-Man are WAY up.

Their hissy fit--and you know one was comin'--concerns the manner of mentioning the Biggest Cheeze of All.

According to the hobby-challenged group, most references are "negative."

Naturally, peabrains like these folks don't get the idea of "subjective"--there's one definition for "positive" and "negative" and it comes from... Oh, a bunch of ancients with serious trouble getting laid who altered their view of reality to allow them "eternal paradise" once they made it through their frustrated lives.

So, once and for all, study this, take notes, do what you have to do:

A "positive" God is careful to punish and/or smite anybody referring to Him/Her without a crippling tone of reverence.

A "negative" God, apparently, has at least a minimal sense of humor.

It's a good thing these folks are a'feared of book-learnin' (beyond the one book their minister reads FOR them). They'd probably take Orwell's "1984" and call it the Third Testament.



'Round Christmas, chicks gather in groups

dishing "what will guys get us?" poop

but one gift's right here

to spread Christmas cheer--

help yourself to "Tickle Me Sloop"!


SLAPPIN' AND YAPPIN' 12/19/2004:

Wishing you a Limerick-y Holiday Season...

Five Years. One Original Limerick a Day. Whoop dee fuckin' doo...

So Michael Jackson threw a kids' Christmas party at Neverland.


Credit for this boldness, and that of R. Kelly, goes to Mr. O.J. Simpson.

But I'm sure Michael only put on the bash as a way of luring the REAL molester...

The city of San Antonio is requiring strippers to wear permits.

Supposedly, this is a way of preventing stripper prostitution by... by... er, getting in the way of the ol' love tunnel?



I'm not sure exactly what you call this recent trend of bothering what they now call the "sex industry"--but thanks, FCC, for paving the way.

Perhaps... "Sexual hang-up harassment?"...


Did I tell you about the recent show I did where I ended up singing the John Lennon "War is Over" song onstage with Danny Donuts, the Little Folk-Singer-Haired Girl and others--and that it made me all misty?

Yup. I did. Can't say it enough.

Just trying to cultivate SOME warm memories from the last six months. And, boy, am I looking forward to a new freakin' year! Four footballs yanked away from me, just yesterday alone and... Oh, did you notice I pulled up the S&Y Psychiatric Couch?

Anyhow, at the same show, the Little Folk-Singer-Haired Girl and the Little Madonna-Etc.-Haired Girl introduced me by singing "Hang On Sloopy."


S&Y sometimes serves as a way of getting things out, writing-wise. Done on a self-imposed deadline, sometimes I'll take something I especially liked from here and cull it into a special joke, anecdote or even story for future performing or other use.

Here's the edited version of this one, for cocktail parties and such:

I was serenaded once by two chicks.


MIKE'S ACCURSED VERSE 12/19/2004--100 Percent Gout-Free Again!:




TODAY'S POEM: Poem to the pyre

No longer her protecting bough,

I became her fuel (unknown to me!)

I thought I was all rotten timber,

But she found new saplings nearly green.

She left me warnings written in smoke

And unread apologies split by flame.

I guess she thought she was the witch;

Yet I was the one marking circles and seeds.

[If you'd like to physically thank or berate the poet, e-mail him at b_squirrel@hotmail.com. He won't bite--although he may chew a bit.]


DAILY LIMERICK 12/20/2004:

A sad elf, working the late shift

found his spirits given a lift

when hot elf intern

came to him to learn

and he unwrapped her like a gift.


SLAPPIN' AND YAPPIN' 12/20/2004:

Wishing you a Limerick-y Holiday Season...

Five Years. One Original Limerick a Day. Whoop dee fuckin' doo...

Happy Birthday to Mike Chmielecki, of "Mike's Accursed Verse" fame! Send 'em an e-mail to let 'em know that you don't care!...

Pet calendars are now outselling chickie pin-up calendars.

Partly explaining the good fortune of Pfizer...

Yesterday's USA Weekend carried the partial headline:

"What Your New Calendar Choice Says About You."

What investigative journalism! I can only guess at the secrets uncovered--and, mind you, these may be wild and speculative:

If you buy a cat calendar...you just may like cats; if you buy a "Simpsons" calendar, dare I say... You just may LIKE "THE SIMPSONS"?...

Saw an ad for a book on the train yesterday, with a quote plug from somebody hyped as a "Celebrity Guest Commentator, 'VH-1 Behind the Music,' 'E! Hollywood Story.'"

So, not only have we entered the age of being a celebrity for being a celebrity, now... Gigs that normally require credentials are their own credentials?...

Is this thing on?...

I thought of a good way for Slapper Yapper Grasshoopers to remember that the Web site is a ".net" and not a ".com.":

Think fishNETs.

For what it's worth. If anything...

Last night, at a music show, I saw a bunch of women who... Looked familiar, but I couldn't place any of them.

Now, I came up with this concept some time ago, but couldn't define it, so maybe this is the elusive... Vuja de?...

Laughing at Strangers for No Real Good Reason:

Jack Weekly.

If I were that infrequent, I'd most certainly be in prison about now.


DAILY LIMERICK 12/21/2004:

The dec'rating party was brimmin'

with all sorts of hippie-like women

and those in the know

who worked mistletoe

say more than the tree needed trimmin'.


SLAPPIN' AND YAPPIN' 12/21/2004:

Wishing you a Limerick-y Holiday Season...

Five Years. One Original Limerick a Day. Whoop dee fuckin' doo...

MTV's 1,000th broadcast outlet is set to debut in Africa.

Well, I suppose the first step toward enjoying the fruits of the modern age is dumbing down the populace...

'Zines still exist.


I was flabbergasted to discover this, too.

I suppose they fill some sort of niche. Those who enjoy the pathetic quality of the average blog but just wish they were a wee bit less in touch...

None other than Chicago's own stellar guitarist, the Wandering Endorphin, assumed during a conversation at a show recently that I made my living off Daily Limerick.

What? You want TWO punchlines?...

Of course, I'm a bit stoked to hear of Mr. Endorphin's misguided supposition.

If I didn't have misinformation with a grain of truth to twist, I'd have no reputation at all...

I may have a stalker. I won't go into details--as usual, to protect the far-from innocent.

Naturally, I'm talking some liberties with the word "stalker."

I have waxed about my desire to have kinder, gentler stalkers in my life in this space on more than one occasion.

But considering the time of year and all: Does etiquette demand that I get her a gift?...

Laughing at Strangers for No Real Good Reason:

Thomas Gaunt.

He's got the skinny.


DAILY LIMERICK 12/22/2004:

The problem with a beard of white

for Santa, post-Christmas Eve night

is marital sins

can't hide from his chin--

strange pubes stick out like neon lights!


SLAPPIN' AND YAPPIN' 12/22/2004:

Wishing you a Limerick-y Holiday Season...

Five Years. One Original Limerick a Day. Whoop dee fuckin' doo...

So, despite my beginning of the Christmas Season announcement--coming the day after Thanksgiving, by the way, as the non-blasphemous observe--I have ended up doing mostly Christmas-themed limericks anyway.

Hey--it's about artistic freedom. Badly needed in the increasingly corporatized Limerick Community...

Wolfgang Puck, he of the Godawful travesty of culinary justice known as "California-style" pizza, has actually come up with a useful invention.

Electronics designed under the rubrick of "convenience" that only serve to make sure you never "get away," crust-less peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, anti-erection drugs, continually shrinking cell phones despite the fact that you can accidentally swallow one already--I didn't think the Human Race had any more useful-without-an-asterisk inventions left in it!

Well, Wolfie's coming out with a portable, disposable coffee cup that keeps your coffee hot via a mini-container of hot water inside.

As someone who's obsessive over a constantly hot cup of coffee--microwavin' it left and right, even when fresh brewed--I applaud.

This renews my faith in humanity!

Until I turn on the TV, or look at a newspaper, or walk outside and see people engaged in their everyday loves, or...

...Or, well, I read about the latest annual Gallup poll having people rank the professions based on "honesty and ethics" and learn that, although I expected journalists to be low on the totem poll, broadcast journalists are actually more respected than print journalists!

Does anybody else remember how much of the 1950's-era science fiction predicted human beings evolving into these being with gargantuan brains and frail little bodies?

Well, that certainly don't look like it's going to happen, and that's the best silver lining I can give ya' on this one...

Kudos to the Italians!

Just read today that, although Italy is the next European country set to ban smoking, on account of the astrology-based studies on "secondhand smoke," in those havens of health known as bars, Italians are already notorious for ignoring "non-smoking" signs and authorities are expecting major hubbub.

Wow! For a people known for lovin' their mamas, they're not too fond of Big Mother, are they?...

Read today about a guy caught hiding heroin in Puppy Chow.

I find that amusing all by itself. But that doesn't necessarily mean I'll let it go at that.

For it IS supposedly made partly from "horse"-meat, I suppose...

Laughing at Strangers for No Real Good Reason:

Thomas Chippers.

Knock on wood.


DAILY LIMERICK 12/23/2004:

This year, Santa might run tad late

for added to normal full plate

elves in bells in tights

on Christmas Eve night

are 'fraid to go near the "red" states.


SLAPPIN' AND YAPPIN' 12/23/2004:

Wishing you a Limerick-y Holiday Season...

Five Years. One Original Limerick a Day. Whoop dee fuckin' doo...

A new study by some group of government studiers says that cigarette smoking is down among youth but the use of inhalants is up.

In keeping with our drug policy, however, at least some corporation benefits from the sale of inhalants...

I keep hearin' people--and often those noted as being far from hip--complaining that the pop music stars of today avoid making a statement about the war, unlike in past generations.

I wholeheartedly agree.

But, in the "stars'" defense, they generally avoid making a statement on much of anything besides booty and bling-bling...

Today's newspaper brings a story about the type of food The Guy's wife cooks for Christmas.

You know, I like the guy, so I wish the damn media would stop making me want to hate Barack Obama...

Every year around this time, there are the poopy-pants pundits pouting pertaining to people promoting Christmas perkiness as perpetually the pep passes after the period.

Wow! I wasn't originally going for alliteration but.. Pppp.

Anyway, my answer?: So what? Isn't one month of being nice to people better than none at all?...

Laughing at Strangers for No Real Good Reason:

Thomas Loo.

Packs a one-two punch--or often gets one, anyway.


Kenneth Bratko.

One of those bastards pumpin' out quintuplets and more.



> Hi John,

> your site is great!  I love limericks - will have to visit it daily!!!

> about a show, right now, we are booked up for January through March - we

> only play two shows a month for family reasons. maybe something in the

> future would be possible.

> thanks for your support of us and our crazy polka ways!

> best,

> Don

Wow! The Chief Limericist here in the Daily Limerick, er, Towers (he he) is in danger of accidentally becoming hip!

What with hosting music shows and such lately, underground-y Chicago bands are hoppin' on the DL/SUY bandwagon left, right and inside-out.

Today's missive comes from Don of the Polkaholics!

And for any of you bastards who don't know who the Polkaholics are, I'm debuting a new feature, primarily on underground-y music, Fridays in 2005: The Weekend Entertainment Report. Or something like that. In fact, I'm looking to add a "special" section for each day of the week in 2005. Even some new writers, as Good Ol' Mike, of "Accursed Verse" er, "fame," is awful lonely in that section of the, er, Towers.

Oh, and I was querying the Polkaholics about playing my Launch Party. Which will go down before we hit the sixth anniversary.

Otherwise, in answer to your letter, Don... Hmmm.

There's not really a question.

You polka-faced squatjerk.


DAILY LIMERICK 12/24/2004:

With Seasonal Spirit, ain't messing

instead, I'm a' counting my blessings--

but this time next year

upon midnight clear

I'd better be counting undressings!


SLAPPIN' AND YAPPIN' 12/24/2004:

Wishing you a Limerick-y Holiday Season...

Five Years. One Original Limerick a Day. Whoop dee fuckin' doo...

As I'm scrawling this out on a train to Family Country, I notice a couple, smiling and laughing together as they pick out some sort of wedding-related trappings from a catalog.

And, given the season, a time to wish good will to all mankind, I sigh and count my blessings.

Chief among them that it ain't ME pickin' out all that superficial, credit-gobbling crap that's just gonna end up quibbled over in the divorce agreement...

Alright. I can't end the Christmas Eve edition on that note.

I'm sure the couple will be happier than Rush Limbaugh in a bathtub full o' oxycotin (SIC?). Although he seems to be a girly man and she's ALREADY packin' on the pounds...

Ahem. Christmas Eve Slappin' and Yappin', take three!:

Merry Christmas Eve!


DAILY LIMERICK 12/25/2004:

As friends and fam gather 'round hearth

to celebrate Jesus' birth

don't get too damn rev'rent--

Heaven's a nice present

but get yourself a piece on earth!


SLAPPIN' AND YAPPIN' 12/25/2004:

Wishing you a Limerick-y Holiday Season...

Five Years. One Original Limerick a Day. Whoop dee fuckin' doo...

Not to look a gift Santa in the mouth or anything, but one of these Christmases, I hold out hope that I'll receive a gift I've desperately wanted for some time:

A whole crowd of people shouting, "Merry Christmas, Sloop Biederman!"

Just like, er...a lot of people in movies and such and...well, er... There's Charlie Brown.

It's not much to ask, really, having spent the second half of this year looking at the sky, flat on my back, after various footballs were yanked away...

And from all of, er, us at Daily Limerick, to all of you Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers--

Merry Christmas!

God bless us, every one!

Except maybe Paris Hilton...

Oh, alright already. Bless Paris Hilton, too--although, really, I think she's been blessed enough.

And I've been a pretty good boy, really.

Hey! It doesn't matter if that wasn't my intentions. There still ain't a lot of naughty by MY name on that list, pal...



So some call today "Boxing Day"

for boxing gifts and...I can't say.

It's British, I guess

but with Season's stress

real boxing just might join the fray.


SLAPPIN' AND YAPPIN' 12/26/2004:

Wishing you a Limerick-y Holiday Season...

Five Years. One Original Limerick a Day. Whoop dee fuckin' doo...

Cricket fans in Pakistan torched two members of its national team in effigy after a loss to Australia.

As much as they may bash all things culturally American, it certainly looks to me like celebrity worship, radical Islam style...

I was given some Mad Libs for Christmas.

And guess what? They now have a special page printed with each entry that allows you to play solo without having it "give away" the non-random content.

A test, of sorts, for those wondering, "should I just kill myself or not?"...

What we need now is a whole new film genre:

The Dark Romantic Comedy.

Wait a minute... I'm not sure I want to sell the rights to the last few months of my life just yet...

As long as we've segued onto the S&Y Psychiatric Couch, let me announce my desired next Madonna-like reinvention of myself:

The David Lee Roth of polka!

Just gimme a bottle of anything and a kishka, to go...


Many moons ago, when young DL was in grade school, a classmate, I think it was Scott something or other, paid me a whopper of a compliment.

I'm not sure why this incident lodged in my memory as it did. Then again, I can't explain why my mind has retained all the lyrics to the Human League's "Don't You Want Me Baby" while it failed to keep me from losing a very important check recently.

Oh, and I'll have you know before you read on that this story is... Well, it ain't exactly chock full o' sex and violence, conflict and intrigue. It ain't even chock partly full o' sex and violence, conflict and intrigue. But that's never stopped S&Y before, now, has it?

Anyway, Scott wasn't a good friend of mine or anything. He wasn't an enemy. He wasn't a super popular guy and he wasn't a super dork. All of which further complicates the mystery of why I remember this incident.

Anyway, it was Mrs. Dahm's art class, or perhaps she was still "Miss" whatever she was, and she was hotter than shit. Which is a digression, naturally. Although it does help color your imagination regarding exactly what age I was at--old enough to know that I wanted to be alone with her to do SOMETHING, but unsure exactly what that something was and equally unsure of how that related to the party she often caused in my pants.

Anyway, one of my friends made fun of me for liking some girl--Julie Wagner, I believe--although I didn't actually like Julie in that way. Somebody remarked that Julie or whoever had chapped lips.

Scott turned and said, "Biederman doesn't kiss girls with chapped lips."

Now, Scott never complimented me again, that I remember, and we never became closer friends. I don't recall any other memorable (or "memorable") encounters with him, either. And I don't ever recall return the favor and complimenting him on anything.

But at one point, Scott felt compelled to announce that I was studly enough to forgo chicks that most of the guys liked over a flaw as minor as chapped lips. Which was a blatant falsehood, anyway. Andrea Marcotte could've had an entire chapped head and I would've kissed her.

As far as I can discern, the only "point" of this tale is to show that my habit of twisting words and actions into claims that cannot be dubbed entirely false, all to benefit my own rep, carries quite a long tradition.

So don't bother offering up your goods to me, ladies, if your lips show the slightest signs of chapping.

Unless, of course, you're hot.

And if your not, I don't care how smooth your freakin' lips are.






TODAY'S POEM: The marriage of sex and commerce

The CEO approved the bump-and-grind ad.

And why wouldn't he? He might seem reserved

But oh, the things he has willingly done

To his board of directors.

Too obscene to print the truth

Of what goes on at the factory

Where the product -- so innocent seeming --

Is fabricated in the heartland.

(I have heard that part of the job

Is to kneel before the foreman's wife,

Eating honey out of her palm,

Crying in exhileration.)

Not really a surprise, of course,

What transpires at the distributorships.

What those men can do with staplers

Would bring a blush to a Madame.

It's shipped to my house, and I am sure

The driver is part of a prostitution ring.

I sign an invoice too white to be pure

And receive my purchase ...

I'm a little let down.

For all the wild rutting that went on

(And who knows how many spills to create it),

It is, after all, only a lamp.

It will adorn my aesthetic existence.

[If you'd like to physically thank or berate the poet, e-mail him at b_squirrel@hotmail.com. He won't bite--although he may chew a bit.]


DAILY LIMERICK 12/27/2004:

Calendar sales, this time around

pet themes are up, bathing babes down.

See, now, for our phallus:

Viagra, Cialis

for "(corp.) drugs the answer" renown!


SLAPPIN' AND YAPPIN' 12/27/2004:

Wishing you a Limerick-y Holiday Season...

Five Years. One Original Limerick a Day. Whoop dee fuckin' doo...

Some health magazine, activist group, whatever-the-hell ranked the states by physical shape of their residents and Alabama came up last.

As an example of the typical reaction of a state/city/region/etc. to such rankings, Chicago, in being ranked an "out-of-shape" city recently, has all these easy-to-ignore programs whereby money that might have otherwise been spent on such dalliances as, oh, feeding the poor or something, is used to run ads in newspapers for the "Mayor's Winter Fitness Sports Festival" or whatever.

Well, Alabama played up its ranking and is selling cookbooks, guides to state foods and eateries, etc.

In effect, making more tax dollars to feed the poor or whatever, as they're not running silly ads for "Alabama January Fun Runs."

Okay, realistically, I realize that the extra tax money more likely goes to a state rep's hooker fund than to the mouths of the poor but... It's still a TEENSY bit more to the poor or whatever.

And in any event, I'm somehow less offended with my tax dollars going to THAT.



This cat checks in concerning our very special... Okay, our somewhat special... Alright, then: Our run-of-the-mill lazy and crappy Christmas Eve edition:

> What a touching, multi layered story. You're a real Dickens in the making.


> (the proof is in the pudding -- heh, don't we wish?)

I'm not entirely sure what to make of this...compliment? Backhanded insult? Well, commentary of some sort.

But I guess I can say that about most every Letter to the Idiot.

I am nonetheless happy about each and every letter received, for it indicates that I've cause SOME sort of reaction.

Which is good.

Unless it's a rash.

DAILY LIMERICK. Like a rash. But good.


DAILY LIMERICK 12/28/2004:

When health studies publish their slammers

fat cities and states feel like hammered.

But not Alabama--

like any good Grandma

for tourists, of great food they yammer.


SLAPPIN' AND YAPPIN' 12/28/2004:

Wishing you a Limerick-y Holiday Season...

Five Years. One Original Limerick a Day. Whoop dee fuckin' doo...

I shouldn't be shocked by the fact that The Media can't even wait until New Year's Eve to start barraging us with 2004 "best of," "worst of," etc. lists.

After all, we're talking about a race that threw math, logic and history aside to celebrate the freakin' turn of a millennium a year early...

I read something today by a guy celebrating "our (meaning guys') wives--but also our Paris Hiltons.

See, there's a prevailing theory that there are two types of women out there, one for marrying and one for having a helluva time with. Also known as the Italian Guy Syndrome, wherein the mother of one's children is sacred and thus hard to even make a move on (that's what sluts are for).

This really, truly disturbs me. And not only because using Paris Hilton's name runs the risk of prolonging her already infinite-seeming 15 Minutes of Shame, or because I actually would refuse to do ol' Disease Dispenser if given the chance myself or... Ahem.

At heart, I'm a romantic. Sounds funny coming from a guy known for limericks, I know, but I still believe you can find a woman with a well-developed "wife side" and "Paris side."

Oh, sure. There is SOME truth to this theory, I suppose. I have noted, over the years, that some of the craziest, most whacked-out of nutchicks, those you really shouldn't even one-night dabble with for safety's sake, are the best in bed. And, yes, God or The Gods has/have a fine sense of humor, so there is certainly a trick to finding a woman who can satisfy your wife urges and your Paris urges.

But I still think it is possible--and even attainable, if you make the right efforts.

I'll admit that I'm also disturbed by this line of conjecture for reasons that hit closer to home. Although I've read that women tend to seek the same types of men for one-night stands as they do for long-term relationships (having to read about such things, of course, as my own life experience with women does little but confuse me even further), I suspect that a reverse "wife vs. Paris" phenomenon is at work among at least SOME women, or perhaps even among most or all women during certain periods of time.

And I'm starting to suspect that I'm a "Paris."

I'm not saying that legions of women actually WANT to do me. I even doubt, at this point in time, that ANY women want to do me. But when one does... Let's just say I've had quite a heapin' handful of situations where a dame came back to my place soon after we met, I played Gentleman and then WHAM! She was no longer interested.

Oh, once or twice the relationship meandered on and I was told something like, "You wouldn't be with me NOW if you HAD hit on me that night" (although I've always doubted the truth of the statement). But the "pro Gentleman" results now sit in a pathetic molehill next to a mountain o' "turn asshole!" experiences.

To add further to my burgeoning list why this whole spiel disturbs me, I don't even know where to begin in making myself less gentlemanly. And... Pfffft. Enough!

How does this disturb me? Let me just sit around, by myself naturally, and count the fuckin' ways...

Laughing at Strangers for No Real Good Reason:

Lulling Savage.

The man who has everything--evidently, music and the breasts he soothes.


DAILY LIMERICK 12/29/2004:

Though I like ol' Barack Obama

press treats him like the Dalai Lama!

Must his cov'rage flow

like Ben and J-Lo's?

I now wish he'd hide like Osama.


SLAPPIN' AND YAPPIN' 12/29/2004:

Wishing you a Limerick-y Holiday Season...

Five Years. One Original Limerick a Day. Whoop dee fuckin' doo...

I've read recently that the percentage of overall Internet usage related to porn has been dropping. Which isn't saying that a heapin' helpin' o' porn ain't bein' downloaded on the Misinformation Superhighway, only that the whole tech boom of the '90s was 90-some percent porn-related and, as non-porn fiends discover some of the Internet's features, porn's share of the online pie naturally decreases to an extent.

Today, I read that "American Idol" was the most searched term in 2004.

Worry not, pro-porn Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers. Boobs are still what people are looking for on the Web, in one form or another...

George Carlin is headed to rehab for alcohol and Vicodin addictions.

A little background: Some allege that Carlin was a straight-up comic the drugs and '60s-'70s crap hit, but he latched onto that scene merely because it was a good career move at the time.

So, with all George's religion bashing, he's being given another opportunity to prove his cred here. Because alcohol/drug rehab is really just a synonym for high-priced, high powered 12-Step meetings and the 12-Steps... Well, in order to avoid a digression I have a lot of fuel for, let's just say that the "Anonymous" programs' steps mention God numerous times and entail turning one's life over, moral inventories, prayer and more.

In other words, if Carlin doesn't come out of the smokes-and-coffee laden rehab swingin', he's a poser after all. And I've been givin' him the benefit of the doubt.

It'd be nice if SOMEBODY from Celebrityville would begin a dialogue. Other than Ozzy Osbourne. Who has chimed in on the topic but... Well, it's probably better to go poster-less than enlist that poster child...

Ecstasy is now being touted as a method to dampen the pain and depression of serious cancer sufferers.

No, no, no! I'm NOT talking about a date with Jennifer Love Hewitt, a plate of tacos and polka music! The DRUG ecstasy!

Although, if given a choice between the two options...

In briefing over the news about the nutty, American Democracy-inspired Ukrainian elections, a lot of things come to mind.

First of all, in reading the names, I feel sorry for any budding news limericists over there...

This Christmas, I experienced a form of Reverse "Christmas Carol."

I went to bed jolly on Christmas and awoke in an evil funk--a funk completely separate from the one resulting in my pre-slumber Jennifer Love Hewitt thoughts.

Ba-dum ching!

Ahem. But seriously, or semi-seriously... I awoke feeling like I should completely change my life, be re-born...as an utter asshole. Usin' women, cussin' at children, humbuggin' left and right.

It didn't last.

So I'm NOT beatin' the women off with a stick just yet...

Then I resolved to avoid women, at least until spring.

Still not sure how firm that resolution is. But I'm trying.

I'll know I'm successful when, as ol' Murphy and his laws point out, I AM beatin' 'em off with a stick...

After penning yesterday's mini-manifesto about the theory that women are either "wife material" or "fun sluts," with no mixing between the two, I forgot another point I'd originally intended that sorta, kinda relates to the rest of it (at least in its sprawling digressive form):

One-night stands suck. For me, anyway. I don't mean that in a moral way or anything--have at 'em, if you're so prone. I can't guarantee you that I won't hop off at that most seedy of train stops again some time.

But I've really only had one "classic" one-night stand, wherein I met a woman and did her up the same day. But I've also had a handful of imperfect ones--with chicks I've known for a while, or on a second and final date, etc.

And in every case, the sex was lousy. Okay, there was one--an "imperfect" one--where the sex was good, but it was far from the best.

Not to mention the before and after--sometimes, MORNING after. Hell, I feel awkward interacting with a long-time friend who had crashed for the night. The typical swing of things is thrown off balance. Kinda like when you get a kidney transplant and your body instinctually fights it anyway as a foreign body, even though the "logical you" invited it in. Not that I actually FIGHT in such a situation, of course. Ride the simile, schmoe-hound.

Then again--and this should just be considered a standard disclaimer for S&Y overall--maybe it's just something wrong with me.


I'm starting to see why I didn't include this nugget in yesterday's blathering.

But that's the closest you're gonna get to a "Safe Sex" PSA from Slappin' and Yappin'--largely because nobody in their right mind would ask for such a thing.

Considering the women who are predominantly attracted to the Limerick Man, there is no other form of lovin' than outright Dangerous sex anyway.

And the sex itself is the least of my worries.


DAILY LIMERICK 12/30/2004:

The Web opens up pundit scene

to any with meag'rist of means.

Since skill most blogs lack

just what kind of hacks

are still doing physical 'zines?


SLAPPIN' AND YAPPIN' 12/30/2004:

Wishing you a Limerick-y Holiday Season...

Five Years. One Original Limerick a Day. Whoop dee fuckin' doo...

Remember when S&Y accidentally predicted, by getting the song "..and then along comes Kerry" in the collective Slapper Yapper Grasshopper head, that Kerry would win the Democratic primary?

How about the first use of "screwtoad"?

Needs work, my attempt to latch onto the lazy craze of end-of-year "best of" and "highlight" editions and articles...

In glancing over TV grids regularly, I've noted that MTV should change its name to PMR--for "Pimp My Ride," as it doesn't appear to have any other evening programming.

And having the "M" stand for "My" makes just as much sense as the reality, when you think about it...

I don't get sick a lot, so forgive me for just noticing this lately.

But who decided upon the standard size for a facial tissue? A housecat?...

Laughing at Strangers (and Strange Places) for No Real Good Reason:

Kristin Junk.

You've probably seen her in your mailbox.


Feasterville, Pennsylvania.

Home to Kristin--in the trunk, anyway.


Kirk Bloodworth--the first inmate exonerated by DNA testing.

Wow! I don't have to do anything with that one.


DAILY LIMERICK 12/31/2004:

News Limericks are my blessing--and bane.

But in watching news, I can't complain.

Here, most names? Two or one

syllables--easy, un-

like the schmo doin' it in Ukraine!


SLAPPIN' AND YAPPIN' 12/31/2004:

Wishing you a Limerick-y Holiday Season...

Five Years. One Original Limerick a Day. Whoop dee fuckin' doo...

Happy New Year's Eve, Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers!

And be sure and have one for me!

One what, I don't know. That's up to you. But have whatever it is with vigor...

To anybody out there involved with these "worst dressed" lists that some law mandates around this time of year:

If a chick is hot and an outfit shows skin, it can't be a bad thing, even if it's bright orange with purple polka dots and fishhooks all over it...

Likewise, concerning the "best dressed" lists, Oprah in the finest clothes on earth is still... Well, Oprah.

You'd be best keeping these lists to the males of the species. After all, the saying isn't "clothes make the WOMAN," and for very good reason...

I feel kinda guilty saying this but, well, I'm sick of the earthquake/tsunami coverage.

And if you aren't, don't act like you're into it for any reasons more noble than those that lead you to gawk at accident scenes when cruising down the highway...

Developers in Texas are pitching ideas for "mega-highways" stretching across the Lone Star landscape, with a quarter mile of width and generally making highways-as-we-know-'em look wimpy.

Only in Dubya's state can we find a group of folks who consider our finite fuel supply, the messes we're involved with in the Middle East, a deteriorating environment and a generally pathetic national system of public transportation--and decide, "What we need to do is encourage MORE automobile use!"...

Read today that corporate bankruptcies are at their lowest rate in 10 years.

In case you where wondering just who gets the "compassion" from "compassionate conservatism"...

I caught a flu recently.

As advised by far too many, I got some extra sleep. I popped some medicinals. I "took it easy." It only seemed to grow worse.

So, last night, I decided to go with my first instinct regarding such matters. I ignored it, ala "I CAN'T be sick now," got a limited night's sleep, forewent juice in favor of high doses of coffee and embraced my regular, hectic schedule.

Woke up today feeling fine. Well, 85 percent or so.

Take that, all you lily-livered, candy-assed, flu-vaccine-cravin' morons...

For many years, when I hit poetry readings and the like and viewed all the wannabe hipsters bedecked completely in black, while I knew they thought their outfits cried "cool," I could only think "Johnny Cash." Hence, you can probably count the times I've dressed completely in black on one hand.

You see, I'm a long-time Johnny Cash fan. But Johnny was not always considered "cool," at least not here in the northern states.

Today, I dressed all in black, having realized that, since the Hollywood-ized Nashville forced Cash into recording his last albums on punk labels, and especially since his death, Johnny Cash is now cool.

I'm glad he got his much deserved coolness, but it really would've helped me out had the pop cultural tide turned, oh, when I was in junior high.


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