Daily Limerick
Archives: June 2007

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)!



If nothing else, motives were pure:

Cindy Sheehan's anti-war cure.

Retirement decision,

if she's like musicians,

soon foretells "Comeback Protest Tour"!


Malaysia's top court has refused a woman's request to be recognized as a Christian, stating, "She cannot simply at her own whims enter or leave her religion."

Who do they think they are--a court-ordered U.S. 12-Step program?...



TODAY'S EDITION: What's Wrong With Art Today

You know what's wrong with art today?

Well, okay, that's a monster topic... But, anyway, here's a slice-of-life example, an individual case that speaks for the whole, you could say.

As an arts journalist, a poet and generally artsy--and often, I'll admit, crossing the border from mere artsy to artsy-fartsy--I hear time and again the whining about declining arts coverage in the wider Media.

As is usually the case in these matters, we at DL/S&Y tend toward siding with the Media. Oh, there are two sides--life influences news, news influences life--but in an era where traditional media are dog-paddling to stay afloat in the new economy, we find it hard to believe that newspapers are carrying less arts coverage for any other reason than economics. That is, they look at coverage overall, decide what tingles readers most and, surprise surprise, arts coverage isn't hooking huge numbers.

Oh, we have tons of problems with the Mainstream Media. But, in general, we think news outlets do a pretty good job of providing the pool of possible customers with what it wants. There's a "Kill the Messenger" attitude at work--folks were appalled at the copious coverage of, say Anna Nicole Smith's tragicomedy, but were a newspaper or TV station declare itself the only one in town to NOT cover the circus, it'd see decreased reader-/viewership.

Concerning arts and culture... Well, the realm largely deserves its pooh-poohing as some elitist concern. Now, we're artsy as all hell. And we, too, wish readers would gobble up poetry and that viewers would bring the more intelligent TV shows higher ratings and that a handful of painters or sculptors or computer artists would actually be household names.

Where we differ from the typical artsy-fartsy crowd is this: We're don't sit and whine about it and offer hair-brained, unworkable schemes to fix it, like government grants and Media "pity coverage." As artists have done throughout history, we adapt. Maybe things like, say, our Chief Limericist's "News Limericks" and "Stand-Up Poetry" wouldn't please Shakespeare (we think they would), but Shakespeare wouldn't please audiences today, either, if you take away the history of study and worship leading up to today and plop him into the modern theater scene without any chance to evolve over the centuries.

And then there are those who adopt modern techniques...for no other reason than adopting modern techniques.

In Chicago, there's an artist named Wafaa Bilal. He currently has a show at FLATFILEgalleries called "Domestic Tension" (search out any links, if you so desire--we're not going out of our way).

It's a "multi-media," "new media" extravaganza that has become the darling of pretty much every outlet in town.

Bilal is an Iraqi native. Some of his family members were killed by U.S. strikes. Boo-hoo and all--but what do you do about it, art-wise?

Well, he sets up an "interactive" room where gallery attendees or Internet visitors can shoot him with paintballs. Over time, the walls around him turn yellow, of course, as a way of signifying the increasing body count. And he's not leaving the room for the duration of the show as a way of showing that many Iraqis are trapped in their homes due to the violence raging outside.

All fine and good but... Well, aside from the fact that even 52 percent of Republicans have soured on the Iraq War, making a real gutsy statement here from Bilal...and that the paintball machine is ridiculously slow, making that physical premise a joke... And that he's set up blogs and crap to start a "dialogue," as if there isn't already quite a freakin' "dialogue" going on over this war... Well... Ahem.

It's lame.

Not exciting to watch a knucklehead dodge a snail's pace paint gun. Even if it were, that would tire after a couple of hours. Don't care that the chowderhead is "locked-up"--it's voluntary and, by the way, we already knew that Iraqis suffered such a fate. And the wall growing more and more yellow? (Yawn.) Oh, gee! Who could've predicted it!

So, if you want arts coverage, don't be a marblehead. And to the arts writers out there, if you want people to read what arts coverage remains, thus perhaps justifying an increase in the future, don't cover marbleheads.

Oh, and while I'm at it, just because modern technology makes it easy for any artist to utilize video, that doesn't automatically give you the talent to make a video worth watching!




Tried boinkin' her--she'd just complain

about omnipresent back pain

which, fin'ly, was cured

when word "yes" she purred

and he rode her ass like a train.



I have a Peanuts-themed calendar this year (Chief Limericist checking in, here). It's a cheezy number, what with the Schulz estate running out of over-marketing ideas and all. Each month has a cartoon elaborating on the theme, "Happiness is..." So for June, I have, "Happiness is three friends in a sandbox...with no fighting."

Is something wrong with me or...does that one just invite dirty thoughts?...

Birthday greetings to Slapper Yapper Grasshopper Ed Rubin, who's reading out of New York!

Hmm. Not sure we're gonna continue this birthday shot-out tradition. Must've had an accidental Harry Caray seance or something...



Following the P.C. compunction

NFL bans booze at its functions.

Last cool, manly sport

we're sad to report's

Disney-fied for public consumption.



Ah, the urban forest preserve! What a delightful place to relax on a spring or summer day!

News excerpt:

"An ex-convict once dubbed the 'junkyard rapist' pleaded not guilty Thursday to charges he sexually assaulted a woman jogging on a Cook County forest preserve path..." Hmm.

Will we ever learn?...

Shouldn't poets, being a type of writer and all, send press releases without rampant grammatical errors?

Just wondering...

So Friday, a Chicago Cubs baseball game found a Chicago Cubs player fighting with...another Chicago Cubs player?

Somehow, metaphorically or whatever, it makes perfect sense...

I told you earlier this week about some chowderheaded, wannabe mover-n-shaker in my building who just subscribed to the Wall Street Journal...and lets 'em pile up on the doorstep day after day? (Chief Limericist checking in, here.)

Well, Saturday morning, the clean-up guy or whatever for the units saw the mess and...cleaned it up.

Which included tossing my Saturday newspaper before I could read it.

I, of course, get my newspaper off the step each day (unless, of course, I'm out of town).

Just a slice-of-life vignette proving, once again, that no matter how hard you work to not be a member of the Moron Majority, the actions of the prevailing ass monkeys screw us all...




(Touching in some manner, anyway)

TODAY'S EDITION: My February-July Romance

Last week, I told you about the time that sexual misadventure led to my hiding in a closet. This week, it's about the larger sexual misadventure behind that incident.

When I was in my late teens, early 20s... Let's just say that if I met up with my then-self, now, in some sort of time warp, I'd be tempted to kick his ass.  I was a drunken, bitter, call-everyone-"sell-out," writer/artist wannabe nightmare.

Straight out of high school, I went to college at the University of Illinois, Champaign-Urbana. I partied far too much and was dealing with...some issues so my parents yanked the money and I was back living with them, working full-time, saving money and such to go back to college.

I was not at my most happy and optimistic during this period. Hence, the raging alcohol addiction.

A naturally shy fellow, I'd managed to have some...relations with women in later high school. Then my funk set in and I became one of those rare cases who go to college away from home--for three semesters, in my case--and don't get laid. Living back at home again after a failed college attempt and down on myself, the dry spell continued.

I worked near-minimum wage for a company that typeset textbooks. ("Typesetting, " for whippersnapper Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers who might not know, was a pre-scanner, pre-modern-software endeavor necessary for the eventual production of books. One would need to hit special keys or key combos to achieve, say, bolding or font size/style changes.) I don't even recall what the hell my job title was, but I'd run backups/archives of all the work done, print out copies of typeset pages for the proofing department to go over, kill printed jobs out of the computer queue to keep memory open, etc. For most of my stint there, I did the second shift (6 p.m.-2 a.m.).

I was the rooster--the only guy in a department full of women--so that was cool. Even though most of the women were much older than I, not to mention married and all that jazz, I was treated well. They'd fight among themselves sometimes, but they were most always nice to me.

At some point, a woman switched over, from day shift to night shift, and although she was 39 years old and I was 20, I found her smokin' hot. (I've never been a good "age guesser," I would've pegged her as early 30s or perhaps even late 20s.) And she had two daughters who both made some income modeling so... Babe DNA was involved. We'll call her Squaw, as that was my nickname for her, although I forget how that moniker came about.

Squaw was at the tail end of a divorce, a looker and one of those naturally young-at-heart types, so we immediately established a flirtatious bond. In fact, it was one of those situations where I'd continually find myself thinking things like, "Why, it really seems that this woman digs me--in a low down, dirty way... Naw. That's crazy. But...it really does seem that way."

Often, things like this become "Stalemates o' Love." Each side is leery about the taboo(s) involved (in this case, we were coworkers and there also was an age difference) and reticent to make a move. I've had many, similar inklings in my time, each mostly leaving unanswered "what ifs?"

Now, most of the time there wasn't a proofreader on site for the night shift. So sometimes a typesetter would want a look at the printed output herself. Thus, little notes would be written to me on orders sometimes. (Orders were clipped-together packages of previous page proofs, with the original materials to be typeset on the bottom.) "Hot" would mean "print this before other jobs," for instance.

One night, it became my 21st birthday at midnight and I was nonetheless working, not having any vacation days yet. Squaw gave me an order reading, "Hot and Fast to [Squaw]." I printed the order and scrawled on the scratch paper, next to her note, jokingly yet with truth in jest, "I don't think that's a good idea right here and now."

A few moments after I delivered her the package, she delivered me a note--without a print order. It directed me to open a certain galley (page), identified by galley number and job number.

Some explanation is in order here. Each customer or book was assigned a number. Say, "835" for "Introduction to Economics." Page/galley 35 of Introduction to Economics thus might be "35-835." The galley number given me by Squaw, however, had an unfamiliar job number involved.

Because, of course, she created it especially to send me a message. Thus I could call up the galley number on screen, read it, reply if I wanted, re-save... A pre-e-mail version of e-mail.

It read, and I likely paraphrase: "Are you serious about this? I feel a little silly saying this but...this is getting me a little hot & bothered."

I replied that I was serious.

Some more back-and-forth ensued.

I'd had sex a few times before but, honestly, it was never very good. Nervous, inexperienced, etc. I part of me wondered if the whole thing was just overrated.

After the shift ended, as I lived with my parents and she with a son, we went to a hotel.

And I learned that sex, at least good sex, was far from overrated.








TODAY'S POEM: Helicopter leaves


The wipers go left and right. Helicopter leaves

caught in the blades spin lamely away. The scenery

is changing, new buildings are coming up, some

of the old places are gone. A jester with a quill

full of arrows plays games with the clock. It's 1986,

no it's 1995, no it's 2007. What's he so happy about?

Or is he a she? My apologies, ma'am.


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



At Cubs game, play'rs whipped out their fists--

but fight carried strange Cubs-esque twist:

A Cub hit...a Cub?

Somehow, for the club

it makes metaphorical fit!



So... (Chief Limericist checking in, here)... The position of M'Lady has been unfilled for a while now so I'm meeting 'n' gettin' numbers, occasionally dating, or engaging in some similar facsimile thereof... And I'm always getting advice. From both sides of the sexual equation, that is women and men; from single and married; etc.; hallelujah.

Nobody has been very helpful. Although each has been useless in a unique and special way.

One such chowderhead...er, friend is of what I would call a reverse psychology sorta school. "Once she gives you her number, wait three days before calling her"; "Next time you see her, ignore her"--that sorta tripe.

Admittedly, human beings being what they are, stuff like that DOES often work. But what works for one person doesn't necessarily work for another--and what works ON one person doesn't necessarily work on another and, of course, each situation is unique as well.

Anyway, a little while back I was out cavorting with this chow...er, friend, whom I'll call Mr. Hardball. Actually, we'll call him Mr. Hardballs, as that's funnier. Anyway, I met this hot little number, she seemed to find me interesting and borderline amusing and she gave me her e-mail address. I e-mailed her a day or two after that.


She answered about a week later, though. In a roundabout way, she managed to type a paragraph or so saying nothing more than "sorry it took me so long to respond."

I answered her e-mail. Hittin' around the idea of getting her number, maybe doing something.


Then, Mr. Hardballs and I are out cavorting and we happen upon her again. (She's an artist, so gallery-hopping can lead to running into her.) She doesn't actually approach me, but looks over once or twice. Mr. Hardballs advises that I ignore her. So I do. For whatever reason.


Then, yet again, Mr. Hardballs and I out cavorting, happen upon the dame.

She completely ignores me.

Touche and all, I suppose...



By David Sher


TODAY'S HAIKU: Unmentionable Haiku


You can sing a song.

But when you change underwear,

Do you thing your thong?


[If you'd like to contact the Haiku Doctor, e-mail him at davew9lya@juno.com.]



For Mormon and Muslim creed cares

there's now sold this "modest" swimwear.

But I hope folks try it

who badly need diet--

most folks now, much skin, should not bear!




"Woman Plows Into Crowd at Street Festival"

Perhaps this is a new tradition we can mark the unofficial start of summer with!...



> Here's some advice coming from one of the least experienced relationship experts

> in the world. (which makes me wonder why I even said "expert" -- maybe because

> "Wingin' It As He Goes Along Man" is too awkward and honest?) If nothing else,

> this will add to your mounting pile of useless, "no duh" information.


> That whole "don't call for x number of days" ploy is just plain lame. I mean, I

> don't think you should call the moment after you first met her or anything, but

> you shouldn't force yourself to wait some alloted number of days, either. Let

> your initial meeting with her be your guide. Did conversation flow naturally and

> were you both into each other? Then call her as soon as you want to. If, on the

> other hand, she -- holy crap, I'm already sick of this explanation. You can

> figure it out.


> I really only wrote this so I could say "Ha! Mr. Hardballs!" Also, great Sunday

> Story time.


> The might as well be asexual poet

(Chief Limericist checking in, here, to answer a letter about a nugget written with the Chief Limericist checked in.)

I'll pass along your, er, greeting to Mr. Hardballs. Who, now that I think of it, isn't exactly reeling in the chicks lately himself... Anyway:

My initial reaction is that the "wait a number of days" ploy is lame. Perhaps even hella-lame. And to add fuel to the fire, women are onto it, too. Within recent months I've had two chicks mention that they actually AVOID guys who seem to wait before calling them. One, when I mentioned the "wait three days" advice from Mr. Hardballs, said, "What--is he a HUGE fan of the movie 'Swingers'?" (Which, I guess, mentions said rule.)

But... Well, let's just say that I've had many "false starts" in a row now. Hit it off well with a chick, get the number and/or e-mail and... She doesn't call or e-mail back. A few times I've tried a second call or e-mail, although I tell myself I shouldn't... And when I HAVE gotten an answer, it's "I have a boyfriend" or "I just got out of a serious relationship"-type drivel.

Now, I've had this happen before. It's one of the common dating boondoggles. Once, twice, maybe even three times in a row, I'd write it off to freak chance. And I meet most of these prospects around the poetry and/or comedy shows I do, where liquor is involved, so perhaps that leads to an increase in flakiness percentages but... Seriously, this has now happened to me more than a dozen times in a row.

Seriously. I wish I were kidding or exaggerating. I actually wrote 'em all down to count 'em at one point--and then stopped counting, as that seems morbid or something. I got up to eleven but there have been a few more since and... (Stop counting!)

Now, I didn't intend to get into this much personal detail--and I'm now in fear of Daily Limerick sliding into the Vast Crapland known as the Blogosphere--but, the point is, you encounter a string like this and you start to wonder if there's something wrong with YOU and your way of doing things. And so I've listened to the likes of Mr. Hardballs a couple of times.

Throughout my life, I've been then type of guy who'll call the next day and perhaps even state, right out: "Some people say to wait a couple days before calling someone they've met--but I'm not the type to play games."

And, mostly, I'm going back to being That Guy now because, although "my way" largely led to this statistical freakiness of false starts, the ways of others, including Mr. Hardballs, haven't put an end to it.

And I didn't intend to solicit advice with that nugget but...thanks anyway, er...Mr. Softballs.



"Reality" TV does shake,

in Europe, form of folks on make

for kidney transplanted.

With this, results chances

are better than "Idol's" to take!




Funny how time flies when you're constructing a hideously checkered past...



TODAY'S EDITION: Appetizer Liberation

Ever go out to eat, or stay in to eat, and find you enjoy, say, the pot stickers or the onion rings or the samosas more than the main course? Or perhaps you're glancing at a menu, or your grocer's freezer, and you're thinking, "Hmm... I have to pick an appetizer or two, but there are eight here that I'd like to try."

Well then: Go full-bore on the appetizer! Order four of 'em out--or one of each on the menu to feed a whole table. (A small table--if I, Chief Limericist and Culinary Editor checked in here, am involved.) Pick up some frozen eggrolls, mini-corndogs, buffalo wings, tater tots, taquitos...you name it!

With all this talk about empowering such and such groups, this one seems to fall by the wayside--but there's no reason that appetizers can't be the main course!

So burn your...er, menus! Shout, "We're here, we're into...apetizeeers... Get used to it!"

Let the Culinary Revolution begin!



Most wish Summer'd come and just park it--

no cool, rainy days on a lark-it.

One new sign of season,

it now stands to reason:

Car plow'n into open air market!



So Barack Obama has changed his mind on the Defense of Marriage Act (which assuages closet case homophobes by federally defining marriage as "between a man and a woman").

Campaigning for senator, he supported DOMA. Now, he's against it.

This is big news!

Now, Obama can be taken seriously--for you're not a viable presidential candidate until you've flipped flopped on an major issue...

While we live in an age of sensitivity, trying to rectify past wrongs against any and all minority groups, one such group has been left completely behind. We must take time out from the frivolous nature of DL/S&Y and address the fate of this oppressed, but seemingly invisible, group.

Despite having their own philosophies, ethics and customs, members of this group find little to relate to in the wider popular culture. Often, members of this group are outright shunned as their way of life is threatened, more and more daily, by a greater society that not only virtually ignores them--but actually makes life harder on them.

We'll admit self-interest as, er, ahem, each of us at Daily Limerick/Slappin' and Yappin' is a member of this downtrodden bunch:

The Non-Shitheads.

Support their plight, for the world would become a darker place, should the very real possibility of their extinction come to pass...



Flip-flop on Barack's pres'dent slate--

with "Defense of Marriage Act"--great!

Wishy-washy vision?

Such bold indecisions

make him viable candidate!




"Bookstore Crowd Says, 'Run, Al, Run'"

It refers to Al Gore, who's now on the book tour scene.

This is the same Gore who, along with his wife Herr Tipper, got a censorship chubby in his pants with the PMRC record labeling thing. The same Gore who came into the 2000 presidential election on the heels of the most popular president in recent memory and...decided to distance himself from him. The same Gore who, out of all possible choices, chose Joe Lieberman... Well, we'll second the crowd's words, in a way:

"Run, Al, Run"--the hell away from politics, for good...

'Nother headline:

"Wheeled Shoes Harbor Risks, Some Warn"

With modern technology and all, can't we just remove most people's brains and directly wire their decisions from our pool of "experts," eliminating the Middle Man, so to speak?...



TODAY'S EDITION: Just Infinite

Just Infinite rocks. Or perhaps "raps." Or maybe "rhythm and blueses."

I've been thinking... Perhaps it's not such a bad thing that I'm the Worst Music Critic on the Planet. I mean, it's doubtful that Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers actually decide whether they like a band (and possibly by their stuff) by my hack words alone. They check out the site, give it a listen to, etc.

That having been said, I'll try... Ahem: Just Infinite throws incisive (aka, non-"Ho' this," "Ho' that," "I'm so great) rap lyrics over a helluva chick singer with an actual ass-kickin' rhythm and blues/soul/rock band. And... Well, I'm out of notes.

So, as I was saying, let this do the talking:




A man and his ex- shared a bed,

to save from floor her back and head,

on visit--but habit

caused her to, well, grab it

and thus toward "sleep sex" were led.



Are you there, God?

It's us--Daily Limerick.

Just checking that you are, indeed, there. Paying attention to the world around us and following the news closely, well...we're not always sure...



World t'ward sensitivity's led

while dumber and dumber we've bred.

Since minorities

find better lives, we

wish it'd include us non-shitheads!



Apparently, Us Weekly has started a new feature calling other celebrity-ass-kissing magazines on bad journalism incidents.

We've noticed ourselves that the plots of porn flicks often have more holes than a Swiss cheeze. But we figure that the market demographic doesn't particularly care...

E-mail PR "Subject" line:

"Jenn and Alex from the Real World Celebrity Bartend Tonight"

Er... Don't you have to be a celebrity to celebrity bartend?...




(Touching in some manner, anyway)

TODAY'S EDITION: My February-July Romance--Part II

....When we last left our, er, hero, he'd just boinked a 39-year-old at 21 and... Aw, see last week's edition in the 'chives if you must!

Anyway... After the hotel room romp, we had the "I'd like this to be more than a one-night stand" and "I don't want to share my man/woman" conversations, along with the seemingly required, "Not that this is going anywhere" conversation, which was, of course, dominated by euphemism. Because, of course, it's somewhat less than romantic to claim, "There's no way this thing we have has hope for the long run."

But the relationship was, of course, doomed from the start. I envisioned a future with children someday--and she already had three, wanted no more and was pretty much beyond the childbearing years anyway. Plus, she didn't want to go public, which I agreed on. Her kids weren't keen on her dating anyone besides their n'ar-do-well father, and that wasn't gonna happen--much less a 21-year-old, but a few years older than her eldest daughter.

And while I suppose I could've waxed impressively progressive by seeking to wed a woman 18 years my senior but...even if that were the case, I was in no shape for a real relationship, much less marriage. I had a lot of self-finding yet to do. Plus, I was a drunk.

Nonetheless, what we had was beautiful, for what it was. Despite not even wanting another marriage, Squaw wanted someone, and a 21-year-old was a great way to preemptively quash any mid-life crises, to boot. I sure as hell needed someone at the time, too--having went a LONG time without female, er, attention and stuck in a rather lonely situation, away from the old college friends with most of my high school pals off at college or new towns or whatever. Plus, having sex as a young man with an older woman was a fantasy to check-off the old List.

While our thing was doomed, I suppose it didn't have to get ugly. But it did.

Anyway, we did the hotel thing a few times before deciding it to be too expensive. So we'd boink, usually at her place, as her son was the only one actually living with her, and he had his own life. As my parents tended not to leave the house a whole lot, we didn't make sweet love there much. But we did--when they went on vacation, went out for a long evening, etc. One time, I nailed her upstairs while the parents were home. (I was "helping her with a computer printout," or some such thing.)

I wasn't fooling the parents. On the surface, we were "friends." I'll never know for sure if we fooled her kids--but I think they were all in the know, by the end. Perhaps they kept up a "knowing denial," but they had to have known.

Yet Squaw and I truly WERE friends. Oh, I can't argue that sex was the main thing we did together, but we reached a point where we'd actually talk on the phone regularly and all. We spent some time together without hope of sex--at the zoo with her kids, playing boardgames--although that was rare.

Other than the particulars of kids, marriage and such, the age difference meant almost nothing. We were able to talk and relate better than I had in any previous relationships (although previous ones were few).

One night, in a post-sex buzz, I said, "You may not want to hear this... But I love you," followed quickly by, "I can't help it."

She sighed and admitted she loved me, too. From that point, we did the typical couple's "I love you thing" when saying goodbye, hanging up the phone, etc.

Squaw brought a ray of sunshine into my extremely dreary life--but it wasn't enough to "save" me. I was starting to work seriously toward being a writer, putting in writing time, learning about manuscript submission, piddling away at short stories; and I was looking into things like financial aid and, actually, at one point registered to go back to the University of Illinois in Champaign-Urbana.

But my bad attitude toward life had a way of interfering with those intentions. And being drunk every waking minute probably didn't help, either.

Having little going on socially, she became the outlet for unleashing my disgruntled and dysfunctional views of the world. The typesetting galley system of primitive e-mail (described last week) devolved into a forum for my bitching at the world. (Think Daily Limerick...without the humor. Or at least the "humor." And without a good grounding in current events, or many life experiences and lessons. Oh, and wallowing heavily in run-of-the-mill personal life matters like a typical blog, on top of it.)

I got to a point of constantly seeking new excuses at work for drinking-related misadventure. It'd be hard to get in on time after a night of debauchery. Sometimes I'd go off for lunch, drive around the boonies I lived and worked in with a 40-ouncer between my legs, supplementing that with vodka shots...decide I was just too liquored to go back to work and phone-in some excuse. I thought I was being successfully sneaky at the time but was eventually told that the whole office worried about me.

At some point, Squaw started seeing a guy her age. He was divorced and they had more in common. She told, or wrote, me of a need for us to "cool it." Being less wise to the world then, I was really confused as to how to "cool it."

My primitive "e-mails" waxed especially nutty. I knew something like that was coming. And a rational part of me knew it made perfect sense. But I didn't want it to end. I had nothing else.

One day, after overhearing hubbub in the main typesetting office, she came into my little office area and showed me the engagement ring. (They never did actually get married, but it put the kibosh on our Thing.)

Our relationship dragged-on for two years. And it was never officially ended, really. Not in a way the "must have closure" crowd would be satisfied with.

One workday, I drove around having my liquid lunch and was nabbed with DUI. When I phoned-in to the office, I was let go. My U of I return was officially foiled in one fell swoop, as well.

I haven't seen Squaw since.

Having had my driver's license yanked, I ended up moving to the City of Chicago soon after that. Thought I'd hate it but...other than a year out in L.A., I've lived in the Windy City since.

We did have one phone conversation after I'd moved to the city. I'm not even sure how it happened--who called whom, etc. It was an awkward conversation, not at all like it would play out in a Hollywood movie.

When I told her I'd finally quit drinking, she replied, "Really? Why?"

It was beautiful in its own way--I stand by that assertion. But some relationships can be beautiful and ugly all at the same time.







TODAY'S POEM: The exposure process


Allow the instant to unfurl

its many beating colors. Which

texture finds the most haste,

and which the least? Camera-eye

the unfolding scene. Pattern it pretty

pretty, carefully, carewornlessly.

In and out of frame, jumping flame,


in and out of frame.

The receding shadows

pearl up.


We reach out.


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



So in come the "experts," whose deal-y's

to treat boneheads all touchy-feely,

with study that finds

(surprise, oh, surprise!)

that kids might get hurt wearing "wheelies"!




"Authorities Seize Neglected Rape Kits"


We shudder to think what these "rape kits" might include, but we hope authorities would seize them, neglected or no...

We're thinking some pharmaceutical company should be making an "anti-Viagra."

That is, something to help those people who, say...get a boner when they simply kiss a girl. Or hold her hand. Hey, perhaps it's been a while for them... They may even get a half-gainer when a girl says "yes" to their date request.

We've, ahem, heard this affects a, er, friend of a friend. Or something. And we assume that, if this guy has the problem, well, others may. And they could use... You know.

Moving along...



By David Sher


TODAY'S HAIKU: Orthopedic Haiku


Orchestra hampered

By osteoporosis

In trombone section


[If you'd like to contact the Haiku Doctor, e-mail him at davew9lya@juno.com.]



> Was that story about the Famed Mrs. Robinson, which your mom talked about?

This is my cousin checking in. And this is the Chief Limericist checked in, here. And he's asking about yesterday's (and the week before's) Sunday Story Time, which focused on my, er, "relationship" as a 21-year-old with a 39-year-old woman.

But, yes, this is the woman whom my mother referred to as "Mrs. Robinson."

We trust the quicker Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers among you can figure out the reference.

However, she was not a "Mrs." at the time, so... Well, actually, she was TECHNICALLY a Mrs. at first, but the marriage was in that stage where... But enough about me...



Us Mag ups the tabloid rag tiff,

spotlighting the others short shrift

to ethics of news.

Like porn plots, holes skewed--

they think market can tell the diff?



One month until Daily Limerick reaches Eight Years of, er, service!...

So, now "Democrat" and one-time Dem Party/Liberal Movement Savior Joseph Lieberman is calling for a third war against Iran, considering how swimmingly the other two are going and the fact that we have oh-so-many military resources just at the ready!

Meanwhile, "progressive" folks are rallying to recruit Al Gore for another presidential run!


Gore...Lieberman... Aren't they connected somehow?... May want to think on this a bit, "progressive" folks...



Viagra, Cialis demand

comes from modern, out-of-shape man.

But where's the drug fit

for the opposite--

for those wanting "down!" on command?



Twenty-nine days until Daily Limerick reaches Eight Years of, er, service!...

DL/S&Y update on a time-honored saying:

Those who are well versed in history STILL usually repeat the mistakes of the past...



TODAY'S EDITION: Diversity in Eggs

Poached. Fried--over-easy, over-medium, over-hard... Hard-boiled. Soft-boiled.

There are so many different ways to enjoy the delight of eggs. And that's keeping with the eggs themselves, without getting into omelets or their use as but one ingredient in a larger dish.

I often hard-boil a few when in a hurry, or when it seems too hot to turn on the oven. Recently, I reacquainted myself with the splendor of the soft-boiled egg, with loads of butter.

And then there's the majority (seemingly, anyway): Scrambled. Always scrambled.

Now, scrambling is one of the easiest ways to prepare eggs at home. I'll give you that. But here's a tip: When you order out... Get something else! Over-easy, for instance, is a tricky way to cook eggs--take advantage of the fact that, in eating out, somebody else is cooking!

Scrambled eggs. Pfft!



Joe Lieberman says, "Hit Iran!"

(Guess THREE failure fronts is his plan.)

But credit is due

for his whackjob views

are certainly non-partisan!



Twenty-eight days until Daily Limerick reaches Eight Years of, er, service!...

A committee of medical experts is urging that doctors call obese children "obese."

This is necessary, they say, because sugar-coating it with euphemisms doesn't... Ahem.

But what good is the nation's health if we ignore our major political goal: Making sure nobody, anywhere, for any reason, gets upset or offended?...



This ninny checks in regarding yesterday's "Eat It!" food section, in which we pondered the many possibilities available for egg eating contrasted with the fact that most folks order the same 'ol scrambled everything they breakfast out:

> One of the best ways to eat eggs when you're out and about: Eggs Benedict.


> One of the best ways to eat eggs when you're NOT out and about: Not eggs

> Benedict. They take too long to prepare.

Now THERE we go! This is how it's meant to be! An idea is thrown out and Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers flesh things out. A back-and-forth. A dialogue! Together we can...well, annoy the world, anyway...



A medical expert committee

says, "Docs, say 'obese'--and don't pretty

the words for young fatties!" (?)

First goal, modern chat-ty?--

No one takes offense or feels shitty!



Twenty-seven days until Daily Limerick reaches Eight Years of, er, service!...

Okay... We always THINK this but, upon consideration, wonder if its insensitive or something but...well, here goes:

Is sitting on your ass, annoyingly rattling a can of change, supposed to garner sympathy? Is there truly no better way to say, "I'm really working hard to get my life back together but need a little help?"...




This is a local issue, and a personal one, but it affects underground entertainment in the U.S.' third largest city and, indirectly or by osmosis or something, our larger cultural landscape.

I serve as emcee/"comedic" relief/game show host, between the acts of these multi-band, live music shows in the city known as "Flabby Hoffman Caravans," which are taped and excerpted on a local cable-access program called, oddly enough, "The Flabby Hoffman Show," which also features cartoons, in-studio antics and political and social commentary.

Now, spurred by the bad behavior of one particular band out of zillions we've booked over three years, one of the primo venues in Chicago (short of the stadiums), the Subterranean, has given our show the boot.

So if you have nothing better to do--and, let's face it, you're Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers--e-mail or call these folks to give us the venue back:

derron@housecallent.com or 773-278-6600

But take note and if you contact them... Well, here's some advice from Flabby Hoffman himself:

"...Make sure to be civil and polite (or possibly even anonymous saying you are from a local band and *67 the call) so as not to get blackballed like I have."

Sheesh. "Blackballed"? I've been blue-balled, which is awful enough but I'm not even sure exactly what that'd be... (Shudder.)

Well, enough self-indulgence. But, in any event, it might not be too late to make yourself useful...



A smokin' hot girlie named Robin

set many a guy's cock to throbbin'

but... Dream's of blowjob?

No chance for those slobs--

only 'tween CHICKS' legs she'd go bobbin'!



Twenty-six days until Daily Limerick reaches Eight Years of, er, service!...

Now, I'm not the type of guy to go nutty for lesbians, as most of my ilk do. (Chief Limericist checking in, here.) Or perhaps that's more properly "lesbians," what with their girly-girl makeup and pillow fights.

As far as I'm concerned, they want nothing to do with me sexually. I mean, a couple of bi- women, both into me, is an appealing idea, of course but... Anyway, I'm certainly not the type to go ga-ga for an attractive lesbian I meet in my regular routine. Yeah, yeah, yeah--there's the Forbidden Fruit thing, I guess but... I have enough troubles in this area without trying to "convert."

Then, the other night, flirtatious banter ensued and a new rejection technique kicked me in the spiritual nuts: "I'm a lesbian."

And it appears we may become friends, and she's into off-color jokery and such, and she physically looks a lot like a "lesbian," what with painted toenails and the whole shot and... Well, now I'm smitten.

Smitten as all shit, in fact.

So perhaps over all these years of nay-saying, I've finally seen the light.

Or perhaps I've just seen the pitch black tunnel...



> Hey Sloop,


> Could you please remove me from your mailing list?


> Best,

> Kyle



> --

> Kyle Ryan

> Chicago City Editor, The Onion A.V. Club


We're just gonna start saying that even The Onion is reading Daily Limerick, and leave it at that...



Word is, Paris Hilton "found God."

(The pairing does seem rather odd.)

Don't think that she lies--

just thinks he's some guy

heard much of, so must have nice bod.



Twenty-five days until Daily Limerick reaches Eight Years of, er, service!...

Without having yet achieved a Palestinian nation, a civil war has broken out between Hamas and the more West-friendly Fatah party.

But remind yourself, of course, that it's Israel's fault that a Palestinian state doesn't exist. You know, that's the "progressive," "liberal" thing.

This is also probably an investment in the Palestinian "Cause's" future. It'll be nice to have enemies to kill when there ain't any Jews handy...

China is censoring DVDs of whichever sequel to "Pirates of the Caribbean" they have now--removing the appearance of a Chinese pirate whom they find to be enforcing old stereotypes.

Wow. Yet this somehow rings a bell... Is there some other less than free society obsessed with censoring "offensive" portrayals of various ethnic groups?... Give us a second; it'll come to us...

President Bush will reportedly veto a bill that passed through Congress that would allot more spending toward veterans medical needs.

Well. He has to show he's fiscally conservative SOMEHOW...

Today and went clothes shopping.

And, in a rarity for me, I took a whole lotta time trying on items...then re-trying them on...asking questions...looking in the mirror... Well:

It was for HATS.

Replacing the worn out derby with birthday money and picking up a better summertime number.

And, well... Folks, Freddy Krueger is NOT the only person to ever wear a fedora-like number.

While I'm on the topic, derbies have appeared in hundreds of movies besides "A Clockwork Orange"...




(Touching in some manner, anyway)

TODAY'S EDITION: "Star Truck" and "The Lonely Ranger"

As a shaver, and as an adolescent, I produced a number of "cassette dramas," a bit like radio dramas, except they weren't broadcast anywhere and I guess most of them would be more properly dubbed "cassette comedies."

I still have some of them, but the ones I write of today are probably lost to the ages, unless my old friends are bogartin' copies.

So I thought today I'd tell of these drama/comedies so they aren't entirely lost to the ages (although Daily Limerick's archives are at least on the border of Lost to the Ages-astan).

"Star Truck" was about interstellar trucking, or at least the plot vaguely followed the theme enough to call it a "Star Trek" parody, including the characters Captain Jerk and...I forget the bad pun on Spock. The recording revolved around two juvenile gags.

My friend found that, when he threw his little, metal bedroom trashcans around, on cassette tape it sounded like someone flying into a bunch of garbage cans. So, curiously enough, the story line had somebody flying into trashcans every other scene or so.

And Captain Jerk was otherwise mostly concerned with going to the shitter, which was, of course, a noisy affair, with a lot of grunting, too, as he, for some odd reason, also happened to be heavily constipated.

The most memorable line came from the captain as he opened a bathroom stall, having to go to the can really bad, and found it occupied: "Hey! You--get off that pot!" (Followed by the sounds of the former stall occupant being tossed into trashcans.)

"The Lonely Ranger" featured a ranger who often whimpered, "I'm SOOO lonely!" and parodied, of course, "The Lone Ranger." Sorta. He was after the villain, Peg-Leg Pete who... Well, this plot centered around a sound effect find as well.

When my friend and I shook this...it was a plastic box filled with balls; don't recall its intended use...well, it made a crunching noise. So Peg-Leg Pete was engaged in the nefarious practice of...crunching guys' balls with a monkey wrench.


I guess I've already typed this out, but perhaps it IS best left lost to the ages...







TODAY'S POEM: A form of play


Your words melt my words

to their bones.

Sealed in a cave,

they sometimes rattle and click

in the groaning dark. It's a form

of play;

it keeps them from being dead.


Such playacting allows me

to conjure you as a figure

obscured by the mid-morning sun.

Too bright to stare at directly.

No details emerge that way,

so no apologies need be given.


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



In reaction to Friday's Limerick, about how we've become so afraid of upsetting anybody via language that a committee of medical experts has to tell doctors to go ahead and use the word "obese" so that parents take their children's health seriously:

> being an obese person, i find the word obese equally as discouraging.


I do think a point was missed somewhere here.

Why don't we just ditch language altogether and go WAY retro, back to grunting an pointing?...

Then my cousin checks in with this Sunday Story Time suggestion:

> Tell the smooch story. That was the best.

Problem is, I don't remember what the hell he's talking about. It rings a vague bell, off in the distance.

So I'm waiting to hear more from him. To jog my memory. Massage it a bit. Perhaps give it a happy ending...



Though, in "Pirates" sales, China cashes,

Chinese character, onto, latches--

so from copies wipes

it as ster'yotype

much like our U.S. P.C. Fascists!



Twenty-four days until Daily Limerick reaches Eight Years of, er, service!...

An upcoming Fox television show, "Anchorwoman," is already causing a bit of a hubbub. Well, among TV journalists, anyway.

The show will take a woman, a model with no journalistic experience or training, and try making her into a...well, a TV news anchorwoman.

These "reality" TV "challenges" just keep getting lamer and lamer. At least do the reverse--have a TV journalist try to handle a model's job--so some sort of struggle can be witnessed...



By David Sher


TODAY'S HAIKU: Crescat Scientia Haiku


Seventy Nobels*

Three space observatories

One Heisman Trophy


*as of 1998


[If you'd like to contact the Haiku Doctor, e-mail him at davew9lya@juno.com.]



Concerning yesterday's Sunday Story Time:

> Hi, John. Ah, so you have a series of lost tapes too, eh?

> They sound about as mature as mine -- a friend and I had this

> band called "Pubic Insole" (I think it was a pun off of Public

> Enemy?). I was the songwriter and he was the instrumentalist.

> Which means, I spent much of my teenage years singing about

> dung beetles and warehouses where you find salvaged junk and

> epics about nuclear war and this terrible fast food place famous

> for their "Big Apples" desserts. Meanwhile, George played demo

> patches off of my Yamaha keyboard as backup -- and occasionally,

> since I was an intermediate pianist, I'd wing a solo. We lasted

> for something like five years, but thank god we never actually

> performed. Though we were delusional enough to actually consider

> sending one of our songs, about polluted tap water, with lines

> like "Holy logs of crotch rot/Are inside your faucet" (I was a

> poet even then!), to the local radio station. Thank Christ we

> chickened out. Still, I gotta say, looking back on it, I had a

> good time. Even though I'd be a little embarrassed if anyone

> today actually heard our output. Embarrassed and morbidly

> interested in their reactions.


> Mike

"Public Insole," huh? A big step on your route to becoming a poet, it seems. At least you tried to toe the line, even if you didn't make any money to foot the bills. Who cares if folks would've thought of you as a couple of heels... Ahem. But enough about you.

Be suspicious of anybody who DOESN'T have embarrassing incidents in their past...



An upcoming show aims to see

if model to anchor can be

without normal training

TV news complaining--

afraid to face "reality."



Twenty-three until Daily Limerick reaches Eight Years of, er, service!...

Jessica Alba, and other Hollywood types, successfully pressed Endeavor Talent Agency to drop Paris Hilton from its client list as she's an "embarrassment."

Confidential to Paris in Prison:

A talent agency's role is to find work for those with actual talent. It isn't in the business of SELLING talent to those who have none... For that matter, talent isn't a commodity that can easily be bought or sold and... Well, we won't go into that concept now; one lesson at a time, Paris...

Continuing story headline:

"Gizmo Provides Ringtones for Your Landline Phone"

Is there really a market for that? Isn't the point of ringtones to annoy the fuck out of...er, to "express yourself" in public?...



Now Paris, at real stars' behest:

Dropped from agency of prime crest.

Yo, girl--agencies

don't sell talent, see?

You're out of luck, with it unblessed!



Twenty-two days until Daily Limerick reaches Eight Years of, er, service!...

It kinda sucks when a politician you consider an enemy comes down with cancer, doesn't it? Tough to figure out how to react...

Seattle is using some of the government money it receives to combat alcoholism and addiction problems to...pay for apartments where alcoholics can get liquored and stay unemployed in!

Authorities claim it actually saves money when compared to the traditional way of dealing with it, which includes emergency room visits and such.

Nonetheless...the principle here is bothersome. Taxpayer funded debauchery? Who do these drunks and addicts think they are--politicians?...

Quote from Ben Silverman, NBC entertainment chairman:

"I scour the world for the best ideas and for the game-changing hit shows."

I guess that's necessary, considering that we can't count on Hollywood for new ideas...


"Boy Bands' Creator Will Face Trial in U.S."

Yes! And this guy is responsible for both the Backstreet Boys AND N'Sync!

But...it appears they nabbed him for a different crime--something bankruptcy related.

At least they got 'em--they could only nab Al Capone on tax charges, after all...




Was pondering the question recently: What would I have for a "last meal." You know, provided I'm about to be executed or whatever. Which, by the way, I'm not counting on but... Interesting question.

And I have no answer.

I'd be tempted to say, "Surprise me"--but I don't think I could trust a stranger with the decision. How can you decide, among all the foods out there? Even allowing for the fact that most death row folks facing the question go gluttonous?

I suppose I might make a decision if I had a taste for something. Or recent eatings might influence the decision--that is, if I had Mexican food during the week previous, I could strike "burrito" off the list of possibilities.

But... Oh, now I'm getting all flustered! And it's only a HYPOTHETICAL question! But the point is, I don't know how I'd decide!

Breathe...don't forget to breathe...



New tech will bring choice of ringtone

to our landline, old-fashioned phones.

But they're 'bout annoying

"expression" employing

to mass public--no good at home!



Twenty-one days until Daily Limerick reaches Eight Years of, er, service!...

Hillary Clinton has produced a Web-video that spoofs... Whoah!

Hillary! A modern Democrat utilizing humor? You don't find us playing with cannons and, knowing nothing of their usage, blasting away our own Daily Limerick Towers! Have you learned nothing from John Kerry and Harry Reid?...

A proposal in the U.S. Senate to hit Big Oil with $29 billion in new taxes, to pay for energy conservation initiatives, advanced Tuesday.

No...they won't just pass the buck on to consumers with even greater gas prices increases. Nawww...

The Vatican has released a new 10 Commandments for drivers.

Knowing the Church's commitment to modernity, we're guessing they apply to horse and carriage drivers...

Chicago is embarking on an ambitious project to count the downtown homeless population.

Guess the mayor has trouble sleeping sometimes...



This mope checks in on yesterday's "Eat It!" section, which pondered the idea of having to choose a last meal:

> Last meal? That's easy! Roast pork, garlic mashed potatoes, Brussels sprouts

> with walnuts, buttered and salted spinach, and for desert, a piece of

> chocolate pie. And a delicious dark beer to drink. Every day should be

> last meal!

I'd elaborate further on your philosophy and urge Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers to "Eat every meal as if it's the last" but, well, it appears most Americans are already doing that...



From war on condoms and gay marriage

the Vatican breaks to disparage

rude driving with Ten

Commandments from when,

knowing them, days of horse and carriage!



Twenty days until Daily Limerick reaches Eight Years of, er, service!...

Tip for you homeless Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers:

(What? They can read at the library or something. Or perhaps they found something wi-fi... Anyway:)

You may want to sit somewhere other than right in front of the liquor store when asking for money for "coffee" or "something to eat."

Might improve...business, or whatever you call it...

The other day I walked by an outdoor dining cafe, took a glance at a pretty face and... She made eye contact and held it for a moment or so.

Which is, of course, a sign. Even I know that much (Chief Limericist checking in, here). See, women can't come out and SAY what they want or mean, perhaps for fear of having it "on record" when the inevitable time comes for heart-rippin' but... Ahem. (Chief Limericist's wannabe bitter side being checked out, here.)

Well, first of all, you have to work up some nerve in such a situation and, then, what do you say? "Noticed you eyeballin' me..."?

I know, I know. I should "visualize" stuff like this now and then, including a positive outcome. Should just walk up and say "hi" in such a situation. But this one had an additional complication. She was seated with another chick. Which, I suppose, is less intimidating than sitting with a guy... (Tip to chicks: Even if he's a friend, guys most ALWAYS assume that, if you're with a male, you're unavailable--and being unavailable doesn't, in general, turn US on--it send us to running.)

So... Well, as many of us learn on the playground as boys, girls up the Evil Factor in numbers, gathering like sharks, able to smell nervousness and... Ahem. (Stay checked out, bitter side!)

Anyway, in order to hit on Eye Contact Girl, it would take, to use a term a long-time friend of mine, Luis Limardo, coined, "balls of brass."

So... All you single chicks? Sit around outside, all by yourself, waiting for the likes of me to happen by! Please?...



TODAY'S EDITION: Slazenger 7

Funny, but I almost want to dub these guys "geek rock" and yet...they sorta pull off a "geeks are sexy" kinda thing. Well, at least the chick singer, Molly does. (See their site pics). Can't speak much about the guys, not having a penis oriented in that direction--although they do seem hipper than the average geeks.

The act shows a wonderful attention to lyrics. I recall the words (or was it a refrain?), "Thinking of all the times I masturbated thinking about you." Wow! Takes me back to junior high! Only...I don't remember JH being all that "sexy" for me.

Hell, takes me back to last weekend... Anyway:




A chef worked near Lake Titicaca;

found himself not gettin' a lotta.

Made girl of his wishes

with edible dishes--

including bodacious fri-tatas!



Nineteen days until Daily Limerick reaches Eight Years of, er, service!...

During sex, do people in Indiana say, "Hoosier daddy?"

Just wondering...

Happy first Extra Cheezy Saturday of Summer 2007!...



Though non-partisan, mood is sunny,

with strong Democrats in the running.

A change...but I'm wary:

Hey, Hil, think John Kerry...

Today's "lib'rals" shouldn't do "funny"!



Eighteen days until Daily Limerick reaches Eight Years of, er, service!...

Early Warning:

Taco Bell will soon be test marketing breakfast offerings.

Or perhaps it's something more optimistic than a "warning," for those of you who find yourselves not hitting the bathroom often enough during the work day...

I'm no handyman. My father is quite mechanically inclined, as is, embarrassingly enough, my sister, so I've been ribbed about my lack of skills over my whole life. Been occasionally nicknamed things like "Mr. Goodwrench" and such.

I think it mostly boils down to the fact that I'm not interested in such endeavors. Interest is a big factor in all of our skills. I've always been inclined toward language and artsy (some would add, "-fartsy") stuff and, thus, I've been "good" at such things, through school and otherwise.

But I wasn't bad at, say, math, per se--when I had to do it. Likewise, over the years as I've had to fix things around the place and such, I've discovered that I'm not naturally "bad" at handy things. Just was never crazy about them and so I have little practice and didn't acquire the base skills involved early on.

Of course, there's the argument that maybe you like certain endeavors BECAUSE you're good at them, but that's getting into a chicken/egg argument and I'm already digressing.

I'd like to pass a tip on to Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers for solving/fixing many mechanical-esque problems: Beat on the object in question. It works wonders.

The other day I was shaving and my shaver wasn't working so well. I procured a screwdriver and tightened/loosened things. (One screw existed for the sole purpose of adjustment.) I couldn't get the damn thing to work properly

So I beat it against the sink a couple times.

Works like brand new now!

I've used this method over the years on many things, coffee grinders to flashlights to printers and even a computer once. Always successful! Well, maybe not ALWAYS but... Ahem:

Daily Limerick/Slappin' and Yappin' takes no responsibility for results achieved through its recommended actions. Side effects, which are not really applicable here, include anal leakage, only because we're amused over any mention of "anal leakage"...




(Touching in some manner, anyway)


Today's edition was spurred through our e-request line, for what it's worth.

Regular Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers know that I have a hideously checkered past, including a less than healthy relationship with alcohol. Today's tale comes from a time when my waking hours meant booze in the blood.

I was in my early twenties, living back home with the parents after a failed stint at college, working a grunt job and all that noise. The social life was less than hoppin', with most of my high school friends either off at college or having moved on to bigger towns. So when I'd hear of a rare party involving folks in my home social circle, I'd jump at the chance, regardless of how flimsy my connection to the party throwers might be.

So one winter night, I'd been given vague directions to such a party and I went with my pals, the vodka bottle and box of mini cigars, driving to find it. Unsuccessfully. I drove around the subdivision, tried nearby subdivisions, repeatedly cruised along the same streets, looking for a surplus of cars or the "red garage door" (or whatever vague directives I had to work with)... Nothing.

When I was just about ready to give up, I drove off the road into the snow. No big deal, I thought then, happens all the time...but when I tried to pull back on the road, I found that I was stuck. (I would later learn that I hit a woodpile in the ditch.)

So after gunning the motor and trying reverse and blah blah blah, I resigned myself to my fate, stuck my box of cigars under my arm and went walking to flag down some help and/or a ride home.

I hadn't even reached the main road when a pickup truck slowed, its driver starting to honk. It pulled to a stop and out comes...a "friend" of mine from high school. Well, more of a "guy I knew in high school." We'll call him...Pudge. (As always in Sunday Story Time, names have been changed to protect the innocent and the, more likely, somewhat less than innocent.)

Pudge had a big belly, was freckled in a "trouble-causing kid next door" kinda way and wore his hair long. It was hair that, like mine, didn't work well long. Frizzy, thin, and curling in a way that belied its length--which defeated the intended, metal effect.

Pudge was a year or two younger than I... I think. He was the type of kid whom you remembered, whom you could say you "knew"...but never interacted much with. He had a reputation as a geek, or some subgenre of geek (the term comprises many types), but I got along with many geeks, having been one, off and on, myself.

So Pudge gave me a ride home. Grateful, I invited him in for a beer or two and he had, indeed, a beer or two. Or three. Or four. Mooched some cigars off me. Preferred cigarettes, and mooched a healthy amount of them from my parents.

He repeatedly chuckled his way through the tale of how he found me that night, including his assertion that you could follow a trail of cigars from the point I'd walked to on back to the car. (The way I was carrying my cigar box, like a football, and my liquored state probably testify to some truth in his claim, although I'm sure it was exaggerated as well.) He also repeatedly claimed that he'd "saved my life," which was certainly poppycock, as I was dressed for the weather and it wasn't THAT cold to begin with.

Pudge stayed for hours. It didn't take long to grow annoyed with him, but then I'd feel guilt for being annoyed, as he did help me out. We had the car towed from the ditch the next day, finding no real damage to it (just another ding or two in the frame).

Within a day or two, Pudge calls me. He needs to go to a job interview in a semi-near suburb, but his dad has the car he usually uses and he's stuck with a gas-guzzling truck, so can I drive him to the interview? I agreed.

He pulled up in this monstrosity of a vehicle, the likes of which I'd never seen before and hadn't seen since. This was before our societal fetish for unneeded SUVs, but this thing dwarfed a Hummer. And it was a worn, loud jalopy to boot.

So I took Pudge to his job interview and then...he's hungry. And broke. So I "offer" to buy him a meal, although I don't have cash on me, just a credit card. So we pull into a couple restaurants until we find one called "The Vault" that takes credit cards, with Pudge doing the asking. I don't remember much about the meal, and I usually do. So it was likely average, and boring at that.

Soon, Pudge starts dropping by all the time. Mooching beers, if it's toward evening anyway, cigs off the parents and cigars off me otherwise. Soon, he's dropping by even when I'm not home. My mom complained that he'd just hang out, saying things like, "That soup smells good."

I witnessed him walk up to my dad in our yard, while pop was filling a bird feeder with seed. Pudge mouthed something, dad set down the seed bag, mid chore, pulled his cigarette pack from his shirt pocked and tapped one out for Pudge, rolling his eyes ever so slightly. Pudge once scared the hell out of my mom when she was doing laundry in the basement. Crept up behind her and...bummed a smoke.

Pudge even tried mooching my sister, for Elvis' sake! One day she came out of the shower to find him sitting in the kitchen, which prompted him asking who her fresh baked batch of cookies were for. Soon enough, he came by in his dated "dancing shoes" to ask her to a night out on the town.

Needless to say, the mooching got out of hand. It went on for months, far repaying any debt he may have been owed for "saving" me from the car mishap.

One morning I awoke to some commotion. My mom soon informed me that Pudge had come by to mooch...a shower? (His home plumbing wasn't working, allegedly.) Remembering the date, I said, "Ha, ha. April Fool's."

But he did, indeed, try to mooch a shower. I guess he caught my father off guard (my mom ran to the store or something). My dad spun a quick story so he "had to get going" and drove off aimlessly--calling my mom from a phone booth at a gas station, making sure somebody was home, and that Pudge was gone, before he'd return to the house. (While cell phones existed at the time, they were mostly for a snooty market at the time. Which I sometimes long for now.)

By that point, we were avoiding Pudge. Saying we were about to leave whenever he arrived, claiming I wasn't home whenever he'd call for me, etc. He'd worn out the guilt power of his Ditch Aid.

One time after the famed attempted shower mooch, my parents saw Pudge entering a Burger King where they were dining. "Oh no--it's Pudge!" my dad said, spotting him. "Let's get out of here--quick, before he notices."

They successfully shook him that time. I never saw Pudge again.

Must've "saved" somebody else around then...







TODAY'S POEM: With all due respect to androids


Welcome, robot, to a new planet.

Your first order: forget your programming

and explore the vast expanse

as though you were a pioneer with a heart.


But how do you let go your commands

and settle sweetly into the orange dust,

watch an alien sunrise from an airless void

with a tinge of real feeling growing?


Let me know if you find the way.

I am the crashed spacecraft you took here.

I am sending out a distress signal.

And you are the only one who hears it.


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



For pundits, employed or freelancer,

the question's tough--what is the answer?

How do you react

when pol you attack

as enemy comes down with cancer?



Seventeen days until Daily Limerick reaches Eight Years of, er, service!...

Headline bearing "tip" for prescription drug users:

"One Secret to Good Health: Follow Directions"

In case you're wondering about the average brain power of the "USA Weekend" reader demographic...

In honor of National Coming Out Day and the Gay Pride Parade that passed within a block of my place yesterday, I...locked myself up in the house and caught up on some reading.

Chief Limericist checked in, here.

I support the cause and all. And I thought about reading outside but...well, it seemed fitting to "make myself trapped" inside, as a sacrifice, of sorts, for all the gays and lesbians who found themselves trapped and avoiding society over the centuries.

That and, well, chances are I'd feel the urge to strike up a conversation with an attractive chick--and I really don't need to add another confusing twist to the typical "boyfriend" and "not ready for a relationship" and "here's my number--I won't call you back!" potpourri of boondoggles that has become my "romantic" life...



By David Sher




My surgeon told me

He was pleased that I came through;

Not as pleased as I!


[If you'd like to contact the Haiku Doctor, e-mail him at davew9lya@juno.com.]



To growing fast-food breakfast well:

Off'rings to come from Taco Bell!

This heralds new way

to start out your day

by blasting your colon to hell!



Sixteen days until Daily Limerick reaches Eight Years of, er, service!...

Quote from Elizabeth Edwards, wife of Democratic presidential candidate (yeah, right) John Edwards:

"I'm completely comfortable with gay marriage"

Now, Elizabeth. Sure, he IS a lawyer. And there's really no individual left, what with the focus groups and all but... Isn't there an easier way out?...

Nearly 1 million U.S. kids now have personal trainers.

Hey. You gotta cull that American lack of self-discipline early!...

A tournament featuring four U.S. baseball teams went down last weekend in Hempstead, New York.

In attendance, reportedly, were Chicago Cubs scouts...

(Yeah, yeah, yeah--the White Sox are doing even worse right now. But at least they have hope...)



Liz Edwards says she's fine and well

with gay marriage... Chose NOW to tell?

There must be a more simple

way to pop "John" pimple's

focused-group, human being shell!



Fifteen days until Daily Limerick reaches Eight Years of, er, service!...

So the National Doctors' Union...Er, American Medical Association wants the Feds to look into retail-based health clinics, alleging a possible financial-based conflict of interest.

Hmmm... Pharmaceutical companies... Doctors' monopolies... This is beyond the old cliche. This is the pot calling the kettle...a pot.



TODAY'S EDITION: Bob Evans, 1918-2007

Bob Evans was a great man. (Sniff.) Perhaps best known for...(sniff)...er, those sausages...mmm, those sausages, he...(sniff, sniff).... Ahem. He died at the age of 62 this past week and... Waaaahhh! Waaahh!...

("Eat It!" is taking the rest of the day off to recuperate. It will appear in its regularly scheduled slot next week.)



So Congress, o'er real fix nonplussed,

makes requisite gas prices fuss.

Says, "Let's tax Big Oil--

take some of their spoils"--

but cost would get passed on to us.



Fourteen days until Daily Limerick reaches Eight Years of, er, service!...

This just in...(to us, anyway)... People Magazine has book reviews!

We read something about a mystery novel reviewed therein.

Didn't know there were "mystery novels" composed mostly of pictures...



> Hello, I am unavailable to read your message at this time.

Pathetically enough, this is one of the most insightful, erudite letters DL/S&Y has yet received!



Now People's stars' ass-licking "news"

I found also has...book reviews?

And myst'ries, to boot!

I thought those galoots

who read it need pics to peruse!?!



Thirteen days until Daily Limerick reaches Eight Years of, er, service!...


"Cruise as WWII Hero Irritates Germans"

See? Even though the Bush Admin has causes some divisiveness on the international level, there are still some things we can all come together and agree on...



TODAY'S EDITION: ...And That's Just What I'll Do

"Entertain (My)self," that is.

Celebratory day. Leaving an indentured servitude-y job with the most Dickensian boss of my life after today's shift.

Any excuse for the World's Worst Music Critic to take a d



A pin-dicked, half-Asian young mutt

took home a full-on, honkin' slut

so loose that... They fucked,

he thrust hard--got stuck

inside, swallowed clear past his nuts!



Twelve days until Daily Limerick reaches Eight Years of, er, service!...

Summertime tip for you guy Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers:

When it's so hot that you're...well, roastin' your nuts off, why not honey roast 'em, to keep 'em tasty for the ladies? Just salt 'em up, then dip your nuts in honey before sliding on your underwear.

Um... Try it...NOW!?...

Daily Limericks/Slappin' and Yappin' assumes no responsibility for readers' results in using the techniques it blathers on about. Results not typical. When combining Slappin' and Yappin' with drugs or alcohol...


Send your own Letter to the Idiot and/or e-mail Sloop! (And attach sexy pics, if you insist. Sigh.)


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