Daily Limerick
Archives: August 2011

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)!



Brett Favre rumors once more appear--

un-un-un-retiring this year?

He's back! No, done...back?

One sure Flake Boy fact--

he's Elvis of pro sports careers!



You know what makes for a really kick-ass evening?

Well, at least if what you call you "life" is pathetic.

It's when... Actually, we take that back. Or semi-take it back. Nothing wrong with hangin' at home. Of course, that should be part of a balanced "life" diet of going out on the town here and there, everything in moderation, yadda blah blah yadda.

Anyway, back to kick-ass... You're watching an old horror flick on TV and, curiously enough, the scene features a loud thunderstorm.

At the same time, a fearsome thunderstorm kicks-in at right outside your walls, in reality.

All part of life in the...bike lane...



I can't sweep this under the rug--

why ain't sitcom characters bug-

ging out while they fritter

through laugh tracks with jitters?...

They always hold damn coffee mugs!



May have accidentally stumbled across my Halloween costume especially early this year.

Chief Limericist checking-in, here.

Perhaps the creative juices were flowing more than usual thanks to the fact that my recent outpatient operation, fixing bone/cartilage blocking a sinus, brought me some pain pills--and funny how, whenever they tell you to only take 'em should you feel pain, a little bit of pain surfaces, oft out of nowhere, come night and relaxation time... Anyhoo.

Not a horrible ordeal to recover from, but there's some nasal bleeding, necessitating taping gauze beneath the nose to catch the blood.

In replacing this gauze, I continually engage in the artistry of crafting ever smaller pieces beneath the schnoz, enough to stem the flow but as unobtrusive as possible.

Therefore... Hitler Claus!...



Wishing summer'd just go away...

Wond'ring... What turned brightness to grey?

It's adult concerns!

Crave child's view return...

A lightening bug helps show the way!



Who says a Limerick can't be sappy?...



TODAY'S EDITION: Jumping the Carbed Wire Fence

I am missing breakfast since I started this stupid diet of low carbs and high fats.

But if I could have me some breakfast food right now, I would want something from Bongo Room in Wicker Park. This place serves up a delicious BLT Benedict to kiss me for. Check out the link for more info and pics.


[For more info. and what not... http://monteism.blogspot.com/]



Mike Vick--"To, 'gainst dog fighting, grapple

parents must tell kids not to dabble!"

Thought kids nat'rally

liked pets?... Silly me!

World's all victims--ain't no bad apples!



Dateline NORWAY headline (supplemented with a pic of that Anders Behring Breivik mega-loser)--

"Extremists Flocking to Facebook for Recruits"

As we continue questioning how in the world we ever got by before the positive contributions of social networking sites to society...



Though Ramadan now has been teed-up--

'round retail folks, 'bout it, don't speak up!

They'll seize any reason,

cry, "Holiday Season!"--

and soon have the damn Christmas trees up!



Here's an actual ad.

Printed in THIS economy.

With THIS job situation.


"Begin Your Career as a Cake Artist"

Note, this isn't about learning all the aspects of being a chef.

Or even all the aspects of pastries and such.

Very specific.

"Cake artist."

We imagine there's some seedy, scam tie-in to all those snooze-inducing "Cake Boss" shows on cable... In any event, ahem.

Okay. To anybody who actually would consider enrolling in such a course, and paying relevant tuition dough... Just send us the money.

Okay, just send us half the money.

You can bypass the coursework and get to the same point immediately--head fry cook (if you're lucky)...



TODAY'S EDITION: If a Section Just Sits There Empty for Months and Months?...

...Is it REALLY a "section"?...



Oft used boast among friends of Ron--

"Fucked her brains out!" Term stoked male bond.

Cliche tall tale, yet...

He so nailed brunette

that it turned true--banged her to blonde!




When you describe someone as, say, "celebrity chef Such N. Such"... Well, by definition, a celebrity need not BE identified...

Happy Extra Cheezy Saturday...

Chances are, YOU'RE a "celebrity"!...



When scribes point out someone's a hot one--

"celebrity chef," say, did spot one,

if must say he/she

is "celebrity"...

Well, by def, that means he/she's NOT one!



There was a time when nobody could've imagined needing an actual mortgage/loan to purchase a home or car.

People just bought those things.

There was also a time when people just paid for any doctors' services needed, as well.

So, with rising cable costs and concert ticket prices (etc.), and considering the wishy-washy Feds' approval of mergers like TicketMaster and Live Nation... Well, we hate to even THINK it, but... Could "Entertainment Insurance" be a future necessity?...




(Touching in some manner, anyway)

TODAY'S EDITION: The Creepy Gay Lush in the Other Room, Chapter Twenty-Five--A Hint as to Where He's Moving From Here

One afternoon my trusty door buzzer introduced another visitor for Cleveland.

This was one of those rare occasions when not only did someone answer when I said, "Hello" through the system (and thus was not a UPS/FedEx schmo simply seeking to drop a package), but he spoke clearly and his words were discernible through the sketchy device. So I buzzed him up, rather than run down the stairs.

I headed to my door preparing for the regular spiel, "I THINK Cleveland's here, but I don't think he's, er, awake..." but this guy preempted it, knowing the score.

"Don't worry if he's sleeping or out-of-it or whatever. I've spoken with him. He'll want to see me."

I indicated for him to go for it, he knocked on Cleveland's bedroom door, entered and I heard them chatter for a few minutes before the guy left, with the visitor's voice being most frequent and most audible.

This character indulged a similar visit one more time...I think. Perhaps two more times. Perhaps once or twice that I wasn't aware of, to boot.

Now, it helps to have been through the whole addiction/recovery grind, but I knew exactly what kinda cat this guy was seconds after meeting him. Smiley, cheery, all that jazz.

See, when members of 12-Step groups reach the 12th Step, it's time for them to "carry the message" to other addicts. That's right--the language doesn't say "help other addicts stop drinking/using" or even a vague "help other addicts" but the very telling "carry the message"...but I'm not gonna digress into my complaints about the questionably successfully, unquestionably religious nature of such groups.

At first, I thought maybe he was just integrating Cleveland into AA meetings. But the language I DID overhear, coupled with Cleveland's side of his cell conversations, soon clued me in to the fact that Lushy was hitting a famous Chicago recovery retreat after leaving the premises. A nonprofit, religiously affiliated rehab house.

That, of course, is redundant. The 12 Steps are lousy with God stuff to begin with, but combining them with an actual religion (AKA one that ADMITS it is a religion)... Well, he was gonna have to get Jesus--and get Jesus hard.

Judging from the overall stats on the success of Big Rehab, most people have a difficult time with that. Knowing Cleveland, although not very well... Let's just say I didn't have a lot of hope.

At least not for him. But I was beginning to see the light of this tale, and this sprawling written treatment of it, finally ending...

Coming Next Week--The Great Straighten-Up...

And catch up on earlier chapters of this tale, and other Sunday Story Time fare, via the Daily Limerick Archives...







TODAY'S POEM: Universal play


Heaven has gained an angel.

Unless you don't believe

in heaven or angels.


Then, the earth has gained

a body. Unless you

burned the body.


The sky has earned some smoke.

You should never mistake

the flyaway ash


as the dusty, pigmented

sidewalk chalk

thick in children's hands.


[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.]



Uncalmed by Feds half-assed assurance

that merger "rules" will bring deterrence--

Live Nation, TixMaster

monop'ly disaster.

Soon need "entertainment insurance"!



According to strict calendar definitions, we're now officially half-way through the Summer of 2011.

Pfft. What a freakin' summer.

Chief Limericist checked-in, here.

Over the midway point, though. All downhill from here.

Or since it's been a downward spiral, is it all uphill from here?...



As the nation's bods turn to pork

anti-chub schemes marketers torque--

some exercise? Diet?

That's work--folks won't try it!

Now researchers say... Smaller forks?



A summer day in the Midwest that's... Warm but pleasantly so? Not overbearingly humid?

A summer day where you don't shun the outdoors--where you actually make excuses to leave the house/office, smile and take your time walking somewhere?

Why are we suspicious?...



The Great Cheapening--it's obscene!

Began, retail's Christmas Time scene--

pushed pre-Labor Day!

Now caught a display

of...candy corn? August? Hall'ween?




Today's Limerick relates to candy...and this is a Wednesday edition, with the extra food section... Why they synergy's so thick, you can cut it with a...spork?...



TODAY'S EDITION: Rootin' Tootin' and Without Gluten

Found a good place for Vegan ice cream shakes to help beat this summer heat--the Pick Me Up Cafe! (3408 N. Clark St., Chicago)

This is great for people who are gluten- and/or lactose-intolerant, plus it tastes like real ice cream, too! 


[For more info. and what not... http://monteism.blogspot.com/]



Though long ago, he was once far

greatest U.S. 'Lympic dude... Marred!

To TV grid went fer

to see great Bruce Jenner

ID'd as..."'reality' star"?



So, you're supposed to see your doctor if you somehow end up with an erection lasting more than four hours?


Well, I guess if she's hot...



A meteor shower today!

Perseid peaks--"Dogs Days" go 'way!

See, 'cause Sirius leaves sky...

(guess I'm just geeky guy)...

Meteor shower--Par-tay!



All the info in today's Limerick is, in fact, factual.

So have we broken new ground with... Educational Limericks?...

And if that's not a good enough excuse to party, today's also the 12th Anniversary of 1999's 10th Annual National Poetry Slam, Limerick Slam, which I hosted, and won, entering because there were too few contestants (them having booked me for a noon-ish slot)... Anyway, that launched a little e-mail list which became a Web site and...



TODAY'S EDITION: Today's Edition...

...(Still looking for its author)... Is dedicated to John Cage...



I'd guess 3D trend in film'd see

its way into pornography.

Laptop's old; thin wallet--

but I bet they call it

in porno world... "3 Double D"!



An edition of our old-school daily newspaper this week contained only one massage ad in the Sports section.

Make that a "massage" ad.

As we continue to celebrate the tombstones...er, milestones of modern journalism...

Happy Extra Cheezy Saturday!...



Though hospital trip I disdain

post-surgery...shouldn't complain.

Gave me strong pain pills...

Feel fine... Strangely, still...

Night comes and, odd, brings these small pains...



As a big fan of old TV--Chief Limericist checking in, here--I've only recently begun watching reruns of "Perry Mason."

What most strokes my curiosity about the show is that Mason is a defense attorney.

These days--I'm admittedly no expert on modern TV shows, I've seen a fair share of "CSI," "Law & Order" and the zillions of Hollywood latchers-on-to-the-trend (on a related note, in order to see whether "Law & Order" was spelled with "and" or an ampersand, I just needed to find ANY recent TV grid, as the freakin' show's on somewhere, all the time, usually on more than one channel...but I digress...) So.

Anyhoo, these days EVERYTHING I've witnessed focuses on the prosecutors as protagonists. Not only dramas, but the reality (and "reality") shows like "Cops" and that "To Catch a Predator" or whatever the hell.

Noble? Yes. But isn't it also noble to, say, free the wrongly convicted? Especially with oodles of such cases happening now, all over, thanks to increases in technology and DNA testing? And with the big "based on a true crime story" trend in full gear?

You think there'd be some balance, no? Some "Perry Mason"-esque shows, some prosecution-focused shows. Instead, TV seems to pump up only the authorities, the State. The same State that provides tax breaks and such to all the Mega Entertainment Conglomerates ensuring that shows like "Law & Order" are constantly on TV.


The more I learn, the more I veer dangerously close to becoming a conspiracy theorist.

Time to dummy-up...




(Touching in some manner, anyway)

TODAY'S EDITION: The Creepy Gay Lush in the Other Room, Chapter Twenty-Six--The Great Straighten-Up

I was understandably suspicious of Cleveland's assertions that he would indeed move out for October--and even more suspicious of his claims that, "You'll get your money."

As he left the house even more rarely than his typical grind, since kicking his pathetic nature up a notch, he sure wasn't off apartment shopping. But I felt some reassurance learning that he'd be going to the Jesus Rehab House, though, as they wouldn't be interested in credit checks or even money. Well, at least not MUCH money...I don't know how they work that stuff--grants? Donations? Income-based fees?

Nonetheless, heading into the final week of September, he showed no signs of a guy who was moving. No packing, no flurry of phone calls changing address. That's because he wasn't gonna lift a finger in the direction of move preparation until his savior, Cleveland Sr., would arrive.

He had other, more serious measures to attend to. Like maintaining a constant shitface, perhaps as a way of saying "goodbye" to the sauce before boarding the wagon.

Once I was convinced that Cleveland actually WAS moving--that his dad was gonna help, not to mention pony-up back rent, as Jr. had cut himself off from everyone else and was near helpless to undertake such a task himself... Well, the next step was cornering him on an exact date for the move. Which proved difficult, naturally.

See, the damn condo association likes to send out memos and such about those things (never mind that Cleveland and his pop were moving via multiple car loads, thus not taking up street space, or even clogging the back stairways much because it was bit-by-bit), so I was chastised about it, not to mention fined for not giving "proper" notice.

Cleveland Sr. was gonna be helping his son with far more than just a move, which is a taint-kick enough. Cleveland had let his entire life come to a screeching halt. In order to help with the move by sharing driving duties (a novel idea--helping out with his own move), Lushy discovered his driver's license had expired, thus he went and renewed that during the process. As but one example.

I believe pops helped him through that mountain o' mail, too.

The overall plan was to move some items to a rented storage space, some items to friends' apartments, toss some stuff out and have other stuff returned to his dad's possession, as pa'd be driving back to his home in Texas after the ordeal. Then the Seagram's Squirrel could find another apartment post-rehab and re-assemble his crap.

Now, I've taken part in many moves. My own and others'. A few were last-minute--entailing folks kicked-out and/or subject to landlords giving limited notice of non-lease renewal. A few entailed movers with ridiculous amounts of belongings. Some entailed disorganized parties who were still packing while others were moving boxes and such. While most entailed moving just one person, I've also been a part of family moves--with a corresponding increase in not only belongings, but also an increase in the likelihoods of other aggravating circumstances. Some moves embodied more than one of these extenuating factors.

Yet I'd never, ever witnessed a moving process as convoluted, involved and, quite frankly, as cockamamie as this guy's.

As a way of expressing gratitude, the duo mostly ate at home, with Cleveland Jr. showing-off his culinary school skills. Little by little, though, the well-owed gratitude did devolve into some snipping at his dad. (I do have reasons for plain not liking the guy.)

While I was eager to finally get rid of Lushy, and get paid, the process was a bit trying. Circumstances dictated that I took on M'Lady's wiener dog a couple weeks before she moved in (the other dog going into convenient heat), so I had to watch the dog carefully, lock him up to stifle barking, etc. The Clevelands did little irksome things, too, like stuff the space-challenged fridge with multiple Big Gulps. (Granted, they were engaging in physical labor, but who drinks more than one Big Gulp in a day--and why buy yourself more than one at once and let it go flat in the fridge?)

I did end up with a battered couch out of the deal. And a CD rack. They were gonna toss both and, not looking forward to moving around the former, I offered. I had been wanting a couch, anyway. While the idea creeped-out M'Lady, I explained to her that he hadn't even been using the damn thing--it sat in his renter's living room with a bunch of crap on it for his entire stay.

Despite my personal experience in addiction matters, Cleveland never directly told me about his post-my-condo plans. I didn't make any new efforts to initiate discussion on the matter. Things continued between us as they had for the entire stay, he going about his business almost as if I weren't there, me doing the same. If anything, he seemed a bit annoyed at me--and the inexplicable snippiness chip on the shoulder he'd brandished amid hitting new lows remained.


Now Cleveland Sr. was a personable guy. For the most part, he became the point man informing me of matters such as the timeline--that they'd be, say, moving a carload and would be back at such-and-such houre, etc. While the situation was, overall, awkward, he was a pleasure to deal with--and even made the small effort to make friends with the dog.

When the last moving load(s) were ready to go, Cleveland Sr. told me it was time to "settle up." He asked me to brandish a run-down of monies owed, struck all the late fees and gave me a check. I wasn't in a position to haggle for more than that.

As Cleveland Jr. made his final exit, I wished him luck. Despite it being a semi-formality, I was indeed sincere. Maybe I didn't quite like the guy, but there still seemed to be a nice, talented guy beneath it all and... Well, I did hope, deep-down, that he'd get his act together--and think it's awful that anybody should suffer through alcoholism.

But despite all that sentimental, yadda yadda blah blah, and the fact that recovery, as a rule, comes in fits and starts--rarely does a person go from being a raging alcoholic one day to successful, long-term sobriety the next day... Cleveland had a knack for continually giving me reasons to simply not like him.

Let's recap the overall scenario here. Cleveland had totally drank himself into a corner, alienating most everyone from his life. Without his dad taking more than a week off, driving all the way from Texas, engaging in ridiculous amounts of work, paying off a ridiculous debt... Well, I shudder to think what would've became of Cleveland when that lease ended.

And Cleveland Jr. had the nerve and/or weakness to... Okay, like everything surrounding the guy, I don't know what happened in the instance I'm about to describe for certain. But... Ahem.

For most of this Grand Move, Sr. and Jr. both slept in his bedroom. Which, admittedly, was a bit cramped. Once his living room was orderly enough to clear the couch, and a path to it (yes, it was that bad), Jr. slept on that couch, if only for the last couple of nights.

Both Clevelands kept the same schedule at first. But when Jr. moved to the couch, he stayed up later. Of course, he's much younger but... Well.

One night Jr. left the premises rather late. He returned quickly, having evidently just stepped out for a Big Gulp.


While he fiddled around with stuff in the other room, or at least it sounded that way, it didn't seem he'd have enough laboring left in the evening to necessitate a Big Gulp. And I knew that, over his leases, he'd often grab a Big Gulp of Sprite and toddy that up with Seagram's.


"Naw..." I thought at the time. "You're just all too willing to sell the poor guy short."

I mean, his DAD, the man who'd put life on hold and drove all the way from Texas to save him, was right in the other room.

Cleveland Jr. started making phone calls. And he was talking... Well, silly. He wasn't slurring words or anything like that but engaging a very specific kind of whimsy that... Oh, I can't be sure.

But as a former drunk, for many years, who'd run the gamut from stone cold sober to on a bender, briefly off the wagon to solidly straight, and every level in between, who'd learned through trial and error much about my behavior on all of those levels, who'd become so proficient at sneaking that I could identify, and correct, behavior that might give me away, even when quite buzz-adled... Well.

As I've said far too many times in this tale, there are few things I can definitely say about sneaky Lush Boy. But if I had to place a bet, I'd say he boozed-up that night...

Coming Next Week--Final (?) Mail Call...

And catch up on earlier chapters of this tale, and other Sunday Story Time fare, via the Daily Limerick Archives...







TODAY'S POEM: Closet creep


From between

the hanging coats,

the pale glow

of its radium eyes,

the smell of ozone

in its smile.


A sound emerges

from its throat

like winter droplets

touching the keys

of a toy piano

missing for years


that grow longer

as minutes collapse.

Hear the seconds

ticking out now,

before, and after,

and once again now.


[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.]



E.D. drug ads warn if you've got

a four-hour-plus boner--must trot

right off to to your...doctor?

Last place I'd go knock! Er...

Unless, 'course, you're doctor is hot!



We've just learned of the existence of a product called... Chubby Soda.

Now, we're certainly no marketing experts, but...



"CSI"-like shows sure have tak-

en over TV! No fair shake--

bad suspects! Gov, yay! Then

caught old "Perry Mason"...

You mean that the state can be WRONG?



Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers have noted that, regarding the news, journalism and the Internet's effects on those realms... Well, we're focused on it.

Some may think we're a bit bitter about things like... Oh, writing stories that used to pay, say, $500 now pays $5. If you're lucky, $20. And the fact that some of us have spent more than a decade climbing our way to the top of career ladders that now... Well, lead you to wondering if you didn't accidentally major in "underwater basket weaving" (a "course" my pop used to name frequently when joking around about such matters).

You may have noticed us almost laughing at the industry as we point out its declines, from dwindling classifieds to... Well, anyway, perhaps we ARE a bit bitter.

But there's also some method to our malcontent.

See, we're wondering if perhaps the best thing that could happen to journalism is that... Well, it completely dies.

Let all the traditional media fail. Have the nation function for a while with the bloggers keeping watch on government. Unpaid, untrained and from their mothers' basements.

Have the uninformed electorate elect, say, a Nazi as governor of some state. Only because voters had no idea. Being uninformed.

Then people will be willing to pay for content.

And real journalism will rise again.

Okay, maybe that scheme wouldn't play out exactly that way.

We don't know the answers. Just thinkin'.

But maybe... Well, it's not that traditional media are better off dead.

But in being allowed to rise again, perhaps they're better off undead...



I read of this drink, name seemed nuts!

It's called, "Chubby Soda." Huh? What?

Old? Named long ago?

Not sure. Now I'm no

big marketing genius type, but...



So we've been reading about these "employer wellness programs."

The cost of medical insurance is so high that employers, see, are not only rewarding grunts for "healthy habits"--quitting smoking, losing weight--but also penalizing them for unhealthy ones.

Meaning, too, that they've seized a stake in our personal lives, on the clock or off.

These are employers, of course, and NOT government. Thus it's time to also mention a similar situation, regarding censorship. The government isn't allowed to do it. But a corporation... Let's say you're a middle manager, you attend a pro-pot legalization rally and some footage hits YouTube of you marching.

Boss says, "Sorry, can't have that"--you're shown the door.

But it wasn't GOVERNMENT. So it wasn't censorship. Never mind that you have a family to feed and all--we have Free Speech.

Or do we have "Free Speech"?

Now, getting back to these wellness programs... I wrote a sci-fi short story many years ago entitled "The Future of Fear Pollution." Oh, Chief Limericist now checking in, here.

In this story, a man was turned over to the authorities for using too much salt, driving up his blood pressure.

I didn't ever publish that story...won't go into details, but quite a few others read it and all found it funny. Darkly humorous, but funny.

Is it still funny?...



TODAY'S EDITION: Sometimes, You Overpay

My new, current fave burger (in Chicago) is at Owen & Engine. Very expensive, actually, it is too expensive and I will not be eating there again anytime soon.

But the burger is awesome! In-house ground meat, fried 'n' crispy potato bun and caramelized grilled onions underneath cheddar cheese aged two years!!

What more can I say? They are next to the gang-banger movie theater on Western Avenue & Logan Boulevard, just north of it, on Western.


[For more info. and what not... http://monteism.blogspot.com/]



In "wellness" name, boss now exudes

say o'er your cigs, exercise, food--

thanks, cost of Big Healthcare!

Good cause? They've your short hairs--

the new Indentured Servitude!



I have a new habit.

Chief Limericist checking in, here.

Maybe not a "habit," per se--more of a peccadillo.

I'm always trying to preserve socks. Perhaps because I don't wear shoes in the house, I wear through pairs of socks too often. I've taken to wearing slippers recently to preserve them. Actually wore a hole through a pair of slippers in short order, too, but... Anyway.

When I've been sitting down in the evening relaxing, I've taken to pulling the ends of my socks out a bit. You know, to keep them off my toenails, which I'm thinkin' might be wearin' into the socks and shortening their lifespan, perhaps.

Yeah, this is all very exciting. But the point is those sock ends keep creeping back toward the toes, so I've been pulling the socks out further and further and... Well, I'm calling this hip new look, "clown sockin'"...



The 'Net is... Well, no passing fad!

Kicked newspapers right in the 'nads!

One glaring new sign,

industry decline?

Sports pages--mere ONE "massage" ad!




"Whistling at Women Leads to Aurora Car Crash"

He hee.

Laugh all you want, male Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers, but you know damn well you've at least ALMOST done the same damn thing...many, many times...



TODAY'S EDITION: At This Point...

...I guess we've gone beyond expecting anybody to take on the section... But maybe this continually empty one is a joke of its own?...



Most minstrels and bards do explore-ay

the meaning of what is "amore"...

When spoo hits her eye

like facial cream pie

my world starts to shine--that's a whore-ay!



Here's a perfect Saturday edition headline, from the Chicago Sun-Times--

"Suit: Doc Was Wrong to Remove Man's Penis"

You know. Typical, "Man goes for circumcision, doc says he found penis cancer and removes his penis, guy sues" story.

There are two sides to it, of course. But we have a feeling the doctor was acting a bit cocky...

Happy Extra Cheezy Saturday!...



A fine, kick-ass evening for me?

(Homebody-ish but, hey, that's me!)

Watch old monster movie,

T-storm hits--so groovy--

at same time as storm's on TV!



I'd like to talk to Slapper Yapper Grasshoppers today about the word, "creepy."

Specifically, when a woman applies the term to a guy.

It's not a good adjective to have used to describe you. While it can be a synonym for something like, "dirty," "creepy" implies... Well, perhaps you're dangerous.

As an example from my life... A former M'Lady of mine once described this magician dude as "creepy." I was involved with a variety show with the guy and, as someone who's struggled with geekiness all my life, I actually sympathized with the cat. Yeah, he had trouble with stuff like keeping eye contact with chicks, but I've been there.

In short, didn't think the magic man deserved the "creepy" title. And I told her so.

That said, I believe "creepy" is a subjective term. Sometimes a chick gets to know a "creepy" guy better and takes the "creepy" label away. Every man has been seen as creepy by various chicks at various points in time. And even if a man isn't creepy deep-down, he has undoubtedly engaged in creepy behavior.

For instance, there's a woman who lives in my complex who's hotter than shit. Fits all my various peccadilloes, to boot. She's married, naturally, and based on the fact that I've never gotten up the nerve to talk to her, but can't help double-taking her, and other reasons, I get the feeling that she thinks I'm creepy.

I don't know for sure. I'm a guy who's been convinced a chick thought I was a full-on creep in the past only to find out, when it was too late, that she actually had a thing for me. I misinterpret looks and body language regularly. So who the hell knows?

Anyway, the other day I was bringing a small bag of groceries home. I'd entered my building, ascended the stairs to a landing just before my place's floor. There's a window at that landing, looking out into our courtyard and at the entryway to the units across the way, wherein Hot Stuff lives.

As I was rounding the bend, past the window to head up to my floor, I spied this lady exiting. And, whoah! She was dolled-up for something or other. Nice dress, full makeup. And, it being summer, a lot of skin was on display. Fairly short dress, open shoulders, sandals with a bit of a heel... Weeeeeellll doggies!

So I took a step back and full-on ogled her. Ogled the livin' crap outta her.

Of course, she turned her head at the right moment to catch me. Standing there.

Being creepy.

Now, I'll argue that I wasn't being pure creepy. It was an ogle of convenience. I was minding my own business, no creepy motives, and she came into my line of sight looking even hotter than usual and... I think most guys would've done the same.

Maybe I should've waved or something?

Anyway, it's not like the time I was at an awards ceremony, with my former wife, to boot, and I spied a hottie across the room, but couldn't fully check her out from my vantage, so I strolled across the room, with no legitimate destination, vaguely pretending I was looking to someone off in the distance I was perhaps going to talk to, or something, with the sole purpose of ogling her every inch... Ahem.

I just full-on copped to that when Wifey caught me.

But I was just interested in LOOKING!

Guess creepiness is in the eye of the ogled...




(Touching in some manner, anyway)

TODAY'S EDITION: The Creepy Gay Lush in the Other Room, Epilogue--Final (?) Mail Call

Yeah. This tale is finally over.

Had no idea, heading into this, that it'd span 26 chapters (plus prologue and epilogue) and take nine months... But it did.

Right from the start, I questioned how readers would interpret this one--and even whether I should be writing it. Considering how much went into it, obviously I decided it was worth writing but... I still wonder how it's interpreted, in this day and age.

As a society, we no longer laugh at drunks and addicts, having learned sympathy as we've continued to civilize ourselves. Which is all fine and good but... I do think we've missed a balance. Not only do I think it's important to laugh at EVERYTHING, when presented right--and this tale filled the role of a return to Old School laughing at drunks, too--but... Our society isn't big on balance. Intelligent balance. We go from allowing smoking everywhere, with doctors even prescribing it to pregnant women for stress relief and cartoon characters advertising it...to banning it outdoors and treating smokers worse than heroin addicts. We're not big on finding common sense middle ground.

As far as addiction's concerned... Well, it's certainly something that deserves compassion. While willpower plays a bigger role in recovery that is now attributed to it, there's more than willpower involved. It's a tricky disorder that is indeed "disease-like," but it's NOT a "disease" and its victims are... Well, not pure "victims."

If that sounds insensitive to you... Let me prove my point.

Okay, let's say you're an average guy, with an average level of sympathy for others and such, in this day and age. You have a family, say a couple grade school kids, and a modest home. You're far from rich, but comfortable enough that when...oh, we'll say a brother-in law gets knee-deep in trouble due to a drinking problem--broke, nowhere to go, etc.--you let him stay with you until he gets back on his feet. Give him a chance.

Although it'll cramp your style a wee bit, you have room for the guy. You can afford an extra mouth at the dinner table and all that. And, as an "average" person in this day and age, of course you'll give him that chance.

So the bro in law gets a job, starts saving money and stays clean. Until a couple months into the stay. One morning, he's not up for work at his usual time, you check on him and... He smells like a still. Obviously hungover, slept through the alarm clock...all that.

He apologizes and seems to get right back on the wagon, so you perhaps keep a little extra eye on the guy, but you know that slip-ups are normal, so you keep giving him that chance. (This is all, of course, considering this "average guy" reaction to such events.)

Another month goes by...and a bigger slip-up occurs. Let's say he oversleeps again, you check on him and find out that he lost his job. Had a "couple drinks" on his lunch hour, got caught... We'll again say you continue to lend that helping hand. He gets another job, stays off the juice, etc.

Now another month goes by and... Let's say he gets a DUI. In the car he borrowed from you. And he smashes it up. Plus, while he promises to hop back on the wagon, you encounter him obviously drunk a few days later...then a week after that... So, you're faced with a decision.

Okay, it's tough to peg what is "average" here. Some might've kicked him out after the second incident. Some might allow another. Or another couple... My point is, all but the most holy of folks would eventually yank back that helping hand, should these incidents continue and increase in severity.

Now let's say you're that "average guy" again and you take in a brother-in-law who lost all due to medical bills from an incontrovertible disease--like cancer.

The cancer relapses three, four, five times... You boot him over that?

Didn't think so.

There. I've proven it. Addiction is NOT a "disease." And addicts are not "victims."

Which brings us back to the curious case of Cleveland Rushmore, Jr.

His sprawling move took us past the first of the month, forcing M'Lady to move her stuff in before he'd quite cleared space, but we made due. He was gone, my fiance had moved in and I was done with the drama of dealing with near-stranger renters in my own home, for good.

Since Cleveland hadn't, of course, filed his change of address forms with the post office in a timely manner (and even when folks DO, mail trickles in to the old address for a while), I continued to receive his mail. The agreement was that he'd eventually retrieve it all. I'm not sure WHERE he forwarded to, as the rehab stay was only temporary, but he did forward it somewhere, eventually.

Knowing that his rehab stint was for at least a month (from overheard cell calls) and that he'd have all sorts of things to get in order once that was complete, I waited to ask about the new, much smaller pile of Cleveland mail I was accumulating.

Until after the Holidays.

I sent him an e-mail, saying that I was willing to hold the mail longer, but was just wondering if and when he planned to retrieve it. Knowing he wasn't generally the most attentive person to his mail, and that many people follow bills exclusively online, I asked whether I should toss/recycle it.

I was very nicey-nice. Said I was more than willing to hold it longer, hoped he was doing well, etc.

It took him a few days to reply.

He said I should just go ahead and toss it. He wasn't sure "when he'd get back to the Chicago area again."


See, his plan was to continue to live in Chicago, find a new apartment, yadda yadda blah blah, so the only reason I could guess as to why he'd be out "of the area" was perhaps living with his dad or mom because... Hmmmm. Of course, it was possible he'd landed an out-of-state chef job or something, but I have a feeling he'd feel compelled to mention that to me and... Hmmmmmm.

I thought that was the end of it, but another month or so passed and M'Lady said she saw Cleveland at a local coffeehouse. I said, "You mean somebody who LOOKED like him?" She insisted it was, indeed, him.

A month or two later, she reported the same kind of incident.

So... Could he have screwed up, moved out of state, then quickly gotten himself together again and come BACK to Chicago? Was he on a visit, those two incidents?

Was he just lying for the sake of lying? I wasn't seeking to hang-out or anything, wasn't after money... Was he just completely unable to level with me after two and a half years of BSing and hiding out?

I'm assuming I'll never know. For sure, anyway.

That's the end of our tale about the Creepy Gay Lush in the Other Room. That e-mail regarding his snail mail was the last interaction. But there's an...interesting side note to the story.

Part of what got me through those hellish final months of Cleveland's stint was knowing that, come October, he'd be out of my hair--and I'd be embarking on a whole new life, living with my fiance, done with the troublesome renter crap for good.

Which would've made for a nice, happily ever after ending to this tale.

However, a couple of months back, M'Lady left. As is often the case with these things, there's still a possibility of reuniting, from how things are going, but a move-out... Well, it's never a GOOD sign for a relationship.

I'll spare details, but it's yet another example of life not necessarily having convenient, happy endings to its many stories.

I'm sick of owning a place that I can't afford without a renter, but with the real estate market... Anyway, I'm just hoping I don't find reason for another sprawling, serialized tale like this.

But I am sincerely hoping that, in finally closing the book on this sad chapter of my life, those damn Lushy Toons will finally leave my head for good...

Coming Next Week--This Tale's Finished; One to Something Else (thank Elvis)...

And catch up on this tale in its entirety, and other Sunday Story Time fare, via the Daily Limerick Archives...







TODAY'S POEM: Is There a Poet in the House?...


...Now THERE'S a question you don't hear a lot... But relevant, as Mike is missing this week...


[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.]



Even driving, must keep one's smile up

so... Ogle chicks! Try not get riled-up!

Read 'gain how such blunder

caused crash. I just wonder...

How our roads ain't just one big pileup!



So the Oxford Dictionary of the English Language is again announcing new words it's adding to the "official" lexicon, including such techy words as "retweet."

Okay. You Oxford folk have really taken to the idea of adding new, hip terms to your roster. Shedding the stuffy image and all. We get it.

But in adding terms exclusive to Twitter, it begs the question... Well, sure, you acknowledge that the language is always growing, but in considering your role as Keeper of Legitimacy... Aren't the words you're adding supposed to also have likely longevity? You know, words that are not only officially "here," as non-traditional as they may be, but also "here to stay"?

Okay, enough on this. We still don't have plans for the Bears game tonight. Gotta go MySpace some friends about it...



Caught--leered, 'mid chores... She should be lenient!

Minding own biz... Here's how the scene went--

she's dolled-up, I froze,

stared... Those summer clothes!

I'm not creep--just creep of convenience!



Okay, you're out in public, on the train, in the grocery store, chatting around the water cooler...and you get a boner. Wood. A Steiner. Lumber.

Assuming, of course, you're a guy Slapper Yapper Grasshopper.

Chief Limericist checking in, here.

All of us, guys anyway, have to deal with these things. Oh, it doesn't occur as much when you're past the age of 12, but it never fully goes away, either.

As a performer of sorts, I've, of course, had unwanted wood occur onstage. And while one might think that the fact that I've never been called-out on it means I'm perhaps small in the pants... You'd be surprised how us guys are able to conceal such things. And there are many other factors at work--how tight one's pants are, lighting, angle of sight, etc.

I've also become very good at dealing with such occurrences.

In fact, I like to think of myself as a Master of Erectile Disguise...



Oxford Dict.--the be all and end

all for English... "Real" word, mere trend?

But adds like, "retweet"?...

Ain't stayin' pow'r feat-

ure for those? Bye... Must "MySpace" friends!...



So... Sportscasting.

Have you noticed that there are a lot of knuckleheads in the profession?

I suppose football's the worst. Then again, it undoubtedly varies by location, local sportscasters for local teams and all... F'rinstance, our Chicago Blackhawks play-by-play dudes are delightful. The national guys... Well.

Some of the comments they make... If you're a sports fan, you know what I'm talking about.

The industry theory goes that if someone has actually PLAYED the game professionally, they're well-qualified to call the games but... Maybe you guys wanna rethink that? Yeah, it's a stereotype that jocks are lacking in the noggin department but... Ahem.

Especially regarding football. And especially since we're only now learning just how getting hit in the head so much can affect you later in life... Consider an extra exhibit the kind of comments you hear in a typical play-by-play...



TODAY'S EDITION: (Munch-munch, Snarf)...

...Monte's too busy eating for an edition today... See ya' next week!...

[For more info. and what not... http://monteism.blogspot.com/]



The sportscast biz places much stock

in experience--it's all jocks!

Think they should rethink their ways--

comments, most play-by-plays

show how head hits cleaned their clocks!



I watch mostly old TV.

Chief Limericist checking-in, here.

And I think one of the things that makes old shows more enjoyable is that they apparently had a different schedule for typical commercial breaks back then.

You know. How, even semi-subconsciously, you kinda "predict" at least the sort of things that are about to happen because it's about time for a commercial break and... Yup.

Watching old shows, fadeouts come without commercials. Many times.

Just an observation.

Another observation?

Slow news day.

Or slow "news" day, anyway...



'Net's free news--a blessing...but curse!

As paid journ'lists downsized grows worse...

When linked (stole) content

has all upped and went...

Will folks pay? Must news die off first?



Oh, praise be!

Chief Limericist checking in, here, all excited, too!

Just saw a commercial for a product that can make me "flake-free"! Oh, dating will FINALLY be a fun endeavor, not to mention that... Oh.

Ad's for a dandruff shampoo or some such.

Carry on.

Nothin' to see here...



TODAY'S EDITION: Your Regular Weekly Content...

...Contact the Chief Limericist...make that Fred the Intern...via this site (duh!)...



There was a young slut from New Haven,

well known for artistic pube shavin'.

Stars' faces, cats, bows...

New one-woman show

is thus titled, "Taint Misbehavin'"!



It's rather amusing to see the drugstore checkout clerk's face when your purchase consists of a Spongebob Squarepants paddle ball, a dinosaur squirt gun, gallon of milk, ice cream-shaped chalk and...an enema.

He hee.

You know, or so a friend tells us.


Okay, but I (Chief Limericist checked-in, here) bought the items as live variety show prizes.

Okay, my friend did...

Happy Extra Cheezy Saturday!...



For once, TV shill brought me glee!

Said I can live my life..."flake-free"!

Wow! Near-chore of dating

not full-on frustrating?...

Oh. Dandruff shampoo ad. Whoops. Gee...



Chicago Sun-Times headline--

"Norway Police Had Tip on Gunman Months Before Attack"

That's, of course, referring to that Anders Behring Breivik nut salad, who decided to protest Muslims by shooting a bunch of white kids to death.

So... The police had a tip that the doofus bought some explosive-type chemicals, which sounds like terrorism waiting to happen, yet they didn't see fit to look into it further.

Who do those Norway police think they are--the CIA?...




(Touching in some manner, anyway)

TODAY'S EDITION: Giant Rubbery Reptiles

This is a tale from the very first time I played D&D.

Aka, "Dungeons & Dragons" (D&D). To get technical, I mostly played "ADVANCED Dungeons & Dragons," as there were some players very nitpicky about identification and... Okay.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I was a nerd. Was?... It was the very early '80s, I was in junior high, so OF COURSE I was interested in D&D.

For those not in the know... D&D is a role-playing game. There are others--sci-fi, horror, Wild West... But D&D is the granddaddy of them all. Swords and sorcery, rescue the maiden, kill the dragon kinda stuff. It's still around and still played on paper and in the mind, as we played it although, of course, now many play it, and games like it, via computer, hooked up with other players through that Internet thingie.

For a role-playing game, you play a character. Say, a wizard, a knight, an elf, what have you. Via rolls of the dice, you determine your character's attributes--like strength, intelligence, dexterity. Then you join up with other such characters, become a band of adventurers and go on quests and such.

The Dungeon Master (DM) plays all of the other characters and beings the band encounters, runs the game and describes what the characters see, hear, etc. He/she (although, seriously, it's "he" 99 percent of the time) either utilizes pre-written adventures (called "modules") or writes his own.

Without bogging you down too much on this geekery, an adventure works something like... It begins with something to prompt the players to begin the adventure. Say, "The villagers around Dark Mountain report seeing flames in the windows of its long-abandoned palace lately." Thus, of course, the players investigate.

The adventure contains maps, written descriptions of things, etc. So if the players go to, say, Twig's Tavern in the village, the DM can read about, say, someone they might find there. Say the tavern owner doesn't want anybody investigating Dark Mountain because, since the mysterious fires started, he's seen more business from drinkers seeking the latest scuttlebutt. He wants to keep it a mystery.

Thus the action may play-out like this--

FIGHTER: I approach the owner behind the bar and say, "So, has anybody paid a visit to Dark Mountain since the fires began?"

DUNGEON MASTER (playing TWIG): "A couple dwarves stopped in last week, said they were going there...but they've never been heard from again."

Most maps, especially of things like villages, are sparse, with little details. Thus, a DM has to often improvise, perhaps making notes to himself so that, should players return somewhere, there'll be consistency.

Now the actual dungeons, crypts, palaces or whatever have more detailed maps and notes, usually drawn on graph paper, so the scale is known. So our adventurers might find a pile of silver coins guarded by some ghouls in one room, a library with a secret door and a goblin who knows certain secrets... Etc.

Dice are used to determine the success or failure of certain actions characters attempt. One common roll is that of two, ten-sided dice, which thus bring a result of 01 to 00 (100). So if the DM says the wizard has a 40 percent chance to cast his fireball spell he rolls the dice and any result from 01 to 40 means success. For combat, the strength and experience of the striker is compared via charts and such to the armor level, dodging ability, etc. of the opponent and... Yadda yadda yadda.

Whew! Didn't expect to pen a D&D primer when I started this but... Anyway.

Now, me and a couple friends had heard of D&D and wanted to play. For a while, we played some half-assed version in our minds, where stuff would just be made up on the spot, without dice, maps, etc. But that wasn't a lot of fun. So when the high school guy who lived next door asked us if we wanted to play, we jumped at the chance.

There are many "house rules" in D&D. Nobody plays quite the same. The high schooler had a bunch of pre-made characters he gave us. I believe I was a half-goblin named Kroll or something.

He also encouraged suggestions from the other players. He'd somehow set it up where there were two competing teams and... Anyway, while we were "sitting out," listening to a portion of the other team's adventure, they fell victim to some giant throwing a dead dragon at their group, squashing a couple of them.

"Does the dragon bounce?" I asked.

The DM found this hilarious, rolled a percent and... Sure enough. The dragon bounced. More death.

He hee.

Guess you had to be there.

And be a nerd.

Lotta trouble to finally re-throw out the line, "Does the dragon bounce?"...







TODAY'S POEM: "Press Your Luck"


The ice cream man,

in from the heat,

balances in his chair,

squinting into his stack

of secondhand televisions.


Into a notebook

he strategizes,

numbers and diagrams,

divining the patterns

over weeks of work.


He will soon make more money

than he has ever known,

green peeking out

of plywood dressers,

pushed into cups and shoes.


Insulating himself

against his wife

with a turned-up radio

promising more cash.

He just needs one match.


Scanning every serial number

when they read them

over the air.

Thirty thousand ones

from five or six banks.


It's become a blur, this story

passing through his hands,

and every page is

every Washington

that cannot tell a lie.


[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.]



Since I'm male and... Well, I have eyes,

I've part that will oft super-size

wrong times--say, on