6-1-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Any early picks on who's going to reach the World Series this year? I've got my money on the Red Sox, needless to say!

-- Fan in Faneuil

Dear Fan:

I'm afraid that modern baseball doesn't hold the same fascination for me as it did when the Redbone Rivets used to play the Apoplexy Apple Polishers on a Sunday afternoon down at Fish Cannery Field. Baseball was never intended to be a spectator sport wherein steroid-laced millionaires played the game in order to bolster their product endorsement contracts. No, it was a real game, played between competing towns for honor, glory, the flag, mother and apple pie. Ordinary individuals would unsuccessfully try to sing the National Anthem, not movie stars and other celebrities. Home-made sarsaparilla was the strongest thing you buy in the bleachers, the kids were polite, the sky was blue, people had faith in the system and Dick and Jane and Spot were happy and carefree.

Things were so much better in those days, they tell me. And I answer-- HA!

A real inter-village game was fascinating mostly because all the men showed up drunk, and got drunker as the afternoon progressed. There was no such thing as safety equipment, so if you got hit by a beanball you just lay in the dirt until your teammates dragged you to first base. And beanballs were the name of the game, along with spitters, eye-gougers and groinbusters. No score was kept after the first few innings, and questions about fairness of plays were settled with fisticuffs. The games ended whenever it got dark enough so's you couldn't tell which side you were on. Then the men would settle down to serious drinking as they argued the fine points of the day's game, usually with considerable swearing and brandished bats.

Needless to say there were no playoffs. And the World Series would have fallen at harvest time, so that was out, too. People would have looked forward to the football season, but the annual snowfall began in early November, which put the kibosh on that activity. 

People stayed locked up in their houses throughout the entire winter, enjoying intimate family contacts until the spring, when the survivors would start thinking about baseball again. Ah, the good old days! 

6-2-2002

A Redbone Fable
With all due respect to the late Allsott the Fabulous, Redbone's greatest talebearer

The Fox and the Fruit

Once in a faraway tropical country there was a fox who found a chunk of durian fruit in a dumpster. He was unable to tell whether it was spoiled or not, but one taste convinced him that it was the most wonderful stuff he had ever encountered. He made a point of rolling thoroughly in it to carry the good news back to the other foxes, but they took a whiff and fled, tails between legs.

"Obviously," thought the fox to himself, "this is an acquired taste, limited to those of a discerning palate and refined appreciation for gustatory pleasures." So for weeks after that he was on the alert for the not-so-subtle odor of durian fruit in the local bazaars and sidewalk restaurants. He discovered that it was easy to locate his favorite treat, as the happy consumer was usually surrounded by people turning various shades of green and trying hard not to toss their cookies in the gutter. He even became bold enough to snatch chunks of the fruit from the dishes of customers, and even abased himself to the point of doing tricks for a succulent chunk or two.

Alas, the durian season came to an end, and he retreated to his den to idle away the rainy season. The following spring he decided to satisfy his craving by going straight to the source, so he spent his days in the local plantation, pacing up and down, craning his neck to watch the ripening fruit far above. Soon large spikes appeared on the fruits, and the shell hardened and turned a beautiful saffron color, and the fruits attained their maximum size and weight. The poor fox was almost beside himself with anticipation.

One day, as he was taking a break from his observations and trying to work the kinks out of his very stiff neck, a fruit directly over him separated from its stem and hurtled 90 feet to the ground, its 20-pound bulk striking him amidships and driving him into the ground like an astonished tent peg. 
------
Moral: For true peace of mind always pick sensible weaknesses, and avoid luxuries that can kill you in dramatic and messy ways. 

6-3-2002

My great-etc nephew Gizmo is upgrading my  computer to Microsoft XP today. I'll be back tomorrow, unless Micro- [expletive deleted] pulls a fast one. 

6-4-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Well?

-- Anticipatory in Antioch

Dear Anticipatory:

The upgrade was a knock-down, drag-out struggle, as always, but I'm now speaking to you from behind Microsoft ("Where did you think you were going today? <chortle!> <chortle!>") XP, or Xtended Payments.

I must say that my great-etc nephew Gizmo has the patience of several saints-- aided, of course, by liberal doses of what he called Vancouver bud, which I believe is a form of dehydrated Canadian beer. I was lucky to be able to get him in here yesterday: those ankle bracelets are getting harder and harder to reprogram. He was able to get the new operating system up and running after only 22 false starts, 8 hard drive reformats and the rewriting a substantial part of the code. 

As you probably know, XP, or Xecute Pirates, is once again the last MS program to completely eliminate the need for DOS (Defunct Operating System). It also eliminates most of your existing hardware and software, and is smart enough to order new components through the use of MS WalletVacuum. It's almost like having a brand new computer by the time it's through with you.

So was it worth it? I think so. I've been running now for over an hour without a single system freeze or error message, thanks partly to the new Constant Upgrade feature on XP, or Xtreme Patience, which allows Microsoft to add patches and fixes and updates every 5 minutes by maintaining a constant connection to Redmond, WA. This slows down other features a bit, but then, what doesn't? 

Actually, I must confess that I like the new color scheme. I hope the rest of the software works as well as ¾0¶#2C®&uc+¸5bCµå`}‘�vÐ�€m‹À+ÂIŽBÏ£r�U\7åULBß±
¯¥•®D4Jø‚‰döm’Kn®é4�N1Tßi•°¢†£^�>ž1Кt5
¿¯Ûäߧ e‘=T܃§Óò¥¯škW~`ÞÂz»mè®'�ÈEÕáæ¢K½e 

6-5-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

So how do you cope with the boredom there at ol' "Living Dead 'R' Us"? Time must really drag.

-- Bemused in Bemerton

Dear Bemused:

Well, boredom, like everything else is relative and in the eye of the beholder, as a famous mixed metaphor once put it. You see, just when I think I have reached the outer limits of boredom, along comes a situation which convinces me that I'm not so bad off after all.

Like, fer'instance, today was Barber Day here at The Home. That means that old Tom the Barber, who is fully as ancient as some of the denizens here, comes by to cut what little hair he can find as a sort of charitable-deduction-cum-public-service. Now, say what you will about hen parties and gossip sessions, but I have never been in a hairdresser's where the subject matter of the conversation drops to as stultifying a level as it does when old Tom gets his scissors a-clipping and his razors a-stropping. It goes like this:


"Wal, I was passin' by the old courthouse on my way out here today an' I saw that new patch of cee-ment they put in 'longside the front walkway. Sure is bright, ain't it?"

"Yep! When the sun's out it likes to purt near blind your eye."

"You think that there con-tractor would have knowed to tone it down a mite, so's it wouldn't blind your eye like that."

"All it would have took was a handful o' dirt in the mix to fix it up right fine and purty, back when she was poured."

"Yup!"

"Yup!"

"Yup! Just a handful o' common dirt would have took the shine offen that there cee-ment patch."

"Simple enuf thing... don't know why that con-tractor never thought of it."

"Musta been one of them outta-state con-tractors. Wouldn't have been a good ole boy like Harvey Bungstart... he'd a knowed enough to toss a handful o' dirt in to th' mix so's it wouldn't blind your eye like that."

"I hear ol' Harvey done passed on to his reward."

"Yep! That was in 'ninety-one, I believe."

"No, I mean his son Harvey. Preacher was asking us to think kindly 'bout his family just the other Sunday."

"Young Harvey been took? You sure 'bout that? He couldna been more than... uh...."

"Seventy-eight, according to the o-bichery."

"That old? Sure didn't look it. I remember back when he first started pouring cee-ment with his paw...."

"His paw sure would've known enuf to toss a handful o' common dirt in to the mix, so's the cee-ment wouldn't blind your eye when the sun was just right...."

"Zzzzzzzzzzz...."


Now this is the rock bottom low point of the abysmal depths of the pits, I hear you telling yourself. But it gets worse. You see, they've been having this exact same conversation ever since that patch of concrete was poured down by the courthouse in NINETEEN EIGHTY-ONE!!! It's the Olympics of boredom here at The Home on Barber Day. Hell, it's the *Special Olympics* of boredom.... 

6-6-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I was passing through Missouri on a business trip and I noticed that MO now has a flourishing wine trade, even though "wines of Missouri" sounds like something made up by The Onion. What about Arkansas? Any plans for viniculture in your home town?

-- Oenophile in Oneida

Dear Oenophile:

Actually, Arkansasians have been making wine since the days of the first settlers, and Arkansas wines have won major awards, surprisingly enough. Hey, the French laughed at California, too, and see where it got them. Someday you'll be able to go into the Louvre, or one of those other snazzy Paris restaurants and order an Arkansas wine without having the maitre d' send for security. Sure you will....

As for Redbonian wines, I know that I've mentioned the Lardscuttle Twins' attempts to cash in on the wine craze during the Depression (April 4-5, 2001), but as for legitimate viniculture attempts in this region I confess that I have very little knowledge. So I've asked around and here's what I've come up with.

Redbone, it turns out, is home to the only turnip wine concession in the USA, and probably on the planet Earth. Dudley Subfusc, who runs Screw Maggot Farms, had enough time on his hands to tell me about the business over the telephone last evening. He described turnip wine as "an acquired taste that not too many people have taken the time to acquire, sad to say." 

He promised to send over a bottle, which stands on my night table as we speak. I uncorked it to let it breathe, but had to put the cork back in again when one of the maintenance people inquired as to whether I had any drains backed up in here. The brand he sent over is called Golden Globe, which has something to do with turnip varieties and nothing whatsoever to do with the theater. It's described on the label as "the perfect complement to tofu-based cuisine, especially when accompanied by large amounts of endive." It also does a bang-up job of removing heel marks from linoleum, according to the label on the back of the bottle. Oh, and it's received three-and-a-half stars from Ensilage Review and a Best Buy rating from the American Root Crop Association, which recommends it as the ideal beverage to go with boiled peanuts or new potatoes.

Screw Maggot Farms also produces a rutabaga wine and a cabbage cordial, according to the press release that Dudley sent along with the goods. They're also doing wonderful things with hemlock, according to the release, which will be on the market as soon as they cut the mortality rate to below 20 percent.

And now for the sampling. In true wine-tasting fashion I have used a large snifter to allow the aromas to reach their fullness. And fulsome is certainly the right word for Golden Globe 1991. Good thing I haven't had my dinner yet. But nothing ventured, nothing gained, as venture capitalists like to say-- especially those who backed dot-com startups. 

"Over the dentures and down the gums, look out stomach, here she comes!"

Oh, my! That was certainly... different. Let me express it in true wine-taster's terms as soon as the heaves subside. Let's see... it opens with an earthy, almost barnyard complexity, with notes of wild onion, picnic mustard and Ben Gay, somewhat overpowered by hints of ammonia and lube oil. An aftertaste that's equal parts hubbard squash and pine tar or creosote-- sheep-dippy, as it were. Fortunately the lab alcohol booster soon numbs the senses so that the burnt-cork, fatback and baled hay finish is not excessively harsh. A decided prickly, brambly, bristly sensation in the palate, although that may just be leftover Efferdent at work. The teeth have very little to do, as is customary with fine wines. And just as well, as my store teeth are overdue for a tune-up. The throat had no comment. The stomach, after some initial spasms, has settled into an indecisive state, trying to figure out what combination of acids will digest what it's been given. The stomach has given notice that it reserves the right to send it back for reconsideration. The bowels have sided with the stomach, the gallbladder resents the competition, and the vermiform appendix is too atrophied to care much one way or the other.

On the whole, we'd have to say that Redbone's attempt to scale the oenological summit has stopped far short of the first base camp. Golden Globe 1991 did, however, do a wonderful job on removing heel marks from linoleum, as promised. And it makes an extremely effective drain cleaner as well. 

6-7-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Is the amount of evil in the world increasing, or is it just me?

-- Depressed in Deptford

Dear Depressed:

Not knowing you personally, I find that question difficult to answer.

However, I truly doubt that the sum total of evil in the world has changed much since Cain sent Abel to sleep with the fishes. What has changed is the publicity. Back when Sumer was known as the Big Enchilada, it took weeks for news of a major act of evil to make it from one end of the city to the other. The suburbs wouldn't hear about it for a month or more, and by that time it was old news. And forget the overseas audiences.

Also consider that the international press picture has changed mightily since those days. China used to get up to some almost transcendental acts of evil during much of its long history, and the Chinese always felt they should have attracted more attention beyond the Celestial Kingdom. They even invented paper in the hopes that someone would start a tabloid scandal sheet with headlines like PYRAMID OF HEADS INDICATES EMPEROR'S DISPLEASURE, or HOMELAND SECURITY SEERS FORETELL INAUSPICIOUS "YELLOW CONDITION," or SPACE ALIENS ATE OUR HOVEL. But with a national literacy rate of around 1% at that time they just couldn't count on strong supermarket sales.

Today, of course, any atrocity immediately becomes known throughout the world. So we're left with the impression that evil is on the increase when public relations is really to blame. If you have any doubts about it, consult the Evilometer in the Palace of Punctured Tranquility in Geneva, Switzerland, which has reported a steady 17% - 19% World Evil Rating for much of the 20th century, although critics have pointed out since 1899 that there appears to be a stuck piston in the mechanism that moves the needle.

On the subject of evil in general, I think the great writer-philosopher-mental basket case Nietzsche said it best in his exhaustive work on the subject.* When faced with a crisis in his personal life that forced him to choose between good and evil, he had a nervous breakdown and spent the rest of his life as a duck. In his autobiography, "Webbed Feet of Clay," he makes the comment, "People have asked me, they have said, 'Filb, if you weren't a duck, and if you were faced with the human predicament where, by doing a monumental act of evil you could actually accomplish a great act of good, would you elect to do the evil and accomplish the good, or would you neglect the evil and hope nobody would notice?' I always respond by beating my great and powerful wings in a threatening manner, as I do when serpents are approaching my nest and the eggs need defending. Sometimes I even bite."
-----------------
* "Good? Evil? Which?" by Filbert Nietzsche. (London & Bombay, 1892)

6-8-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie:

I have to do an assignment on the author of "The Heart of Midlothian," who was some Scotchman who wrote lots of boring stuff back before even you were born. I really have better things to do, and somebody already got the copy of Cliff's Notes down at the used book store. The library won't let me back in after the Jello incident last summer. I hear you like to bail out deserving kids like me. What do you say? 

ps/ I need a literary reference, too.

-- Unmotivated in Unna

Dear Unmotivated:

I certainly do relish my title as "Slacker Savior," indeed I do. 

To begin with, Sir Walter Scott Key was one of the 19th century's favorite fiction writers, as well as being the author of the "Star Spangled Banner," which he wrote as part of a contest sponsored by the American Association for the Advancement of Sopranos.

"The Heart of Midlothian" was one of his big sellers, as was the sequel, "The Lungs of Midlothian," although the third in the series, "Down the Midlothian Alimentary Canal with Gun and Camera," which he did on a grant from National Geographic, wasn't at all popular, perhaps because of his graphic description of peristalsis.

Embittered by the failure of the latter book, Scott Key then wrote what started out as a historical romance, but which quickly degenerated into a sordid tale of the dark side of Edinburgh. He called it "Ivan: 'Ho," and it traced the career of an illegal Russian immigrant as he descended from respectability into ruin, ending up as an unpopular homosexual prostitute, known in the back alleys as Ivan the Terrible.

Surprisingly, "Ivan: 'Ho" quickly became an underground best seller in certain closeted United Kingdom bookstores, and his publisher urged him to write a sequel, which he did, calling it "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," about the sexual conquests of an American blackface comedian. This too was a runaway success in certain quarters, and Scott Key followed it up with "The Laddie of the Lake," a semi-autobiographical potboiler about Sir Walter's youthful romps at private watering places in the English Lake District.

This work unfortunately pushed the literary envelope a bit too far for the proto-Victorian Era, and Scott Key was publicly disgraced by having his pen snapped in half at the annual gathering of the British Authors Guild. Unable to deal with the ignominy, he hanged himself in Tolbooth Prison-- appropriately enough in the heart of the Midlothian penal system. His books are still required reading today, which is yet another thing that's wrong with the American educational system.
---------
Ref: "Star Spangled Banter: Naughty Language in the Works of Sir Walter Scott Key" by Cedric Groper, Ph.D. Grove Press, London & Bombay 1968

There you are, Unmotivated... a lovely prepackaged essay which will make you the poster boy in the principal's office for sure. No need for thanks-- I do these things out of the charity of my heart, in the hopes of a reward in the Sweet Hereafter.

6-9-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Do you know if there's some way that dreams are organized? They seem to fall into distinct kinds, at least for me they do. I was wondering if anyone had ever categorized them?

-- Dreamy in Drupe 

Dear Dreamy:

Yes, as a matter of fact dreams were organized not long after Sigmund Freud published his landmark "Interpretation of Dreams" book, which scandalized everyone, since old Sigmund had a really dirty mind and saw everything in terms of making whoopee, wanting to make whoopee, or being afraid to make whoopee, if you catch my drift.

The attempt to organize dreams began at Oxbridge University in England. Since it was 1914 and there happened to be a war on, conservation of resources was vital. Consequently the organization project fell under the auspices of the Geology Department, and was obviously heavily influenced by this discipline.

That's why dreams are divided into the following categories:

Sedimentary Dreams-these are everyday dreams that are based on the commonplace events of our lives, building up like sediment on the sea floor and eventually turning into a kind of mental shale. Like shale, they are thoroughly uninteresting unless they manage to capture and fossilize life forms.

Igneous Dreams - These are the ones that Siggy was infatuated with; dark, lusty and hot, they cool off and solidify near dawn, leaving the dreamer with the feeling that they were at a wild party the night before but can't remember the details.

Metamorphic Dreams - These, as the name implies, change abruptly when we least expect it. A plain old sedimentary dream may suddenly erupt with volcanic passion as the checkout girl or bag boy in the supermarket throws clothes and caution to the winds and starts working their way through the Kama Sutra with you as the bookmark. These are also the dreams where perfectly ordinary situations go suddenly haywire, as the board meeting is invaded by the Octopus People of Planet Cephalopod.

Conglomerate Dreams - All of the above, loosely stuck together with dream-spit and baling wire. Thoroughly unsatisfactory, they leave one with the feeling that one should really be able to do better, that, at least where dreams are concerned, one is sort of an igneous schist….

6-10-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Me and Larry down the hall have got a bet on this one, and we decided to let you settle it. You know how sometimes when you're doing the dishes and you pour some detergent into the sink when you're running the water, and sometimes a couple of single soap spheroids will float up into the air? Well, our bet is this: do you call one of those things a "bubble" or a "sud," the latter being the singular of the "suds" in the sink, right? Well, what do you think? Is it bubble or sud?

-- Eager in Eagleton 

Dear Eager:

You want to know what I think? I think you and Larry should go to the ward attendant and ask to have your Thorazine doses doubled, is what I think. Sheesh!

6-11-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I live out here in the boondocks, and have always been impressed with the way crows seem to talk to each other, sometimes even seeming to have big arguments with lots of them involved. Has anybody ever studied crow talk?

-- Rural in Ruskala

Dear Rural:

As a matter of fact Dr. Humphrey Klinker of Redbone devoted his retirement to the study of corvine communication. He had been a hotshot Hollywood screenwriter for most of his life, and ended up in Redbone after he was blacklisted and then inherited some property from a distant relative up on Skulking Ridge. Shortly before his unfortunate death from induced psittacosis he completed his master work, the as-yet unpublished "Something to Crow About," in which he listed about 200 of the most common caws. These included the following, which I have transcribed here along with Dr. Klinker's interpretation of their meaning:


CAW! CAW! CAW! k-CAW! k-CAW! -- "You talkin' to me? You talkin' to me?
Then who the hell else are you talkin' to? You talkin' to me? Well I'm the only one here. Who do you think you're talking to? Oh yeah? Huh?"

k-caw k-caw CAW! CAW! CAW! -- "You don't understand. I coulda had class.
I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am, let's face it."

Caw-caw-caw-caw... CAW! k-CAW! -- "As God is my witness they're not going to lick me! I'm going to live through this and when it's all over, I'll never be hungry again! As God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again!"

Caw! CAW! CAW! CAW! k-k-k-CaaaaAAAWW! -- "I am so sorry! Because it was my fault. I was the one who brought them here. I was the one that said 'keep going south.' I was the one who said that we were not lost. It was my fault, because it was my project. I am so scared! I don't know what's out there. We are going to die out here! I am so scared!"

Caaaaw... Caaaw... Caaaaaaaaw.... k-cawwwwww.... -- "Don Corvelone, I am honored and grateful that you have invited me to your daughter's wedding... on the day of your daughter's wedding. And I hope their first child will be a masculine child. I pledge my ever-ending allegiance."

k-CAW! k-CAW! k-k-k-k-k-k-CAW! CAW! CAW! -- "With a bit of a mind flip/ You're into a time slip/ And nothing can ever be the same.... You're spaced out on sensation. Like you're under sedation! Let's do the [untranslatable] again!"

CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWW! -- "Pop quiz, hotshot. There's a bomb on a peregrine falcon. Once the falcon goes 50 miles an hour, the bomb is armed. If it drops below 50, it blows up. What do you do? What do you do?"

........<caw>.... -- "Rosebud!" 

6-12-2002 

Parable of The Three Wise and the Three Former Virgins 

There were once three indisputable virgins and three putative virgins who worked at a temp agency in the city. Mostly they were booth babes at trade shows, sometimes they were product demonstrators and sometimes they hid in the aisles of department stores and assaulted passersby with spritzes of perfume. All of them wanted to be actresses or models or model/actresses, although there was such a surplus in that particular job market that signs were routinely placed in shop windows saying "No Model/Actresses Need Apply."

One day they were called in for a gig that involved some millionaire's wedding where the theme was Greek mythology. They were hired for the night to play hetaerae who would welcome the groom as he approached the bridal chamber. For this they were dressed in sheerest gossamer and given oil lamps to carry and they had to practice ululations of bittersweet welcome, which they did with great concentration and dispatch.

On the night of the wedding they were flown to an island where they donned their costumes of sheerest gossamer and carried their oil lamps out to the portico where they were expected to await the groom. 

Well, they waited and waited, but the groom's plane was delayed by fog. At first they didn't mind, since they were being paid by the hour, union scale, but as the night wore on three of them decided to catch some shut-eye under a palm tree down by the fake oasis. While they were asleep several wick-serpents, overjoyed at the opportunity which so rarely presented itself since the invention of electric light, slithered over and ate the wicks out of their oil lamps.

All at once there was a hue and cry and a flourish of trumpets announcing the arrival of the groom. The three sleepers sprang to their feet and hurried to their places, ululating for all they were worth until they discovered that their lamps were extinguished and the wicks gone. Frantically they looked for replacement wicks, but, alas, no one had thought to bring extras for the sleepy girls. They were utterly disgraced. Worse yet, the millionaire rewarded the alert virgins and their functioning lamps with prize situations on Broadway, whereas the sleeping virgins with the defunct lamps wound up as waitresses in sleazy eateries, married badly and took to drink at the earliest opportunity.

Moral: There is no wick for the rested. 

6-13-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

After careful study I have come to the conclusion that today's children are exposed to far too much violence. I am about to embark on a campaign to return our schools to the idyllic days of the 1950s. I hope I will have your support.

-- Crusader in Crusados

Dear Crusader:

Sounds to me like you've got a bad case of Rose-Colored Retrospection, sometimes known as the "Good Times" Syndrome. As everybody knows who lived through that particular era, the kids back then were bonkers about guns and killing, as inspired by the Westerns on that new-fangled medium, television. Every boy, and even some of the girls had cap guns, and there was a shoot-out every ten seconds in the average playground. What happened to those kids in later life, as saturated in violence as they were? They became the hippies and peacemongers of the sixties. So much for THAT theory....

Oh, and what about all the violence in the literature we were assigned to read in grade school-- things like "The Red Badge of Courage" and "The Bobsey Twins at Grandpa's Slaughterhouse"?

And don't try to push poetry on me either. What about "The Wreck of the Hesperus," or this little ditty we were all forced to memorize:

"The Carnage of the Light Brigade"

Half a leg, half a leg,
 Half a leg onward,
The severed legs in the Valley of Death
 Totaled six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Just lost my arm, I'm afraid":
Into the valley of Death
 Rode the three hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!
My horse ate a hand grenade."
Off the soldier flew
 As his faithful mount thundered.
There went a corporal's eye,
There went the captain's thigh
Fingers and noses and teeth, oh my:
Into the valley of Death
 Rode the one hundred.

Bodies to right of them,
Bodies to left of them,
Bodies in front of them
 Hacked up and sundered;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Looking like bloody hell ,
Watching them fall pell-mell,
Into that gruesome dell
 Rode half the one hundred.

Slicing with sabres bare,
Body parts turn'd in air,
Intestines like sushi there,
Hamburger everywhere:
 Brains, elbows and spleen
Splattered, shattered and broke;
Trampling parts of folk
Watching their buddies croak
Chopped up with sabre stroke
 Shatter'd and sunder'd,
They were all toast
Those six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made:
All blown asunder.
O what a charge they made,
Chopped into red marinade,
 Once were six hundred....


I think it's amazing that the generation in school in those days didn't all grow up to be serial killers.... 

6-14-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

What's your sign, babe?

-- Astrological in Astrakhan

Dear Astrological:

People keep asking me that, and I keep telling them that, as a Pisces, I have no belief in astrology.

6-15-2001

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

Every time I cut across 3 lanes of traffic in my Jetta while calling Maud on my cell phone, I seem to hear the term "something-something-and the horse you rode in on."

I guess that I'm curious about American colloquialisms. From what well does this flowery form of speech spring?

-- Salutational in Salamanca

Dear Salutational:

As with so many of the expressions we find ourselves using in this country, that one originated overseas. In Ireland, to be precise.

You see, the Irish, being superstitious folk wary of ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night, used many magic phrases to ward off evil spirits. Since it was considered particularly risky to travel in days of old, there was a whole arsenal of counter-spells that applied specifically to those on the road.

The phrase you hear is undoubtedly a blessing uttered by drivers of Irish extraction, although you've misunderstood the words. The complete original phrase is "Fie, you, and the corpse you rode in on!" and it was repeated to protect oneself or a fellowman against the dreaded Road Goblin of Drogheda, which tradition says traveled the byways mounted on the corpse of an unlucky wayfarer, seeking souls to devour.

By the way, if you'd like to acknowledge the blessing in the same traditional manner, the correct response is to hold up the middle finger of the left hand, which is known as Filping the Bard,* in honor of an Irish patron saint of minstrels and voyagers.

*Filping the Bard: an Irish Saint of the 11th century.
-- "A Treasury of Unknown Irish Saints, 1000 – 1300” Teosneath NaGopaleen, editor (Dublin & Bombay, 1881)

6-16-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I was appalled, astonished and flabbergasted at your summary rejection of all things astrological in your flippant reply to "Astrological" the other day. Astrology is a lot older than most religions, and I, for one, would go nowhere and do nothing without first casting a chart to see whether or not the auspices were auspicious for the event.

-- Scorpiophilic in Scoresbysund 

Dear Scorpiophilic:

You're right, I casually dismissed thousands of years of superstitious drivel with a wave of my arthritic hand. In order to give equal time to those who are True Believers in things astrological, I hereby present the Calendar of the Zodiac in two parts (the balance tomorrow when I've rested up a bit). The usual disclaimers apply.

(Librium the Tranquil through Piscataway the Township tomorrow.)

6-17-2002

... in which we continue our explanation of the signs of the Zodiac as part of our politically correct, non-judgmental agenda for the day.

6-18-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

While passing through southern Pennsylvania recently I was offered "scrapple" as an alternative to bacon or sausage for breakfast at a diner I happened to stop at. I found it quite tasty and was wondering what goes into it and where it originated. Do you serve it up down Arkansas way?

-- Gastronome in Gaston

Dear Gastronome

No, the production and consumption of scrapple is restricted by interstate health and hazardous materials regulations to Pennsylvania alone. It had its origin in 1862 on a farm just outside Altoona, when a large boar hog fell through the rotted flooring of a barn and smack dab into the hopper of a steam-driven silage chopper. Of course, what came out the business end of the chopper was nothing that anyone would describe as a food product, but times were tough and no one wanted to see all that pork go to waste, even though it had not undergone the niceties of disemboweling, dehairing, dehoofing or degassing. Not to mention the floorboards that fell into the mix as well.

So the very practical farm folks sold it to the Army, as there was a war on. The Army folks, when asked what they were being supplied with, misheard "scrap pile," and so the word "scrapple" entered the Pennsylvanian vocabulary. It was an instant success in the Army, and pretty soon the farmers found themselves moving 500-600 head of swine (and tails, and everything in between) through the silage chopper and out to Army kitchens up and down the Potomac, or Ptomanic as it soon came to be known after several bargeloads of scrapple were sunk by unfriendly fire.

Scrapple is believed to be the key to the Union victory at Gettysburg. When Northern troops were threatened with double rations of scrapple they threw themselves on the Confederate troops like creatures possessed, yelling "Death before scrapple!" and other encouraging slogans that spurred them on to victory. They had to be beaten back to prevent them from consuming the bodies of the Southern deceased as an alternative to Army fare.

After the war the need for inferior processed food objects dropped off sharply, so scrapple likewise declined in popularity, if you'll excuse the expression. Sentimental farmers still toss a pig into a silage chopper now and again for old times sake, but now the end product is reserved for tourists passing through the state, as a kind of unofficial practical joke....

6-19-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie:

Do you have any words of inspiration for this month's high school graduates?

-- Transitional in Transdniestria 

Dear Transitional:

Absolutely not! As a matter of fact I think there should be a moratorium on inspirational messages for the duration of the graduation season. I for one hate those speeches people have to sit through in order to get a piece of paper with their name on it that says they've finally gotten through with 12 boring years of formal education. 

Think about it for a minute; here are all these kids, sitting in their black demi-bourkas under a blazing summer sun, reflecting on all the courses they were forced to take that they will never again have any use for no matter how long they live. Courses like algebra or those language requirements that leave them unable to communicate with native speakers of those languages under any conditions whatsoever. Or all those so-called English courses that leave them unable to communicate with anyone in their *own*   language. 

Or Shakespeare, God help us all! Think of those hours spent trying to comprehend what "An hi, varlet, h'strooth I shalt whomp thee with a gobstopper an' thou prank thy tundish wi' eftsoons hurly-burly spittlejapes, sirrah!"* has to do with earning a living.

Then at some point, as the inspirational speeches grind on, it collectively strikes the assembled graduates, who are now risking sunstroke after the potboiler delivered by the valedictorian, whom nobody liked anyway, that there is only one career they are suited for after 12 years of misdirection. Yes! They can only become teachers! Teachers! 

And even for that they need another 4 years in school enduring courses like "Theory of Attendance" and "Introduction to Political Correctness During Recess." For which they will be rewarded with careers where they are universally despised for teaching nothing but useless frippery to children, unless they opt for surgery to have their brain stem severed and become school administrators who may be called on to explain zero tolerance in front of television cameras without giggling.

No, inspiration is the *last* thing these poor suffering, sun-crazed graduates need to hear. Apologies, perhaps. Or offers of reparations. Maybe the school system should sponsor a year-end orgy as a reward for 12 lost years. I suggest 48 hours in the local Holiday Inn with unlimited beer, marijuana, condoms and nonstop Adam Sandler movies. It's the least we can do for our nation's children before sending them off to labor thanklessly just to keep our Social Security entitlement checks coming....
-------------- 

"Two Gentlemen of Nebraska" Act VI, Scene xviii, lines 374-376 inclusive 

6-20-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

What do you call those insects that appear around this time of year-- fireflies or lightning bugs? My neighbor and I are from different parts of the country and we call them different names. Which is the right one?

-- Strobe in Stromness 

Dear Strobe:

If you mean the species officially designated as Photinus pyralis, either name is just fine. As you've discovered, it depends on where you live.

If you mean a different species, officially designated as Kilowattus Pyrotechnicalis, or the Redbone Lightning Bug, you're talking about a whole 'nother animal.

The Redbone Lightning Bug appears in the late spring, right around the start of thunderstorm season. It rides the air currents that circulate near thunderstorms until it picks up a sufficient charge to emit a dim blue glow, which biologists believe is used to attract females. Unlike the garden-variety firefly, however, it is not a collector's item, as it can deliver a 100,000 volt shock to whoever comes in contact with it and is sufficiently grounded. It's sort of the insectival version of the popular backyard bug-poppers, only aimed at humans.

For many years the connection between these lethal bugs and the carbonization of young children in the springtime and summer was poorly understood. Early settlers in the area generally blamed it on the devil, and sermons were preached against childhood misdeeds that had all of us quaking in our button-up boots. Later on, however, observers began discovering that the same fate was met by amateur entomologists, who were often found as charred stumps in the woods with collection net and killing jar still in hand, both heavily singed around the edges. 

It was not until the summer of 1928 during a church picnic that someone was able to witness the phenomenon both first and second hand. The first-hand witness was young Baxter Tyrone IV, only child of Thidwick and Congolea Tyrone, a brother and sister who had married rather than break up the family fortune. Needless to say this close blood relationship meant that young Baxter's elevator did not reach the top floor, and he was constantly in the kind of trouble that fortunately money can buy off.

On this occasion Baxter had decanted a pitcher of iced tea in the parson's lap, intending to use the jug to capture one of the nifty blue-glowing bugs that hovered near the edge of the woods. His governess pursued him, and was the first to witness the zapping of Baxter, who went from a mischievous, devil-may-care child to an elongated charcoal briquette wearing a sailor hat in less time than it takes to say "better living through electricity."

And so the Redbone Lightning Bug was identified, and ever after that was studiously avoided by mischievous children and amateur entomologists alike. One industrious Redbonian, however, is pursuing research into the use of RLBs as an alternative power source. Investors are urged to contact Enron Esterhazy, Jr. for a prospectus. 

6-21-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: Have you noticed how rotten TV ads are lately? Whatever happened to creativity in advertising?

-- Disappointed in Dismas 

Dear Disappointed:

At some point creativity was replaced with special effects. Also, the new breed of advertising copywriter seems to be unaware that the purpose of advertising is to move products, not serve as an avenue of demented self-expression.

Remember the Golden Age of TV ads? Alka-Seltzer managed to entertain you on a high level while still conveying the purpose and qualities of the product, as did Volkswagen. Contemporary ads have really lost it; most times I can't even tell what's being advertised, much less be persuaded to go out and buy it. A bunch of kids skateboarding into a rock formation is supposed to sell yogurt? Duh. Somebody covering themselves with ketchup is going to make you want to eat at Wendy's? I don't think so. A mindless pastiche of half-second clips of slackers either dancing or having an epileptic fit will make me lust after Nike sneakers? Permit me to doubt.

The polar opposite of these national clueless ads are local productions, which become funnier and funnier the further out in the boondocks you are. My favorite local one is Two Fat People Buy A Car, which makes anything done by Ed Wood look like Citizen Kane. This one-take wonder obviously uses relatives of the owner, who speak their lines like hypertrophic elves out of a preschool Christmas pageant, and move so ponderously that you're afraid they're going to nudge up against an SUV and drive it through the back wall of the dealership. When the woman turns to speak to her putative husband, parts of her don't stop moving for a couple of seconds. It's truly mesmerizing.

The solution? Use that mute button generously so you'll be spared the soundtracks at least. Some of the current crop of TV ads almost make sense when you turn off the sound. And buy generic. Always buy generic.

6-22-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

I was recently highly embarrassed to be the recipient of a warning from my ISP, saying that I was in violation of the "rules of Netiquette." I've never heard of such a thing. What on earth are the "rules of Netiquette"?

-- Violator in Violette

Dear Violator:

The "rules" are an informal set of acceptable practices for communicating online. They're really just common sense, but here's the core statement for your edification:

1) Don't be redundant. Don't use more words than necessary. It's highly superfluous. It uses up bandwidth and is excessive. Also repetitive.

2) "Don't use quotes to try to bolster your online arguments. They make you sound like you can't think for yourself. But if you must use them, make sure they're accurate and verify the source." ~ Marc Andreessen 

3) Killer slang is totally bogus, dude!

4) If you go on and on about conspiracy theories, you're just playing into the hands of al-Qaida terrorists.

5) Don't ever send chain letters. Copy this rule and send it to ten of your friends.

6) Don't post flames, you clueless Nazi pervert!

7) If you spread urban legends, the *Good Legends* virus will slip into your computer via the modem and trash your hard drive while you sleep! (This actually happened to the cousin of my grand-niece's brother-in-law, so I know it's true.)

8) Tiffany Lovelard, the 5-year-old who is dying of cancer, says that all she really wants for Christmas is for people to stop passing along cheap sentimental appeals.

9) some people think its cool to leave out capitalization and punctuation but i think it makes them sound like real idiots besides its hard to read 

10) Never use foreign expressions as a quid pro quo unless you fully understand their je ne sais quoi.

There you go! Stick to these simple rules and no one will ever accuse you of  Netiquettelessness.

6-23-2002

Dear Aunt Nettie: 

The Earth was just missed by a sizeable meteor this week. Is the Lord warning us to desist in our wicked ways before we are smited like Sodom and Gomorrah were?

-- Fearful in Feardorchadh