Monday, May 30, 2011

From the Idyllic Village of Lake Flaccid, New York, Comes the The Daily Growler Jots & Tittles Man
From the Spiny Shores of Lake Flaccid, New York, COMES thedailygrowlerjots&tittlesman, Barabbas Munn-Dayne
What the hell kind of birds are those? Where's my shotgun? Just kidding, folks. I'm not the guntoting type, though I do have my old Betsy shotgun out there on my back porch on the Lake...and how I dread the coming summer...the stench at the moment is bearable...temps have hovered around the low 50s to the upper 60s up here--while it was 82 when I was in the City this past Friday. I was down there for a The Daily Growler gathering--the editing horse gave me a check for my bus fare. God, I hate buses. No matter how classy they make buses appear, still, you never you never know who's going to sit down by you. Yep, it's always that one freak you see as the bus pulls into Podunk. You look up and down the chicken-bone-strewn aisle and see that there aren't any single seats you can see...except the seat by you! And sure enough, the freak's head pops up up at the head of the aisle as he steps up into the bus, his eyes adjusting to the darkness of the bus's interior, looking for a seat. You scoot over as far as you can so as to look like you're actually sitting in the empty aisle seat by the seat in which you are actually sitting.

Plus buses are supposed to be germ centrals. A lot of fecal matter on the seats at any given time. Plus you never know whether your driver is drunk or not. But, hey, when you're on a fixed income, you ride the bus.

Anyway, I was in New York City--we Upstate New Yorkers call it "the City"--even folks up in Buffalo talk about "When's the last time you were down in the City?" So I was in the City.

Cecil the Dog-faced Boy III is still missing...and presumed dead. The joke around town is of course an old joke and a cruel joke, but, hey, I have to admit it is a good old classic joke. Word is up that Cecil one day right smack-dab in the middle of Main Street, right smack-dab in front of Lem Koozer's Beauty Salon (Lem is a woman), suddenly had a desire to stop on the trot, lie down in the street, and start instinctually licking his family jewels. While performing this inhumane feat, poor old Cecil was hit by Old Lady Gizzbund's still-barely-running Gremlin. She'd forgotten to wear her glasses that day, she said. "That's why I didn't see that poor little doggie." Of course that's not true at all. Just a tale being plied around Lake Flaccid's center city. Poor old Cecil. I miss my old friend.

The City looked dirty. Tourists everywhere. Especially on Times Square. Times Square is still a cesspool of overcommercialization in its most dressed up fantastic dream state--an explosion of competition for tackiness in terms who can create the gaudiest outdoor graphic-arts-photo display--there's always at least one half-draped babe sign--with a half-naked babe looking like the Colossal Woman--and what a terrible movie, by the way. It starred Lou Costello. And Dorothy Provine as the colossal babe. As a native New York Citian, these new commercial display signs are trashy. The old neon signs of old Times Square had a bit of creativeness to them--commercially clever use of neon--objects moving in neon walks or leaps or other neon gymnastics.

The Growler gathering featured the same old bunch...drinking Irish ale and stout and bullshitting deep piles of useless personal knowledges--clashing among each other with swordfight-clanging noises for the attention of all who would listen. I love being wordy.
Jots & Tittles

--how about all those tributes to OUR BRAVE men and women in uniform? How sickening was all that Memorial Day pap slicked out in front of us all this past long weekend. Teary eyed young goofs signifying in favor of WAR and going to war and getting weary at war and then finally getting to come home from war--getting to come home on the grounds they get up and witness and testify for the military--"I'm proud to have served my country--and thank my Jewish Big Daddy I only lost both my arms--I was lucky, but my best-friend buddy I volunteered with wasn't so lucky when he got truncated by a towelhead mortar shell--as he died he proclaimed how proud he was to have served with our vaunted and invincible military. Thank you, Jesus, for giving us these many opportunities to go to war against these multitudes of godless heathen."

--President Obama-- was fresh back from another one of his every-week world jaunts, this time to Ireland first, then over to Britain to kiss the old raggedy Queen's brittle old dried up ass and to hobnob with the royal newlyweds. I was proud to notice that in spite of all the complete coverage of Bonnie Prince Billy's audacious and extravagant wedding to the golddigging commoner, most people paid it no mind whatsoever. We the People were all too busy worrying over how the hell we were going to come up with the house payment this month or come up with the exorbitant interest on the credit card bills this month--those credit cards that are most Americans's only source of income these days. So the President was back home--this time, not only to do a little campaigning but to also stay on Air Force 1--he surely has a luxury apartment built into that airplane that We the People own--I mean he spends a hell of a lot of his life time on that Air Force 1. He's got to be one of the top two most-traveled presidents in our history--next to George W. Bush? Remember, G.W. Bush had never been out of the USA--except to go to Mexico, of course, for whores and coat-hanger abortions--until he became president and suddenly he and Pickles found it necessary to fly several times around the world between vacations at their faux ranch in Crawford, Texas. What happened to that ranch, by the way? Was it foreclosed upon?

--Our President in Joplin. It was interesting to me that the people who had survived the Joplin tornado were thanking God for saving them. Why them? I kept asking God or them. Why did God spare a withering looking older turkey-necked woman and yet right next door to her he had not spared a whole family. Were only fervent Christians left behind? Obama at least landed and went out among the folks of leveled Joplin--or at least his photo-op made it look like he was actually there--though it did remind me of G.W. Bush's photo-op set ups in Jackson Square--where he brought in his own generators since New Orleans had no electricity at the moment--and over in Mississippi, where his photo-op was set up on a street corner...fake photo-op sessions--or G.W. flying over New Orleans in Air Force 1: "Looks like a bloody mess down there...isn't that the Kneegrow part'a town? No need to worry 'bout them N-worders. Like my old Mammy Babs said when she walked through the Astrodome--it was packed to the gills with stinkin' N-worders--and declared that these refugee New Orleans jiggaboos were better off in the Astrodome than they had been in their 9th Ward homes before Katrina with the help of the Army Corps of Engineers blew those half-built levees down and drove all those jigs over to Houston. We did a heck of a job...." Brother Obama in Joplin made no reference to changing weather patterns--or the fact that there may really be something called climate change and the greenhouse effect.

--how exciting was it to find out G.W. Bush made 15 million bucks on the lecture circuit? Who the hell would pay that fool to lecture them? Fools like him, we assume. G.W. speaking to his foolish fans: "Now when I was, I was president, wasn't I, Pickles? And a damn good president, too. But, Jesus, the fuckin' lyin' I had to do. But then, I've been a damn good liar since I was knee-high to my mommy Babs--you know, when my pops went off to Mexico to buy up his worthless oil leases and would stay down there for months and leave me with Mommy Babs and having to listen to her cussing Pops out while I hid behind her skirts--'You're no good whorin' father!' I've heard her call my old Pappy. We used to love to tease Mommy Babs by asking her if we had Messkin blood in us. Hot damn, that got her to smokin'."

--Amanda Franklin...anybody ever heard of Amanda Franklin? Neither had I till she died Friday (the 27th) while performing at a Brownsville, Texas, air show.
Wing walker Amanda Franklin dies

Airshow performer Amanda Franklin died late May 27. Doctors at Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio had been treating her extensive burns, injuries, and ensuing infections since a March 12 crash landing and engine fire during a show routine.

Amanda and husband Kyle Franklin were performing a wing-walking routine at Air Fiesta 2011 at Brownsville-South Padre International Airport when the engine of their Waco biplane lost power. Amanda was able to climb off the wing and into the forward cockpit seat before the forced landing, according to the National Transportation Safety Board’s preliminary report; she was badly burned in a post-impact fire.

--Ironies in Amanda Franklin's Life:
“Her performances as a pilot and wing walker inspired thousands, and her loss will be keenly felt. Our deepest sympathy goes to her entire family and especially to her husband Kyle, who continues to recover from his own injuries.”

Kyle, who was also seriously injured in the incident, was discharged from the hospital March 28 and continued outpatient physical therapy, but Amanda remained in critical condition at Brooke Army Medical Center.

Kyle and Amanda began dating in 2004 and married in 2005, and Amanda began wing walking full time for the couple’s “Pirated Skies” act in 2009, the couple’s website said. The Neosho, Mo.-based Franklins are no strangers to tragedy. Kyle’s father, Jimmy Franklin, and Amanda’s father, Bobby Younkin, died in 2005 when their biplanes collided during an airshow performance in Saskatchewan, Canada.
Amanda Franklin wingwalking...and the lady herself.

--Pooh-poohing Doomsday. Fundamentalist Christians are all hopped up these days. A lot of their firebrand greedy ministers are dragon-breathing some Armageddon doom around liberally, flippantly predicting the "return" of their Jewish messiah, who is NOT the Jews's messiah--hell, the New York City Jews a few years ago rejected Jesus Christ in favor of Rabbi Schneerson Lehman, though Rabbi Lehman proved to be just as unpredictable and unreliable as Jesus Christ when it came to being a Messiah.
The Brooklyn Hasidics swore this dude was the Messiah..."Rebbe, whereforth art thou?" We heard a whole lot of Rapture bullshit from the cornball Oliver Hardy...oops, sorry, I meant Harold Camping, an idiot who is now saying his calculations were wrong, instead of May, God had said October--so now the good idiot reverend is saying October the World will end. Of course, we Growlers have our own sacred crew, led now by the Reverend "Doctor" Jack Van Impe. Where Pastor Melissa Scott is these days, we have no idea. They've taken down the analog Jesus teevee station in the Lake Flaccid area--Jesus was still broadcasting on analog teevee...but now my analog side of my teevee picks up no channels at all anymore. "Doctor" Jack and his semi-lucious wife, "Doctor" Rexella Van Impe, assures us through his direct conversations with God, the Jewish God Jehovah, that the world WILL NOT end. Instead, Jesus X. Christ, not only will not destroy the earth--or his Big Dad won't destroy the earth--but instead intends the earth as Jesus's new home--you know, his royal site, Jerusalem, the New Jerusalem, his Arab-free capital--oh God such bullshit! How could any half-civilized beast believe such unfounded bullshit?

--Bob Dylan is 60. Truth up? I never really got into Bob Dylan. I saw and heard him as a copycat. Mimicking almost effect by effect exactly the work of Woody Guthrie. I mean, Bob usurped that style and today when people hear that style they relate it to 60-year-0ld Bob Dylan and not Woody Guthrie or his copycat/imitating son, Arlo. Bob was a splendid songwriter--and, yes, I admit he wrote some true classic American tunes--but were they...well, I want to say original?...I hesitate in that I don't really know how original Bob Dylan is. His name is not his real name. So he's playing a character--Bobby Zimmerman playing a combo folksinger/poet who mimicks the musical style of Woody Guthrie and the poetic balladry of Dylan Thomas. I thought Bob was closer to 70 than 60. [Mr. Ed: You can't blame the horse for this goof. Dylan is closer to 70 than 60 because, as thewomantrumpetplayer points out so glaringly, Dylan IS 70 not 60. How boring life would be if all things were considered fact.]

--The Untalented Who've Made It Big: The #1 talentless big-timer in show biz: Oprah Winfrey. What is her talent? At best she's a good announcer. Gossipy Black Yenta? Show host? The ability to sit in an easy chair, getting fatter and fatter, and have serious spiritual bullshit sessions with your fabby friends, your gal pal (and the gal pal has blown up bigger than Oprah now), your favorite actors and actresses, promoting Celine Dion (another untalented droopy-drawer woman entertainer from talentless Canada. Upstate New Yorkers are hard on Canadians), giving people lectures on their weight while she blows up to big-time obesity--going up and down, fat, then back to almost thin, then shooting up to fat again, and finally, to hell with it--the good life just won't allow Oprah to be thin--she's doomed to be fat. What is her talent? White women accept her? She promotes bad writers who write bad books? But then what do you expect from an untalented lucky woman from Memphis via Chicago?

for The Daily Growler


Marybeth said...

Bobby Dylan IS 70 sweetheart. Born in 1941.

The Daily Growler said...

...a million neighs your way, bright lady, for getting an old editing horse off the hoof on this fore paw by tgw...I thought Dylan was more near 80 than 70, but I'm using horse sense.

Mr. Ed:, the editing horse