there is an old banjo patterson song, “The Pub With No Beer” . . .
in Oz this would qualify as a tragedy of shakespearian proportions,
but this was pretty sad, too . . .
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The Wagon
If your Little Red Wagon no longer is new, and soon-to-be-spare-parts are hanging down, then you have a Saggin' Wagon.
If those soon-to-be-spare-parts touch the ground, then you have a Saggin' Draggin' Wagon.
If you are still proud of your decrepit old wagon, then you have a Braggin' Saggin' Draggin' Wagon.
If you carry bottles in your wagon, then you have a Braggin' Saggin' Draggin' Flagon Wagon.
If the stuff in the bottles makes you sick, then you have a Braggin' Saggin' Draggin' Gaggin' Flagon Wagon.
If being sick slows you down, then you have a Laggin' Braggin' Saggin' Draggin' Gaggin' Flagon Wagon.
If your wagon squeaks because it needs oil, then you have a Naggin' Laggin' Braggin' Saggin' Draggin' Gaggin' Flagon Wagon.
If your wagon wobbles, then you have a Waggin' Naggin' Laggin' Braggin' Saggin' Draggin' Gaggin' Flagon Wagon.
My seat companion nodded to me cordially as I squeezed past him to my window seat, so we exchanged the ceremonial greetings and self-introductions common to the traveling business public.
It turned out that he worked for a large automotive company. When I asked what he did there, he replied, with not a little justifiable pride, "I'm an executive Vice President in the Jeep Division."
"Oh," I said, "so you're a Jeep Veep!"
"Y-e-e-s-s," he drawled unenthusiastically, as if such informality were foreign to his experience.
"Well, then," I asked, "Why are you flying back here in coach?"
"The company does not feel," he recited solemnly, "That the utilitarian image of 'the Jeep', which we have gone to some lengths to acquire, is properly embellished by flying First Class -- that is, it would have an appearance that belies our corporate culture."
"Oh," I said again, "So you're a cheap Jeep Veep?"
Though it appeared he might not take my repartee for the harmless jibe I'd intended, he eventually replied, evenly enough, "Well, I must say, that a little economy never hurt anyone, and that, moreover, a little harmless deprivation is good for the soul."
"Oh," I said, as if a light-bulb had gone on, "So you're a deep cheap Jeep Veep!"
There was definitely a chill in the air, now, and he turned away, as far as one can turn away in a coach seat, and said, "I hope you'll excuse me, I must rest, now."
"Of course," I said, "Peace and Quiet for the sleepy deep cheap Jeep Veep!"
"Do you mind?" he retorted sharply, "I wouldn't want to have to call for the attendant."
"I don't mind," I said, "And I would certainly want to accommodate the sleepy and creepy deep cheap Jeep Veep." I have to admit that I was bothering him on purpose, now, close to an outright guffaw.
"I need my rest!" he announced, sounding closer to desperation than before, "I can't have any mistakes at work because I'm tired. . ."
"Of course, of course," I soothed him, "Peace and quiet for the sleepy and creepy, slap-happy, deep cheap Jeep Veep."
"Look you," he growled, "I'm good at my job, and I don't need . . ."
"Certainly, not," I agreed, "Not a sleepy and creepy, slap-happy and crappy, deep, cheap Jeep Veep, such as yourself!"
"You bastard," he moaned, as he collapsed onto his fold-out tray.
I rang for the attendant, myself. "I think," I told her, "that the weepy, sleepy and creepy, slap-happy and crappy, deep cheap Jeep Veep, needs assistance." And she led him away, wracking sobs and all, to where I do not not know. But I had enough room to stretch out for the rest of the flight.
I gleaned this quote from a commentary on Casual Fridays by Jim Hightower, a populist politician here in Texas, former Secretary of Agriculture, as I recall, wherein he discusses the hand-wringing that goes on about what's properly 'casual' and 'professional' for such occasions, including the various men's clothing store ads that fuel such anxieties.
But what it reminded me of, was how my wife couldn't play tennis until she had purchased sportswear to wear while she played. It boggled me how much shopping this required, but I admit that she did look very cute in her new Tennis Togs. So cute, in fact, that I didn't get upset when she giggled after she whiffed a serve.
But anyway, back to Thoreau, whom my Teenager denigrated as an imbecilic hypocrite, despite my best efforts at defense: "He may be eccentric, or even insane, but he's the most sincere person in belle lettres! And, of course, if you've got sincerity, you can fake everything else."
I was glad to note that, at my previous employer, a New England based proprietorship, founded on the principles of Emerson and Thoreau (I infer), it was not required that we buy new clothes to start any new project (unless travel to Boston is involved, of course), but when the project is over, we almost always get a Golfshirt or a sweatshirt commemorating the event. This, I am sure, is exactly what Thoreau thought we ought to do.
| Two items of interest in the news lately which I have stitched together: A while back, there was news that scientists believe they can show that some male hair loss can be attributed to an excess of the female hormone estrogen. The clinical proof of this concept at this point consists of the evidence that bald mice given "estrogen blockers" will grow hair. Soon after, I heard news that other scientists believe that estrogen is an essential ingredient for intelligence, the clinical evidence for this being a test with two control groups of alzheimer patients, one of which was given escalated doses of estrogen, the other, a placebo. The group given the estrogen tested positive immediately with mental skill improvements, where the placebo group did not. I believe the inferences possible from these basic facts are egregiously inescapable. For those of you unfortunates suffering from an unhealthy imbalance of testosterone to estrogen, I can only offer my own sincere condolances, and the cold comfort of your bathroom mirror. | |
(The scraps found among Spelvin's papers included not only original writings but ledgers full of newspaper clippings with cryptic mathematical signs, boxes, and arrows. One can only speculate at the deletorious effects of such positive reinforcement of his worst tendencies from ostensibly responsible news outlets.)Senators William B. Spong of Virginia and Hiram Fong of Hawaii sponsored a bill recommending the mass ringing of church bells to welcome the arrival in Hong Kong of the U.S. Table Tennis Team after its tour of Communist China. The bill failed to pass, cheating the Senate out of passing the Spong-Fong Hong Kong Ping Pong Ding Dong Bell Bill.
"Don't send me any more letters," she said on the telephone.
"But I already re-sent it," I pled, "when it came back unopened."
"I tore it up," she said.
"But I just sent it today -- what letter did you tear up?"
"The letter I got before, I didn't like the way it smelled."
"But I thought women liked that stuff, it's a scent you said you liked ... when that letter came back unopened, I rescented it and re-sent it."
"No, I resented it," she affirmed, "so I tore it up."
"But I apologized, and took back every word I said," I pled.
"Some things can't be rescinded. So don't send me any more letters."
"But I already re-sent my recent note, rescinding the re-scented note you resented ..."
"I'll tear it up, too, then," she said
He bustled into the room, impressing me with his busyness, plopped into the other chair, and launched into his spiel, "Wow! these new Management-by-Objective merit reviews are really efficient, much easier to go through than the old way: "no muss, no fuss".
I only grunted, to let him know he could continue.
"Now," he began, "You've done a bang-up job for us this period, but you've got to learn to get along better with your peers: we've had too many complaints from the other programmers that you are brusque when they question you and too blunt in your criticisms. You've done your technical work as well as we could expect, but we want you to work on your 'people skills'. So tho' your numerical ranking is well into the 'competent' category, I know you'll be disappointed in your ranking, and your bonus, but that's so that you can improve! Do you have any questions? This is the part we call the moan-and-groan section," he winked conspiratorially.
"Well, I need you to tell me how Jesus Christ could have done any better this period than I did? By what no-muss-no-fuss hocus-pocus did you lower what should have been a near-perfect ranking down to mere competence?"
"Well, we DO ask a little more of our most experienced people; the scale is a little higher for y'all..."
"What? an extra onus? on top of doing the work for these drones in addition to my own, there's an Onus Bonus? A no-muss-no-fuss, hocus-pocus onus bonus, AND I have to be nice to them, too?
"Oh, as I say, the other programmers ..."
"IF I WAS Jesus Christ," I thundered, "I would have driven them out of my cubicle with a whip, instead of a tongue lashing!"
"Hey! moan-and-groan is one thing, but ..."
"What kind of phoney-baloney is this?" I ranted, "the MBO rankings are supposed to be objective and individualized, but what you're telling me is that they're subjective and collective, and bogus!"
So he stood up, and made to leave, "Well, I hear you saying that you don't like the system, and I can see that you're upset, but this is the policy, now, and I have to follow it."
I swiveled my chair around to watch him leave, and I said to him, "You can take your no-muss-no-fuss, moan-and-groan, phoney-baloney, hocus-pocus, bogus onus bonus and shove it up your heinous anus!"
But I was only kidding.
"Will you come to our banquet?"
"Which is that?"
"Our annual fete."
"Which group is that?"
"The local society of podiatrists."
"Oh. Sort of a feet fete."
"Yes. Um. Actually, it's not all podiatrists, only those concerned with life-threatening issues."
"Oh. You mean it's a fatal feet fete."
"I mean, really concerned."
"So. A fatal feet fetish fete."
"Yes. But only for pre-natal cases . . ."
"Then it's a fatal foetal feet fetish fete."
"Yes. And it's not only for charity, but we also have a talent show . . ."
"Which would make it a fatal foetal feet fetish feat fete."
"Well, yes. So will you come? Dinner will be awfully good."
"That makes it a fatal foetal feet fetish feat fete feast!"
"I suppose so. Will you come or not?"
"Yes, yes. I admit defeat.
Alleged Transcript from Squawk Box, 8/7/02
MARK: The Canadian dollar is familiarly known as the "Loonie" because the dollar coin has the image of a loon on one side.
Guest: Oh, like a duck.
MARK: Precisely!
Guest: Well, this is the sort of thing one can talk about when the market seems to be in a down cycle, isn't it? Do you know what they call the basic unit of Vietnamese currency?
MARK: (Pause) The Dong?
Guest: Yes! That's right! And of course, now in contrast to the weak US dollar, we're seeing a Strong Dong, just as with all the other Asian currencies.
MARK: (Pause) Well, we're verging on the edge here, but I have to ask, then, whether you would advise us all to go Long on the Strong Dong?
Guest: Hmmmm. No, I think this is a temporary situation: it would be Wrong to go Long on the Strong Dong.
MARK: Aha! I knew it! I knew all Along it was Wrong to go Long on the Strong Dong.
Guest: Oh, it's not hard to see: even Erica Jong knew all Along it's Wrong to go Long on the Strong Dong.
MARK: Bang the Gong. Bang the Gong.
(A difficult conversation with my brother, Lloyd)
"Well, you do agree at least that the President is doing a good job with the War, don't you?"
"Actually, not. I'm afraid that I'm thinking about dis-agreeing. I mean, we had all this bluster and clear ambitions when we started, even tho' we were warned it was going to be long and difficult, but even now they're trying to claim success, when, the truth is, that even if you wanted to give them credit for a good start..."
"Ah, hah! I see: You are a dissident!"
"Oh! Well, no! I meant to say that I was contemplating thinking about dis-agreeing. I mean, I don't want to be disagreeable about disagreeing, I just..."
"So: you are a diffident dissident."
"Hmmm. Geez. I guess I'm not being clear. I mean to say that I'm not a dissident and I'm not ashamed to say so! Not at all like those other people who disagree, just because they want to disagree, and then they just disagree to be disagreeable!"
"Yes, I do see the distinction: You are a different diffident dissident from all those other diffident dissidents."
"Yes, I don't care about these things as much as them, they go w-a-a-a-a-a-y overboard."
"Uh-huh, then you are an indifferent different diffident dissident."
"I see that you are being intentionally obtuse. You have no idea, it seems, of the dangers inherent in labeling someone a dissident: there are many perils for them, not the least is financial!"
"And that makes you, the indigent indifferent different diffident dissident!"
"Can't you conduct a civil conversation, just once?"
"Hah-hah-hah! Now he's the indignant indigent indifferent different diffident dissident!"
And so, as the loser, I had to pay for dinner -- but that's all right, it was my favorite Italian restaurant, one where they make the caesar salad right at the table for you, and the veal medallions are s-o-o-o-o g-o-o-od, I could go on-and-on about them, how I love those Italian medallions, with tiny onions, the Italian medallions with scallions ....
"I run a restaurant," he said proudly, "a franchise of the LeSeur
corporation!"
"LeSeur?" I queried uncertainly. . . .
"Yes, LeSeur. I infer from your manner that you are confused, which is
understandable: we are a specialty restaurant. LeSeur's indeed is famous
mostly for their canned peas, but our cuisine is not limited just to that!"
"That is a relief", I confessed, "what do you call your place?"
"Monsieur LeSeur's Canapes," he announced with satisfaction.
"Can of Peas?" I ventured.
"No, no, no," he demurred, waving his hand as if he were wiping a chalkboard
clean, "Canapes: appetisers!"
"Oh, canapes!" I exclaimed, dumbfounded at my density. "What kind do you
serve?"
"Oh, an amazing variety," and he enumerated as examples: "Peas Rockefeller,
Peas Porridge (hot and cold), Peas Under Glass, and Peas Surprise'."
"Oh - um - all using LeSeur's Canned Peas, then?" I asked, crestfallen.
"Certainment!" he confirmed, gallically, "but this is no cuisine ordinare
and we always serve le portion grande: a full can."
"You serve," I observed carefully, "a can o'peas canapes".
"Yes," he drawled doubtfully, "you must come down to the restaurant and see
for yourself - off Bacon Street."
"How will I know it?" I asked.
"We have a very distinctive façade, very continental," he said. "We have
many windows in front and each has an awning with the restaurant name on
it."
"Then these are Can o'Peas Canapes Canopies," I said puckishly.
"Well, yes," he frowned . . . .
"And you have a lot of them, so they are a panoply of Can o'Peas Canapes
Canopies!"
"Well, yes," he tried to interject with narrowing eyes, but now I was on a
roll. . . .
"And you have the franchise, so you have a Monopoly on the Panoply of Can
o'Peas Canapes Canopies!"
"Well, yes," he began again, now with wall-eyed consternation. . . .
"And since it is so tres chic, you have the Hippity-Hoppity Monopoly on the
Panoply of Can o'Peas Canapes Canopies, don't you?" And off I went down the
street, singing: "Hippity-Hoppity Monopoly on the Panoply of Can o'Peas
Canapes Canopies, Hippity-Hoppity Monopoly on the Panoply of Can o'Peas
Canapes Canopies, Hippity-Hoppity Monopoly on the Panoply of Can o'Peas
Canapes Canopies . . . ."
"Don't come to my restaurant," he screamed down the street. "I withdraw my
invitation! Do you hear me? I withdraw my invitation!"
ALL He shall be known! He will be recogniz't: One of those PermPrest! And he dresses to the right! HAIRLICK By the club he is in... HALTER By the school he went to... BOZO By the street he lives on... STRAYCAN By the car he drives... HERODEDAZE -- He doesn't have a caw. He wanted a caw, and we thought about it, but decided against it. BOZO Well, what kind of car did he want? HERODEDAZE Oh, it was expensive. Some fiwe-engine wed foweign caw, I don't wemembew. STRAYCAN Was it a jaguar? HERODEDAZE No, wasn't a jagywaw. HALTER Was it a mercedes? HERODEDAZE No, not a mewcedes? HAIRLICK Was it a volvo? HERODEDAZE No, not a wowwo. BOZO Was it a citroen? HERODEDAZE No, not a citwoen? I think it was italian. (laughter) BOZO A Fiat? HERODEDAZE No, but wait, it was a fewawi. HAIRLICK, ET AL. a -- fe-wa-wi ? (more laughter) HERODEDAZE Yes, that's it. a fewawi. HAIRLICK, ET AL. well, yes, that is a good car, but it is expensive... HERODEDAZE I shouldn't have been so headstwong, I should have given him the caw. I can't wemembew how many times we talked about it. BOZO Oh, you had the ferrari parlais'? HERODEDAZE Uh-huhuhuhuhuhuhuhuh. Yes, we had the fewawi pawais'. BOZO And you talked about it at length, thoroughly? HERODEDAZE Yes, we thowoughly had our fewawi pawais. We tawked about aww the features, like the leathew intewior. BOZO The leather interior, uh-huh, what color was the interior? HERODEDAZE Bawwey. The colows wewe wed and bawwey in our fewawi pawais'. BOZO But you were wary? HERODEDAZE Yes, we wawily, but thowoughly had our wed and bawwey fewawi pawais'. BOZO So you had these conversations often? HERODEDAZE Oh, no wawely. Wawely and wawily, but thowoughly, we had our wed and bawwey fewawi pawais. BOZO Did he make progress? HERODEDAZE Oh, suwey. Swowy and suwey, wawely and wawily, but thowoughly we had our wed and bawwey fewawi pawais'. BOZO So he was getting closer to getting the car? HERODEDAZE Oh, bawely. We hadn't made that much pwogress, sowey and suwey, wawely and wawily, bawely, but thowoughly, we had our wed and bawwey fewawi pawais'. HALTER That's enough of that. Let's find something else to do. enter Aerial, playing a baseball game
"Well, we in the Dote Family are known for our good health, Even my maiden aunt, Dorothy Dote. Have I told you about her before?"
"Who? Your Aunt?"
"Yes, Dear Old Auntie Dot -- there's actually a quite humorous story about her we tell at family gatherings. . . "
"Golly! Look at the time! I had no idea it was so late. I have to get go. . ."
". . .just half-a-minute -- you'll enjoy this. . . "
"What? Another Auntie Dot anecdote?"
"Yes, it turns out she was poisoned accidentally . . ."
"Poisoned!"
"Yes, we had to rush her to the hospital, where they pumped her stomach and gave her medicine. . . "
"So this is the Auntie Dot antidote anecdote."
"You might say that. It's a very amusing story -- if you'll just let me tell you. You know, there are several versions, everyone tells the story differently, but they all agree mine is the best."
"Then this would be the Andy Dote Auntie Dot antidote anecdote."
"Hmm. Yes. Well, anyway, you know how frail she is . . ."
"Ah. The Andy Dote dottering Auntie Dot antidote anecdote."
"But she still has the Old World manners and formality; she doesn't like young whippersnappers addressing her informally . . . "
"That makes it the Andy Dote dottering Auntie Dot Dote antidote anecdote."
"Do you want to hear this or not?"
"Actually, no. Have to dash."
cloned from DVD P.G. Wodehouse's Jeeves &
It's a GENUINE Corcoran!
I am “mildly interested” in owning the actual prop used in the TV Series . . . couldn’t find any reference to it on the web . . . 50% chance, I bet, it’s in Hugh Lawrie’s bedroom . . . or his garage attic . . . 8^) . . .
