30 May 2008

Big metal bird in sky

Someone should force America’s mollycoddled poor to take a long, hard, look at these pictures:

Those fun loving knuckleheads trying to pick a fight with the airplane that's photgraphing them are completely self sufficient, and they do it without modern conveniences, like government cheese or pants. Despite never having been given free educations, they appear to have produced a monumental breakthrough in the field of cryptozoology by befriending some sort of half-human she-ape (girlilloid?) belonging to a species undreamt of by Western naturalists.*

*That may be a Maricoxi.

27 May 2008

Dispatches from here and abroad

From Wetwang comes word of a brick attack in Wetwang. Anyone with information please contact the police at 0845 6060222.

With the fallout from her remarks about the RFK assassination still lingering, Sen. Clinton may have triggered a new controversy when she announced another reason she would not drop out of the presidential race was the remote but very real possibility of Obama suffering a brick attack in Wetwang. “We all remember that brick attack in Wetwang. I don't understand it. But like you, I remember it.”

Locally, a sad-faced man in a bar was overheard lamenting modern romance: “I had no idea she would leave. It came out of nowhere, like a brick attack in Wetwang.”

A Long Island businessman admitted giving Isreali Prime Minister Ehud Olmert “$150000, mostly in cash stuffed into envelopes,” but denied ever giving Olmert a brick attack in Wetwang.

The Barack Obama campaign said the candidate misspoke when relating the story of a great-uncle who rescued Jews from a brick attack in Wetwang. The Democratic presidential candidate said the story is accurate, except that the brick attack was in Garton-on-the-Wolds, not Wetwang.

In Canada, a French skydiver's attempt to leap from the stratosphere went awry after the balloon meant to carry him 130,000 feet into the air floated away without him: "It was like having a hammer over my head," he said later. "It was like a brick attack in Wetwang. When it doesn't work like that you just cannot think of anything, except bricks, and attacks, and Wetwangs."

At the Cannes Film festival elderly actress Sharon Stone speculated the May 12th Chinese Earthquake may have been triggered by “bad karma.” The remarks provoked outrage across China, one government official likened them to a “blick attack in Dandong.”

The owl flies at twilight

An owl in North Carolina killed a woman then framed her husband for the murder. The man now sits in jail, while the owl is free to flap about in the woods. Think of this the next time you hear some jackass gurgling about how wonderful nature is.

11 May 2008

Book notes

The newspaper alerts me to the publication of a literary masterpiece, a novel called The Art of Racing in the Rain, by Garth Stein. Here the narrator of this momentous new book, Enzo, waxes philosophical:
“I am ready to become a man now, though I realize I will lose all that I have been. All of my memories, all of my experiences. I would like to take them with me into my next life—there is so much I have gone through with the Swift family—but I have little say in the matter. What can I do but force myself to remember? Try to imprint what I know on my soul, a thing that has no surface, no sides, no pages, no form of any kind. Carry it so deeply in the pockets of my existence that when I open my eyes and look down at my new hands with their thumbs that are able to close tightly around their fingers, I will already know. I will already see.

The door opens, and I hear him with his familiar cry, "Yo, Zo!" Usually, I can't help but put aside my pain and hoist myself to my feet, wag my tail, sling my tongue around, and shove my face into his crotch. It takes humanlike willpower to hold back on this particular occasion, but I do. I hold back. I don't get up. I'm acting.


I hear his footsteps, the concern in his voice. He finds me and looks down.”
For Enzo, you see, is a dog. And he's dying. And the book is 321 pages long:
“He is so brilliant. He shines. He's beautiful with his hands that grab things and his tongue that says things and the way he stands and chews his food for so long, mashing it into a paste before he swallows. I will miss him and little ZoĆ«, and I know they will miss me. But I can't let sentimentality cloud my grand plan. After this happens, Denny will be free to live his life, and I will return to earth in a new form, as a man, and I will find him and shake his hand and comment on how talented he is, and then I will wink at him and say, "Enzo says hello," and turn and walk quickly away as he calls after me, "Do I know you?" He will call, "Have we met before?"

After the bath he cleans the kitchen floor while I watch; he gives me my food, which I eat too quickly again, and sets me up in front of the TV while he prepares his dinner.”
As if the premise and that wonderful prose weren’t enough, supposedly the novel was inspired by hearing Billy Collins read one of his poems.

This artistic tour de force is set in various smug locations in and around Seattle (how perfect), and has been chosen by Starbucks (of course) to be conveniently located near the register, making it easy for insipid people to purchase along with their Frappuccinos.

Similar to how Stein was inspired by one of Billy Collins’s turds, The Art of Racing in the Rain has inspired me to write a novel narrated by an animal, a clever turtle named Turto. From Chapter One:
Turto small safe inside shell. Turto live in glass box now thanks to Fastmover With Hands. Fastmover With Hands bring Turto lettuce. Sometimes Turto recall pond days before Turto get found and picked up by Fastmover With Hands. Danger time was Pond Days many enemies all move so fast. Turto pull arms legs head inside shell and wait in shelldarkness. Turto good at waiting. It give Turto time to think about instigating Fascist revolution because Turto is Fascist. Turto bet you didn’t see that twist coming, did you? Turto also bet his story not get chosen to be Starbucks selection anytime soon either.

Various parts

For the third Mother’s Day in a row Major League Baseball players used pink bats in order to raise awareness of breast cancer. Over a year ago I sent Baseball Commissioner Bud Selig a number of emails suggesting on Father’s Day baseball play games using pink baseballs, in order to raise awareness of testicular cancer. He still hasn’t replied.

Meanwhile in Senegal it’s time for the annual ear harvest.


The accursed town of Whitby has been busy upgrading its infrastructure. To retain the element of surprise most of the improvements are still secret, but it's now known the East Pier has been modified to deliver painful, potentially lethal electric shocks. So far only a dog has been zapped, but Whitby’s civic leaders are confident warmer weather will bring plenty of children and tourists out of doors and down to the pier to be electrocuted.

What kind of talent is required to please this mighty public?

Let us try to remember how fancy works in children; with what selective partiality it reads, leaving often the bulk of the book unrealised, but fixing on the rest and living it; and what a passionate impotence it shows - what power of adoption, what weakness to create. It seems to be not much otherwise with uneducated readers. They long, not to enter into the lives of others, but to behold themselves in changed situations, ardently but impotently preconceived. The imagination (save the mark!) of the popular author here comes to the rescue, supplies some body of circumstance to these phantom aspirations, and conducts the readers where they will. Where they will: that's the point; elsewhere they will not follow. When I was a child, if I came on a book in which the characters wore armour, it fell from my hand; I had no criterion of merit, simply that one decisive taste, that my fancy refused to linger in the middle ages. And the mind of the uneducated reader is mailed with similar restrictions. So it is that we must account for a thing otherwise unaccountable: the popularity of some of these great ones of the dust. In defect of any other gift, they have instinctive sympathy with the popular mind. They can thus supply to the shop-girl and the shoe-black vesture cut to the pattern of their naked fancies, and furnish them with welcome scenery and properties for autobiographical romancing. Even in readers of an upper class, we may perceive the traces of a similar hesitation; even for them a writer may be too exotic. The villain, even the heroine, may be a Feejee islander, but only on condition the hero is one of ourselves.
- Robert Louis Stevenson, “Popular Authors.”

07 May 2008

The return of Mande Burung

Huge ape-like beasts of a type unknown to science are terrorizing the Hindu Kush. Locals call these “illusive,” Bigfootish creatures Mande Burung:
The colour of the hair is reported to be black or blackish brown. It has some kind of foul odour/smell emanating from the body. It has a footprint/pug mark size from 13 inches to 15 inches in length. It may be around 7’5" to 9’ tall. It may weigh around 300 kgs. It is noted to be herbivorous creature, who eats banana, tubes, tree roots, fruits, berries, barks of some trees, sawe trees and is also reported to eat crabs. It walks on two legs (biped). (As reported in 2002 sighting). It sleeps in the nest built on the open ground (as reported in 2002 sighting). It is shy and is basically harmless (as reported in 2005 sighting). It is a creature with phenomenal strength.
A perverted female Mande Burung once forced a man to suckle its teats. The milk, he says (whenever anyone will listen, I imagine), tasted “sour with a mixture of bitterness”.

According to one report, the shaggy giants wear hats (the specific type of headgear is, alas, unspecified).*

As disturbing as these creatures are, local villagers say they prefer sharing the jungle with Mande Burungs to living with the Obillary Bamacain, a three headed monster that roams America spreading tedium and nonsense.

*The only other cryptid I’m aware of that wears a hat is the boto.