Welcome back to the meatpacking corner of the blog. Last time, my shameless free association for a blog was likened to making sausage- a lot of unwholesome ideas being wrapped into an unhealthy meat. I don't want be repetitive, so we'll say that this is the written equivalent of making hot dogs.
Teaching the Parts of Speech to older students is not its own reward, but it occurred to me that it would present an opportunity to wreak intellectual havoc. If I were to ask beginning or ESL students what part of speech the word "God" falls under, they would probably agree that it is a noun.
I would respond,"A noun is a person, place, or thing though." They would get demoralized quickly.
"In western culture, we really don't believe that the God of Abraham is a man-Mormons excepted- and obviously we don't believe God is a place." A lone student may argue that God is a spirit, and a spirit is a thing, but if questioned he may not feel comfortable describing God as a "thing." By most accounts, God has a character or personality, but He is more than that too. As spirit-which is a thing- and more, God would qualify as a noun, but if we have to invent a new part of speech for Him, I'd like credit.
Now, I'd like to address something far less interesting and relevant: interesting word combinations I heard this week.
1 Meccan Idolators: These Meccans were the Arabs in the city of Mecca before Mohamed and Islam had completely dominated the Arab world and Middle East. I don't care about that-I like the metallic, vibratory sound of the words "Meccan Idolators."
2 Tackle Box: I guess the idea of a box holding a "tackle" is an amusing concept. The verb/noun tackle is a violent one. I'd heard of tackle boxes for fishermen, but I hadn't heard it used to refer to an area on the American football field until just today-I guess its something to do with a quarterback's danger zone?
Lastly, one more thought on the binding power of names: In the English language, it is wildly inappropriate to name your son "Jesus." Similarly, speakers of German, English, or other European languages should not name their offspring "Adolph."
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Friday, September 16, 2011
The Name Theory and Other Brilliance (If you take this seriously, then consider donating to my charity)
I had, perhaps have, a friend with several unorthodox, or maybe just irrational, ideas about the laws of the universe. One such law was that the women of Ohio were more likely to share their favors with male suitors than the women of Indiana or Michigan. Yes, the women of Ohio realized that their state was pretty similar in many respects to their other Midwestern neighbors, so in an effort to show them up, they put more out. Some good thinking going on out there.
There were other theories, but the best the best gift the world of arts&letters was the notion that the names of people were somehow their titles or personality descriptions. I remember he had a particular hang up about women named "Alice" and was convinced that they were prickteases meant to sow chaos among the males of the species. "Pauls" tended to be intellectual and paternal in demeanor. "Cathies," we agreed, were " a little slutty, a little nutty." "Steves" could be hyper, nervous and sometimes treacherous. "Jasons" were often overstated and beligerent, but not without principal and conscience.
As mentioned, under this theoretical conceit, names could also be functional or descriptive. Carnival barkers and scam artists refer to their dupes as "marcs" ; consequently, suckers or people who look like idiots are "Marks." Honest people are frank-just follow the JustCallMeFrank blog if you need proof(http://just-call-me-frank.blogspot.com/). Trust me, our idea only gets more illuminating. What do you think now of women who are named "Candy"? Names like "Hattie," "Mildred," and "Bubbles" tell you that you're interacting with a geriatric female. Osama Bin Laden, John Wayne Gacy, Lee Harvey Oswald, John Norman Collins, they all tell me that the great writer of the universe intended to give us some prior warning when we're dealing with psychos-watch out for those known by three names. An extra name is to titles what an extra chromosome is to genetics-often a sign of extreme aggression. My father married two women with the same first name, and my Uncle went out with several women with that name as well. Clearly in their primitive limbic minds "Jane"=woman. Aurora, of course, means you're as radiant as a star, celestial yourself perhaps.
This friend read things into labels and names of businesses as well. Only a woman woman of questionable virtue could own "Kim's Party Store" and taverns known as the Wooden Nickle or Back Door would not escape his notice. A bar named "Buddy's" seemed rather pathetic to him-as if asking for friends. We both agreed that bottled water called "DNA" was highly suspect-neither of us wanted to drink water that contained DNA samples. I do miss the conversations with my co-author of these pithy observations, but brilliance only begets brilliance, and by now I'm sure there are new batshit crazy chapters waiting to be written.
There were other theories, but the best the best gift the world of arts&letters was the notion that the names of people were somehow their titles or personality descriptions. I remember he had a particular hang up about women named "Alice" and was convinced that they were prickteases meant to sow chaos among the males of the species. "Pauls" tended to be intellectual and paternal in demeanor. "Cathies," we agreed, were " a little slutty, a little nutty." "Steves" could be hyper, nervous and sometimes treacherous. "Jasons" were often overstated and beligerent, but not without principal and conscience.
As mentioned, under this theoretical conceit, names could also be functional or descriptive. Carnival barkers and scam artists refer to their dupes as "marcs" ; consequently, suckers or people who look like idiots are "Marks." Honest people are frank-just follow the JustCallMeFrank blog if you need proof(http://just-call-me-frank.blogspot.com/). Trust me, our idea only gets more illuminating. What do you think now of women who are named "Candy"? Names like "Hattie," "Mildred," and "Bubbles" tell you that you're interacting with a geriatric female. Osama Bin Laden, John Wayne Gacy, Lee Harvey Oswald, John Norman Collins, they all tell me that the great writer of the universe intended to give us some prior warning when we're dealing with psychos-watch out for those known by three names. An extra name is to titles what an extra chromosome is to genetics-often a sign of extreme aggression. My father married two women with the same first name, and my Uncle went out with several women with that name as well. Clearly in their primitive limbic minds "Jane"=woman. Aurora, of course, means you're as radiant as a star, celestial yourself perhaps.
This friend read things into labels and names of businesses as well. Only a woman woman of questionable virtue could own "Kim's Party Store" and taverns known as the Wooden Nickle or Back Door would not escape his notice. A bar named "Buddy's" seemed rather pathetic to him-as if asking for friends. We both agreed that bottled water called "DNA" was highly suspect-neither of us wanted to drink water that contained DNA samples. I do miss the conversations with my co-author of these pithy observations, but brilliance only begets brilliance, and by now I'm sure there are new batshit crazy chapters waiting to be written.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Matrimonial Ineloquence
This summer I attended 2 times as many weddings than I had ever attended before. Yes, I attended 3 weddings this summer as the office arm candy of the Bible Thumper. Weddings are meant to remind other families of their relative paucity in both family and monetary resources. On of these weddings was held in some idyllic church retreat's cathedral. Another was held at a prestigious conference center on the University of Michigan's Ann Arbor campus. The last wedding was held at country-club in one of Detroit's mega-rich suburbs. No, the world of large families of tall, strapping Aryan men or healthy young women, open bars, outdoors weddings, 10 layered wedding cakes, gourmet dinners, champagne, post 4-course meal pizza is not mine. I appreciate the generosity of my lady's kin and comrades. Hell, I didn't even know them from Adam and Eve, but they still picked up the tab for my vegetarian fettuccine and Cuba libre (s). I'm not here to whine about my small and impoverished tribe, critique the white people dancing at the reception or badmouth the brides.
No, the usual fascination with words carries over to the toasts of the maid of honor and best man at one of these weddings. It seems to me that one would not necessarily choose a close personal friend, but rather an eloquent and diplomatic spokesperson when it comes to significant toasts. Wedding roles have to be chosen carefully. For instance, your ex has no place at your wedding, lest they joke with your new spouse, "If memory serves, you're going to have quite a night tonight, but don't forget, I hit that first! Hahaha." Neither should your pearls be tossed before bride swine. An excerpt:
"Ironically enough, we're both women (off to a great start)" The maid of honor then relates that both she and the bride disliked each other upon first meeting-mainly because they both misinterpreted each other's disdain for a mutual acquaintance. Once they decide it was someone else they didn't like, the maid of honor discovered that "we both love Red Bull and Vodka, Jagerbombs." Later, she related the absolutely heartwarming story of how one morning the bride brought her a Burger King Whopper. She knew "it was love." In sum, they both love drinking, Burger King, music and God. Unique as snowflakes. By this point in the rant, the rest of the table assented to my earlier assertion that the made of honor was blitzed, bombed,buzzed, crunk, crushed, destroyed, En ditzed, hammered, inebriated, sauced, soaked, tanked, tipsy, toasted. The last thing I remember tuning into hear was that she hadn't always liked the groom, but that she wished them well. The man of honor was equally poetic. "I would say she doesn't deserve to have you, but anyone who would have you deserves you." Careful readers will note that the subtle wordplay changes the toast from praise to an "aw shux" insult.
Later on, the first words the bride comes over to tell me she had secured a vegetarian meal for me. "Oh by the way, we made sure they made a vegatarian meal for you. You're welcome." I didn't know how to respond. "I don't know what to say. I mean I didn't event to come, but my girlfirend insisted."
No, the usual fascination with words carries over to the toasts of the maid of honor and best man at one of these weddings. It seems to me that one would not necessarily choose a close personal friend, but rather an eloquent and diplomatic spokesperson when it comes to significant toasts. Wedding roles have to be chosen carefully. For instance, your ex has no place at your wedding, lest they joke with your new spouse, "If memory serves, you're going to have quite a night tonight, but don't forget, I hit that first! Hahaha." Neither should your pearls be tossed before bride swine. An excerpt:
"Ironically enough, we're both women (off to a great start)" The maid of honor then relates that both she and the bride disliked each other upon first meeting-mainly because they both misinterpreted each other's disdain for a mutual acquaintance. Once they decide it was someone else they didn't like, the maid of honor discovered that "we both love Red Bull and Vodka, Jagerbombs." Later, she related the absolutely heartwarming story of how one morning the bride brought her a Burger King Whopper. She knew "it was love." In sum, they both love drinking, Burger King, music and God. Unique as snowflakes. By this point in the rant, the rest of the table assented to my earlier assertion that the made of honor was blitzed, bombed,buzzed, crunk, crushed, destroyed, En ditzed, hammered, inebriated, sauced, soaked, tanked, tipsy, toasted. The last thing I remember tuning into hear was that she hadn't always liked the groom, but that she wished them well. The man of honor was equally poetic. "I would say she doesn't deserve to have you, but anyone who would have you deserves you." Careful readers will note that the subtle wordplay changes the toast from praise to an "aw shux" insult.
Later on, the first words the bride comes over to tell me she had secured a vegetarian meal for me. "Oh by the way, we made sure they made a vegatarian meal for you. You're welcome." I didn't know how to respond. "I don't know what to say. I mean I didn't event to come, but my girlfirend insisted."
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Sausage and Schite
I am not all that familiar with how sausage gets made, and it's certainly not a regular part of my diet, but I'm lead to believe that the sausage making proccess is a particularly grotesque one. Using the elasctic skin of intestines or other similarly textured meat, the butchers then use the stretched out rinds as casing for other meats-lips, headcheese, ligament flesh, and all sorts of other savory delights stripped away from the cows, pigs, chickens, ostriches, gorillas, stray dogs and other victims that make up America's disgusting meat industry. For good measure, rat feces and sawdust probably gets included into the stuffing.
This blog is the casing or container of my week's worth of mental shit. I love odd word combinations, and I stumbled into one earlier this week. I went back to school at the age of 25, and I finished grad school at the relatively geriatric age of 30. These damn kids, like me, were required to get a university issued laptop. Unlike me, these kids learned how to deftly exploit the computer; think Napster, Ipods, burning CD's and software, webcams, sending images and info back and forth. I remember hearing the younger, thinner little ones get excited some 6 years or so ago about Facebook and Myspace. My improv troupe participated in an icebreaker that involved pairing off according to wether or not you had one of those "books" or online "photoalbums"-at least that's what I thought they were until I found out about social networks. Knowing that this is the level I operate on, then you shouldn't be surprised that I was delighted and intrigued to discover the word combination "otterbox." I laughed outloud hearing people casually discussing their "otterboxes." Otters are funny animals, and to the best of my knowledge they don't store possesions in boxes. Box has a few connotations, but I didn't think people were referring to rodent vaginas or especially hairy bushes. Someone had to burst my bubble and tell me just what they are. It wasn't the only amusing word combination I heard.
"Python Tutorials." I still don't know exactly what a "Python Tutorial" is. but I know what I want it to mean. I'd prefer to think it had nothing to do with heavy machinery, but instead was the male equivalent for kagel woman tightening, or something similar to Pilates or "the rack." The poet Sir Mix A Lot said something on his album having "the long black snake; just gotta make it move. Know what I mean?" I think if you have python tutorials, you do.
Lastly, a term I know and understand, but love to say, "Raw foodist." I love the sounds of the words "Raw Foodist." Try saying it with a growl in your voice or with true invective, almost angrily. I don't care much about every new diet and trend that I can't afford to partake in, but I still love reading about raw foodists, because Raw is War, and, for me, saying "raw foodist" is as satisfying as as growling.
This blog is the casing or container of my week's worth of mental shit. I love odd word combinations, and I stumbled into one earlier this week. I went back to school at the age of 25, and I finished grad school at the relatively geriatric age of 30. These damn kids, like me, were required to get a university issued laptop. Unlike me, these kids learned how to deftly exploit the computer; think Napster, Ipods, burning CD's and software, webcams, sending images and info back and forth. I remember hearing the younger, thinner little ones get excited some 6 years or so ago about Facebook and Myspace. My improv troupe participated in an icebreaker that involved pairing off according to wether or not you had one of those "books" or online "photoalbums"-at least that's what I thought they were until I found out about social networks. Knowing that this is the level I operate on, then you shouldn't be surprised that I was delighted and intrigued to discover the word combination "otterbox." I laughed outloud hearing people casually discussing their "otterboxes." Otters are funny animals, and to the best of my knowledge they don't store possesions in boxes. Box has a few connotations, but I didn't think people were referring to rodent vaginas or especially hairy bushes. Someone had to burst my bubble and tell me just what they are. It wasn't the only amusing word combination I heard.
"Python Tutorials." I still don't know exactly what a "Python Tutorial" is. but I know what I want it to mean. I'd prefer to think it had nothing to do with heavy machinery, but instead was the male equivalent for kagel woman tightening, or something similar to Pilates or "the rack." The poet Sir Mix A Lot said something on his album having "the long black snake; just gotta make it move. Know what I mean?" I think if you have python tutorials, you do.
Lastly, a term I know and understand, but love to say, "Raw foodist." I love the sounds of the words "Raw Foodist." Try saying it with a growl in your voice or with true invective, almost angrily. I don't care much about every new diet and trend that I can't afford to partake in, but I still love reading about raw foodists, because Raw is War, and, for me, saying "raw foodist" is as satisfying as as growling.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Is Horny, Baby
I wish I had reason to keep a diary; moreover, I wish that every diary entry ended with the words "and then we had sex." Like you, I lead a life that isn't generally worth writing ( or blogging ) about. Yes, believe it or not, nobody wants to hear about your yummy vegan brownies, bland as chicken feed polenta patties or your other culinary "innovations." I don't care about your child's confusion over the reality of Transformers, and your hackneyed politics is boring, provincial, and and pre-packaged. The internet is also saturated, steaped, and dripping with the hot, oily words of erotica writers as well. I'd unfairly malign them as well, but most of the foul-mouther tramp talking cyber harlots I've met have been much more literary, sweet, and interesting than the average Jane. It stands to reason. Humans fixate on sex. Sex is interesting. I've seen all the silver screen celebrities fuck, but what my neighbors are doing is far more interesting-bedroom walls are the last boundaries in some ways.
Certainly, I don't like pornographic material very much, and much of what passes for erotica is low-grade smut-to me, the personal revelation is interesting-the mechanics are sticky and unappetizing. Gentlemen never tell, but their diaries (not mine) do. A few summers ago, working out east at a resort in the Poconos, my friend young Mr. "Harold" had quite a summer. Harold was thin then, with thick, curly hair, at a time in his life where he didn't say much, and his Uncle lent him a convertible for the summer. He worked as a waiter, and he mostly worked with Eastern Europeans who either waited tables or worked in the kitchen. The convertible hinted at wealth, survival, the dumb corn fed looks hinted at citizenship. He had a good summer. Most of the time, he said nothing, but alcohol soaked Mustang runs down bumpy country roads were an attractive prospect to young women who'd been on their feet all day serving fat, rude New Yorkers Swiss steaks and Budweisers. Oh hell, my point is he fucked a lot that summer. He fucked a lot of women he wouldn't been given the time of day from otherwise, and most of these women had not mastered English idioms, articles, or any other nuances. Mid-coital malaprops, here we come!
Heard in the throes of passion was, "I'm chickenhead, baby, I'm chickenhead. Wery bad girl!" Equally as tasteful were some play referencing home countries. One woman, while removing her top, one "cup" at a time said "I'm from two countries, Czech (one breast revealed) and Slovokia (another breast revealed). The other woman guilty of poor world play was from Hungary. I'll let you speculate on her pun.
Another occasion, there was some grumbling between two lovers over the Slavic tempress sharing her milkshake with all the boys at the bar. Exasperated, she exclaimed, "Oh yes, he bought me a drink so I gave him a head."
This is as graphic as I want to get, but at one point, taking her from behind, she yelled out "Yes, take me like tiger, baby, tiger." Things got a little more bizzare when, for unknown reasons, Ms. Bulgaria yelled out "hit us harder! harder!"
Finishing up, an appropriate enough transition, things would get even better. "Oh, my cat is happy, sweety." Yet the very last garbled, misapplied idiom is the best in my opinion. With the earth about to move, she yells out "I think you're coming on to me."
Good night, Kids.
Certainly, I don't like pornographic material very much, and much of what passes for erotica is low-grade smut-to me, the personal revelation is interesting-the mechanics are sticky and unappetizing. Gentlemen never tell, but their diaries (not mine) do. A few summers ago, working out east at a resort in the Poconos, my friend young Mr. "Harold" had quite a summer. Harold was thin then, with thick, curly hair, at a time in his life where he didn't say much, and his Uncle lent him a convertible for the summer. He worked as a waiter, and he mostly worked with Eastern Europeans who either waited tables or worked in the kitchen. The convertible hinted at wealth, survival, the dumb corn fed looks hinted at citizenship. He had a good summer. Most of the time, he said nothing, but alcohol soaked Mustang runs down bumpy country roads were an attractive prospect to young women who'd been on their feet all day serving fat, rude New Yorkers Swiss steaks and Budweisers. Oh hell, my point is he fucked a lot that summer. He fucked a lot of women he wouldn't been given the time of day from otherwise, and most of these women had not mastered English idioms, articles, or any other nuances. Mid-coital malaprops, here we come!
Heard in the throes of passion was, "I'm chickenhead, baby, I'm chickenhead. Wery bad girl!" Equally as tasteful were some play referencing home countries. One woman, while removing her top, one "cup" at a time said "I'm from two countries, Czech (one breast revealed) and Slovokia (another breast revealed). The other woman guilty of poor world play was from Hungary. I'll let you speculate on her pun.
Another occasion, there was some grumbling between two lovers over the Slavic tempress sharing her milkshake with all the boys at the bar. Exasperated, she exclaimed, "Oh yes, he bought me a drink so I gave him a head."
This is as graphic as I want to get, but at one point, taking her from behind, she yelled out "Yes, take me like tiger, baby, tiger." Things got a little more bizzare when, for unknown reasons, Ms. Bulgaria yelled out "hit us harder! harder!"
Finishing up, an appropriate enough transition, things would get even better. "Oh, my cat is happy, sweety." Yet the very last garbled, misapplied idiom is the best in my opinion. With the earth about to move, she yells out "I think you're coming on to me."
Good night, Kids.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Logophilia
Internal dialogue Voice 1: You should write another blog. This is the longest you've gone without updating, and the people who feel sorry enough for you to read you will wonder what's up.
Internal dialogue voice 2: Nah, nobody gives two moldy pillows, and besides, what is there to write about?
Internal dialogue voice 1: Well, you wrote that you were working on a blog about the words writers and people (note the distinction) love, and three people including one of your favorite bloggers deigned to respond to you. Relatively speaking, that's a lot attention for your sorry ass!
Internal dialogue voice 2: Fuck you, voice 1, my sorry ass is your sorry ass! Besides, ever since we've been on the exercise bike.....
Abort Abort Abort (too much self reference)
If I didn't find words and certain word combinations fun, then I simply wouldn't write. Some words provide cheap thrills either because they relate an interesting story or because the word itself is exciting, appealing to my prurient nature. If it weren't for someone I know, I probably never would've bothered to think about favorite words, but because of him, I'm conscious of my verbal and diction preferences. This person spends a lot of time thinking about words that titillate him. He may cleverly insert the word "launchpad" into a conversation about aerodynamics or the beginnings of careers. If only he moved to Great Britian, then gone would be the days of the "garbage truck," instead he would experience the constant rapture of the word "dustcart." There are other words and other effects, but I don't wish to break confidences.
My own favorite words are clearly indicative of what psychologists term "being fucked up." To wit:
Defenestrate: this is nothing but pretty word for throwing things, including "people things" through windows.
Labial: As you know, the labia refers to the "lips" of the vagina, but this word honestly makes me think of flowers-although flowers and vaginas have had symbolic connections.
Abbatoir: A two-bit word for slaughterhouse. Ten will get you one it's French in origin.
Misanthrope: Did I say French words? This word means one who hates humanity-without grace, that's me.
Between my frequent drug use and Golden Girl marathons, I asked some writes I harrass on Twitter what words they liked. I didn't get many responses, but the responses I got were interesting @Litatweets, real estate lawyer and girl reporter, "tweeted"-I don't like that word- that her favorite words were "snafu," (we'll allow it) "reluctance," "derivative," and "semi." Interesting I think. I suspect "reluctance" is a diplomatic lawyer word for "I'm not getting anywhere near your stupid idea." Another good soul submitted her list of words: "incadescent," "wretched," "akward," "soliloquy," "quagmire," and "radiant." I would add the phrase "good mental health" in contrast to my list of words-almost of the words she suggested could vivify or improve a sentence. My last contribution came from Blogger Emeritus, Heavyweight Champion, @Justcallmefrank. Her blog is worth following as are her tweets- which are by turns very warm and kind and then gleefully naughty, menacing even. I read her clearly when she said among her favorite words was the word "allegedly." Frank denies it, but I maintain they are (see the blog; I didn't subject/verb disagree) the creator of the word "stabby." I don't like the sonic quality of "stabby," but I do like the fact that sheer force of will is making it part of the stupid Twitterverse's lexicon.
Internal dialogue voice 2: Nah, nobody gives two moldy pillows, and besides, what is there to write about?
Internal dialogue voice 1: Well, you wrote that you were working on a blog about the words writers and people (note the distinction) love, and three people including one of your favorite bloggers deigned to respond to you. Relatively speaking, that's a lot attention for your sorry ass!
Internal dialogue voice 2: Fuck you, voice 1, my sorry ass is your sorry ass! Besides, ever since we've been on the exercise bike.....
Abort Abort Abort (too much self reference)
If I didn't find words and certain word combinations fun, then I simply wouldn't write. Some words provide cheap thrills either because they relate an interesting story or because the word itself is exciting, appealing to my prurient nature. If it weren't for someone I know, I probably never would've bothered to think about favorite words, but because of him, I'm conscious of my verbal and diction preferences. This person spends a lot of time thinking about words that titillate him. He may cleverly insert the word "launchpad" into a conversation about aerodynamics or the beginnings of careers. If only he moved to Great Britian, then gone would be the days of the "garbage truck," instead he would experience the constant rapture of the word "dustcart." There are other words and other effects, but I don't wish to break confidences.
My own favorite words are clearly indicative of what psychologists term "being fucked up." To wit:
Defenestrate: this is nothing but pretty word for throwing things, including "people things" through windows.
Labial: As you know, the labia refers to the "lips" of the vagina, but this word honestly makes me think of flowers-although flowers and vaginas have had symbolic connections.
Abbatoir: A two-bit word for slaughterhouse. Ten will get you one it's French in origin.
Misanthrope: Did I say French words? This word means one who hates humanity-without grace, that's me.
Between my frequent drug use and Golden Girl marathons, I asked some writes I harrass on Twitter what words they liked. I didn't get many responses, but the responses I got were interesting @Litatweets, real estate lawyer and girl reporter, "tweeted"-I don't like that word- that her favorite words were "snafu," (we'll allow it) "reluctance," "derivative," and "semi." Interesting I think. I suspect "reluctance" is a diplomatic lawyer word for "I'm not getting anywhere near your stupid idea." Another good soul submitted her list of words: "incadescent," "wretched," "akward," "soliloquy," "quagmire," and "radiant." I would add the phrase "good mental health" in contrast to my list of words-almost of the words she suggested could vivify or improve a sentence. My last contribution came from Blogger Emeritus, Heavyweight Champion, @Justcallmefrank. Her blog is worth following as are her tweets- which are by turns very warm and kind and then gleefully naughty, menacing even. I read her clearly when she said among her favorite words was the word "allegedly." Frank denies it, but I maintain they are (see the blog; I didn't subject/verb disagree) the creator of the word "stabby." I don't like the sonic quality of "stabby," but I do like the fact that sheer force of will is making it part of the stupid Twitterverse's lexicon.
Friday, August 26, 2011
West Virigina Child Farming
I remember it was somewhere in West Virginia
I remember once the mom had stopped into the post-office, and probably figuring this post office was too small to bring in her kids, she left her wheelbarrow outside as a vunerable as a nest full of baby birds fallen to the ground. I walked by that nest, but it was clear they didn’t know it. I peeked closer and closer until it became clear they sensed me. “Are youuuuu the Mcdonald’s man?” they asked. “I guess that’s just my essence,” I said. They didn’t seem to take no notice of my words, another one, I think a girl asked “do ya get any extra fries from the end of the day?” I was a little surprised by all of this, and I saw the mother walking out the door, so I scooted on out.
I figured that was as about as up close and personal as I’d want to get. Some time went by and I was still sparechangin’ and shitkickin’ around that cracker town. In truth, those was special, difficult times. I had occasion where I had to eat what was left over in exchange for doin’ dishes at some nice old lady’s restaurant. I remember whenever them kids came in thinkin to count my lucky stars because after they absolutely cleaned to a shine their own plates, sometimes the momma would grab the plates out of the bus-tub and feed what remained to those kids, scraps, skins, half-chewed and all. I told that lady who ran the diner and all she said in her twangy way, “It’s best just to stay out of other folks business in my experience.” Which is some true, Mark twain shit of wisdom, but I couldn’t help but know too much. Very late one night, maybe I’d had too much bumwine and I was roamin’ about, looking for love, for soup, whatever, I was drunk. I seen that the restaurant’s alley door was open a bit, propped out a bit with a crate and I heard at least some activity in there. I think maybe you have an idea where I’m going now, but jeslisten. I hear some talkin, some squeelin, but I don’t see no one in the kitchen, no one is in the stock room either. The bathroom smelled like someone was in it, but no one was. Mother of God, I thinks to myself, robbers tied her up and left her in the freezer! I raced into the freezer and what I seen next……. What I seen next. Them kids was hanging from harnesses and the glare from their shiny, white rump meat was blinding! The old lady and the maw seemed to have some kind of stent stabbed into their back creating a wedge of white meat that the old lady seemed to be stripping with a long knife. “Maw, the old hag got enough from me already,” one of the children said, “It’s Jespa’s turn to get stripped!” It was like that Warlock, trying to take a pound of that virgin’s flesh! The maw didn’t want to hear them young ones whinin’ “She ain’t even got to the sweetmeat yet, ya lil brat, no shaddup or you ain’t getting none of that fried chicken she’s keeping in the warmer,” she said.
By this time, one of them kids, hanging like a bat says, “I smell Mcdonald’s, is the Mcdonald’s man here?” They all turned around and glared at me. She weren’t going to try to lie,“Well, what do you expect?” the mother said looking at me like I interrupted going to the bathroom, “you think I can afford to feed these little hogs and sows without makin’ them carry some of their own weight?” The old hag was a little more apologetic, “It really don’t hurt’em all that much, once every few months I get one of these nice sharp blades and trim a little fat off the bone is all”, then she smiled and spoked towards the kids, “and I always send’em home with my famous fried chicken.” One of them, a boy I think, grunts “We been good tonight, ain’t we? We’s getting the fried chicken ain’t we?” “Well, will see, won’t we?” says the restaurant owning hag gentle like she’s telling them fairy tales. I reckon at this point I have enough of telling you this story, sometimes even my stories is worse for me in the telling. I guess she weren’t slaughterin’ the kids and there’s something to said for that, but I ain’t gonna say it for now.
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