Please join me in welcoming a new entry to the blogroll: The BBQ General.
Some time ago, I posted a brief profile of our friends Janet and Wylie. Wylie, the self-styled BBQ General, is, along with Janet, a master barbecue chef, and their new blog is a great place to pick up on some excellent recipes, techniques, and all-around BBQ advice.
I won’t get into the Raging Argument about what type of BBQ is best: Texas, Memphis, Kansas City, Southeastern...’cause to me, they’re all good. It’s like my buddy Gary always says about ice cream: All flavors are good; some are just better than others. And since that is a matter of taste, we’ll leave it to the individual.
Be sure to visit the General and tell him Elisson sent you. I don’t get any baksheesh for this, but I do like to know that my Esteemed Readers are well fed.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
COUNTRY BOY
Gotta watch out for them Country Boys.
Most Americans - especially the ones of the Northeastern variety - hold Country Boys in thinly veiled contempt. Rubes, they think. Redneck geeks.
It’s a dangerous and stupid attitude.
Lenny Bruce used to do a bit in which he would say, “If Einstein had been a Southerner, we wouldn’t have had an atomic bomb.”
He’d step into the persona of a fictional Southrin Einstein to drive the point home: “Folks, Ah wanna tell y’all ’bout new-cleer fishin’...”
“Shaddup, ya schmuck! Ya don’t know nuthin’!”
Bruce’s routine was his way of explaining why (then) President Lyndon Johnson got so little respect from the Eastern intellectual establishment. But Johnson wasn’t any kind of a dummy, and he would work that Country Boy routine.
In like wise, a friend of ours - an attorney who frequently defended clients in the Medical Profession who were on the receiving end of malpractice lawsuits - described a Country Boy plaintiff’s lawyer.
Seems there was a botched plastic surgery case, and our friend was working the defense. The plaintiff’s attorney was one of those Country Boy fellers. Every movement, every stitch of clothing (I picture him in a straw boater and a seersucker suit) told you that he was a real salt-of-the-earth Man of th’ Peepul.
And this fine Country Boy, he hitched his thumbs under his galluses just so, and, puffing out his chest, strode forth before the Jury Box to address the Defendant. Quoth he:
“Now, Doctah So-and-So, suppose you tell the ladies and gentlemen of the jury just exactly what it was that you did to mah client that made her titties all catty-wampus?”
Country Boy, my ass. This old boy could’ve eaten half of Harvard Yard for lunch.
You underestimate the Country Boy at your peril, O Northern Ones.
Most Americans - especially the ones of the Northeastern variety - hold Country Boys in thinly veiled contempt. Rubes, they think. Redneck geeks.
It’s a dangerous and stupid attitude.
Lenny Bruce used to do a bit in which he would say, “If Einstein had been a Southerner, we wouldn’t have had an atomic bomb.”
He’d step into the persona of a fictional Southrin Einstein to drive the point home: “Folks, Ah wanna tell y’all ’bout new-cleer fishin’...”
“Shaddup, ya schmuck! Ya don’t know nuthin’!”
Bruce’s routine was his way of explaining why (then) President Lyndon Johnson got so little respect from the Eastern intellectual establishment. But Johnson wasn’t any kind of a dummy, and he would work that Country Boy routine.
In like wise, a friend of ours - an attorney who frequently defended clients in the Medical Profession who were on the receiving end of malpractice lawsuits - described a Country Boy plaintiff’s lawyer.
Seems there was a botched plastic surgery case, and our friend was working the defense. The plaintiff’s attorney was one of those Country Boy fellers. Every movement, every stitch of clothing (I picture him in a straw boater and a seersucker suit) told you that he was a real salt-of-the-earth Man of th’ Peepul.
And this fine Country Boy, he hitched his thumbs under his galluses just so, and, puffing out his chest, strode forth before the Jury Box to address the Defendant. Quoth he:
“Now, Doctah So-and-So, suppose you tell the ladies and gentlemen of the jury just exactly what it was that you did to mah client that made her titties all catty-wampus?”
Country Boy, my ass. This old boy could’ve eaten half of Harvard Yard for lunch.
You underestimate the Country Boy at your peril, O Northern Ones.
LOCAL ROYALTY
Yes, we have Royalty amongst us.
There’s Queen Matata, here displaying her Regal Imperiousness:
Peasant! Bring me kibble. And be quick about it!
Dare ye to skritch the Royal Personage?
And, waiting patiently in the wings, is Princess Hakuna. No less royal, but a tad less aggressive.
Are you quite through sucking up to Her Nibs over there? ’Cause my bowl’s empty.
Carnival of the Cats will be posted later today at enrevanche. If you can tear your ass away from watchingStoopid-Bowl Super Bowl XL, getcha some of that Kitty Goodness...and be sure to say “Hello!” to Mister Gato.
And be sure to visit Laurence Simon’s latest catblogging enterprise, an Unholy Alliance with the MSM: Catcall, the HoustonCarbuncle Chronicle’s honest-to-Gawd Cat Blog. It’s Cat-Riffic!
Update: The Carnival is up...early!
There’s Queen Matata, here displaying her Regal Imperiousness:
Peasant! Bring me kibble. And be quick about it!
Dare ye to skritch the Royal Personage?
And, waiting patiently in the wings, is Princess Hakuna. No less royal, but a tad less aggressive.
Are you quite through sucking up to Her Nibs over there? ’Cause my bowl’s empty.
Carnival of the Cats will be posted later today at enrevanche. If you can tear your ass away from watching
And be sure to visit Laurence Simon’s latest catblogging enterprise, an Unholy Alliance with the MSM: Catcall, the Houston
Update: The Carnival is up...early!
Saturday, February 04, 2006
LIFE IMITATES ART, YET AGAIN (?)
Must’ve been a year ago, when I composed this completely rotten limerick:
A filthy young woman named Mabel
Liked to crap on the dining room table.
She would finish dessert
And then hike up her skirt,
Jump right up, and commence laying cable.
Thanks to Jim at Parkway Rest Stop, we now know that Mabel is a mere amateur. Michelle Hines - who probably should change her name to Hiney - has figured out how to lay enough cable in a single unbroken length to require a bowling alley to accommodate it.
Times like this, I purely love the Internet.
[Of course, some of us are unimpressed by mere length. I wonder what the world record is for girth?]
Want the whole story, with all the sordid details? And pictures, yet? Go ahead and click this link...but don’t say I didn’t warn you. I will not be responsible for any long- or short-term psychic damage that may result.
Update: Snopes may not have anything on Ms. Hines yet, but the Village Voice does. When I clicked on this link in the intermaweb.net post [it’s just above the (gag) picture], these words caught my attention right away: “The work of Michelle Hines often employs strategies of willful fakery to accentuate particular human dynamics and responses.” [Emphasis mine.] And one of Acidman’s commenters, rightisright, came up with the Real Dirt.
Looks like Mabel still has a job. Wonder what a 26' fake turd would fetch on eBay?
A filthy young woman named Mabel
Liked to crap on the dining room table.
She would finish dessert
And then hike up her skirt,
Jump right up, and commence laying cable.
Thanks to Jim at Parkway Rest Stop, we now know that Mabel is a mere amateur. Michelle Hines - who probably should change her name to Hiney - has figured out how to lay enough cable in a single unbroken length to require a bowling alley to accommodate it.
Times like this, I purely love the Internet.
[Of course, some of us are unimpressed by mere length. I wonder what the world record is for girth?]
Want the whole story, with all the sordid details? And pictures, yet? Go ahead and click this link...but don’t say I didn’t warn you. I will not be responsible for any long- or short-term psychic damage that may result.
Update: Snopes may not have anything on Ms. Hines yet, but the Village Voice does. When I clicked on this link in the intermaweb.net post [it’s just above the (gag) picture], these words caught my attention right away: “The work of Michelle Hines often employs strategies of willful fakery to accentuate particular human dynamics and responses.” [Emphasis mine.] And one of Acidman’s commenters, rightisright, came up with the Real Dirt.
Looks like Mabel still has a job. Wonder what a 26' fake turd would fetch on eBay?
BACK ATCHA
It is said that no good deed goes unpunished.
As a corollary, when you pay homage, sometime there is payback. Witnesseth:
Hmmm. This groove between my ass-cheeks: is it supposed to be there? And why does it bear, suspiciously, the subtle imprint pattern of a bicycle tire tread?
As a corollary, when you pay homage, sometime there is payback. Witnesseth:
I took the familial units, GLTB, Mystikal One, and Satiric Lass, up to Gilmer County this Friday, a mere stone’s throw from Atlantabama, for what we at the ’gogue call flavavel, or the Day of Kosher Pork. The locals were having a barbecue contest, you see, and we were eager to participate as it coincided with our day of flavavel. Pig. Yum!Read it all.
Hmmm. This groove between my ass-cheeks: is it supposed to be there? And why does it bear, suspiciously, the subtle imprint pattern of a bicycle tire tread?
Friday, February 03, 2006
CARNIVAL OF THE COCKROACHES #5
Welcome to Carnival of the Cockroaches, Number Five!Yes, I’ve received enough submissions - a very few submissions - over the past couple of months, so it’s time to resurrect this fine Carnival.
Back in November, I announced that I would open this Carnival up to the Whole Insect World. That might help make things a little more interesting (and maybe help get a few more submissions as well.) Cockroaches rule, but Blog d’Elisson is an ecumenical site, so we will allow the Buggy Brethren of our Roachy Buddies to stick their antennae under the tent flap.
We’ll kick off the Carnival with Brad Rubinstein of Odd Quanta, who gives us a post that includes a link to some remarkable Beetle Pictures. Picking scarabs is now just as easy as picking scabs!
Blueberry runs the Texas Oasis site. Oases have water, and they don’t call these bad boys Water Bugs for nothing. Check out her post about Cyborg-Cockroaches. Resistance is futile!
Radaractive gives us a post with a political bent. Political cockroaches? I dunno...comparing your ideological opposition to cockroaches is way too facile, but there is some good dirt on actual roaches. You just have to look for it amidst the rest of the screed. And Radar appears to be way too familiar with the little beasties.
Well, that’s about it for this edition of the Carnival. I thought I had more submissions than that, but it turns out a few of ’em were unrelated to roaches or other Buggy Vermin and had apparently found my mailbox when someone clicked the wrong line in the Carnival Submission Form.
Cuco Eddie just reminded me to ask my Esteemed Readers to be sure and send your submissions in for the next Carnival of the Cockroaches. Just use the handy-dandy Carnival Submission Form, helpfully provided by Ferdy, the Conservative Cat, or e-mail me at elisson1 (at) aol (dot) com. Also, don’t forget to tell all your nutty Bug-Loving Friends about us...and remember our sister Carnival, the Circus of the Spineless, the most recent edition of which is up at Pharyngula. [Like Dracula...but with a pharynx, I guess.]Linked to the TTLB Übercarnival.
[Cuco Eddie ©2006 by Lalo Alcaraz. Used without permission...but with extreme respect and admiration!]
Technorati tags: Carnival, Cockroaches
FRIDAY RANDOM TEN
It’s once again time for the Friday Random Ten, a randomly-selected list of Musical Adventures from the iPod d’Elisson. Here we go:
Woke up that morning
With the cold water
With the cold water
With the cold water
Woke up that morning
With the cold water
With the cold water
With the cold
Took me a shower
In the cold water
In the cold water
In the cold water
Took me a shower
In the cold water
In the cold water
In the cold
Went to the office
In the frickin’ snowstorm
In the frickin’ snowstorm
In the frickin’ snowstorm
Went to the office
In the frickin’ snowstorm
In the frickin’ snowstorm
In the snow
Got up to give
A presentation
A presentation
A presentation
Got up to give
A presentation
A presentation
(PowerPoint)
Couldn’t continue, ’cause I
Had a kidney stone
Had a kidney stone
Had a kidney stone
Couldn’t continue, ’cause I
Had a kidney stone
Had a kidney stone
Had a stone
And so they had to schlep me to the farookin’ hospital and pump me full of drugs so I could finish making the presentation, get to the airport, and go home without screaming blue murder. Holy Crap!
So, fie upon your Cold Water. Fie, I say!
It’s Friday. What are you listening to?
- My Name is Death - The Incredible String Band
- Sunset Road (live version) - Béla Fleck & The Flecktones
- Treebeard - Howard Shore, The Two Towers soundtrack
- Nokh Eyn Tantz - The Klezmer Conservatory Band
- Don’t Look Away - Brian Auger’s Oblivion Express
- Diva’s Lament (Whatever Happened To My Part?) - Monty Python’s Spamalot
- Theme From New York, New York - Skanatra
- Minimum Wage - They Might Be Giants
- A Taste Of Honey - The Beatles
- Cold Water - Tom Waits
Well I woke up this morning
With the cold water
With the cold water
With the cold water
Woke up this morning
With the cold water
With the cold water
With the cold
Police at the station
And they don’t look friendly
Well they don’t look friendly
Well they don’t look friendly
Police at the station
And they don’t look friendly
They don’t look friendly well
They don’t
Blind or crippled
Sharp or dull
I’m reading the Bible
By a 40 watt bulb
What price freedom
Dirt is my rug
Well I sleep like a baby
With the snakes and the bugs
Well the stores are open
But I ain’t got no money
I ain’t got no money
Stores are open but I
Ain’t got no money
Ain’t got no money
Well I ain’t
Found an old dog
And he seems to like me
Seems to like me
Well he seems to like me
Found an old dog and he
Seems to like me
Seems to like me
Well he seems
Seen them fellows
with the card board signs
Scrapin up a little $
To buy a bottle of wine
Pregnant women and
The Vietnam vets I say
Beggin on the freeway
Bout as hard as it gets
Well I slept in the graveyard
It was cool and still
Cool and still
It was cool and still
Slept in the graveyard
It was cool and still
Cool and still and it
Was cool
Slept all night in the Cedar grove
I was born to ramble
Born to rove
Some men are searchin for the
Holy Grail
But there ain’t nothin sweeter
Than ridin the rails
I love 47 but I’m 24
Well they shooed me away
From here the time before
Turned there their backs
And they locked their doors
I’m watching T.V. in
The window of a furniture store
Well I woke up this morning
With the cold water
With the cold water
With the cold water
Woke up this morning
With the cold water
With the cold water
With the cold
Woke up that morning
With the cold water
With the cold water
With the cold water
Woke up that morning
With the cold water
With the cold water
With the cold
Took me a shower
In the cold water
In the cold water
In the cold water
Took me a shower
In the cold water
In the cold water
In the cold
Went to the office
In the frickin’ snowstorm
In the frickin’ snowstorm
In the frickin’ snowstorm
Went to the office
In the frickin’ snowstorm
In the frickin’ snowstorm
In the snow
Got up to give
A presentation
A presentation
A presentation
Got up to give
A presentation
A presentation
(PowerPoint)
Couldn’t continue, ’cause I
Had a kidney stone
Had a kidney stone
Had a kidney stone
Couldn’t continue, ’cause I
Had a kidney stone
Had a kidney stone
Had a stone
And so they had to schlep me to the farookin’ hospital and pump me full of drugs so I could finish making the presentation, get to the airport, and go home without screaming blue murder. Holy Crap!
So, fie upon your Cold Water. Fie, I say!
It’s Friday. What are you listening to?
FATWA’S IN THE FIRE
Here’s a question:
We all know that the fanatic Islamists hate Westerners who dare to depict the image of the Prophet. (Never mind that images of Mohammed, both historical and contemporary, are plentiful and easily obtainable throughout the Muslim world.) The recent flap over the cartoons appearing in the Danish Jyllands-Posten gives you an idea of how easily riled the Star ’n’ Crescent Boyz can be, although that’s been no secret since Salman Rushdie got the bulls-eye painted on his back for daring to write The Satanic Verses in 1989.
If Laurence Simon gets nailed with a fatwa for posting all of his “Ask The Prophet” cartoons, might I draw a “Funny Fatwa” for posting a parody of an “Ask The Prophet” cartoon as I did yesterday?
I wonder what they do to you if they hit you with a Funny Fatwa. Behead you by having crazed hamsters nibble on your neck? Make you sit in the Comfy Chair? Poke you with the Soft Cushion?
We all know that the fanatic Islamists hate Westerners who dare to depict the image of the Prophet. (Never mind that images of Mohammed, both historical and contemporary, are plentiful and easily obtainable throughout the Muslim world.) The recent flap over the cartoons appearing in the Danish Jyllands-Posten gives you an idea of how easily riled the Star ’n’ Crescent Boyz can be, although that’s been no secret since Salman Rushdie got the bulls-eye painted on his back for daring to write The Satanic Verses in 1989.
If Laurence Simon gets nailed with a fatwa for posting all of his “Ask The Prophet” cartoons, might I draw a “Funny Fatwa” for posting a parody of an “Ask The Prophet” cartoon as I did yesterday?
I wonder what they do to you if they hit you with a Funny Fatwa. Behead you by having crazed hamsters nibble on your neck? Make you sit in the Comfy Chair? Poke you with the Soft Cushion?
FRIDAY ARK #72
Steve - the esteemed Modulator - has posted the Friday Ark, with BdE in pole position. Go and check out this week’s assortment of Happy Animalia.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
BROKEBACK TO THE FUTURE
Ever wonder what all the Kreative Kidz are doing?
Chocolate Cake City - the comedy troupe of Emerson College in Boston, not to be confused with the cakeless Chocolate City down on the bayou - has made the Mental Connection between Cowboy Love and the ol’ Flux Capacitor. Check out this video:
Just click on the arrow to play the video.
Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Karen (my blogmother!) for the link.
Chocolate Cake City - the comedy troupe of Emerson College in Boston, not to be confused with the cakeless Chocolate City down on the bayou - has made the Mental Connection between Cowboy Love and the ol’ Flux Capacitor. Check out this video:
Just click on the arrow to play the video.
Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Karen (my blogmother!) for the link.
DINNER WITH DAX
“I’ll have the elephant scrotum on a bun.”Dax reminds us to be patient with the Service Staff. After all, that hapless waiter who just dropped a pot of hot coffee on your crotch might still be in training, having been given a Stay of Execution by us softies...
“Sorry, Sir, you can't have that tonight.”
“Why the hell not?”
“We’re fresh out of buns.”
WHEN IN DOUBT - WAFFLE!
I was casting about for something quick for lunch, and I came up with this:
Wild Blueberry Belgian Waffles with Meyer Lemon Curd.
Quick, you say? Why, what is Elisson smoking? Whatchoo mean, quick?
It took all of three minutes to throw it all together...but only because the two key ingredients - the waffles and the Meyer lemon curd - had been prepared in advance. Otherwise, it would have been a lengthier undertaking.
There’s something about Meyer lemons that can brighten the dreariest February day. They have a more subtle flavor than the bright yellow everyday lemons we get in the Stupid-Market, and their thin, orange-yellow skin makes a potent, aromatic zest. I saw a pile of those bad boys at Fresh Market the other day and couldn’t resist.
Making the lemon curd requires some patience because you have to cook it slowly in a double boiler over simmering water - otherwise, you end up with a heap of lemon-flavored scrambled eggs. The recipe is one that I grabbed from the Bakerina last year, and it is the finest lemon curd I have ever put in my mouth. I had run up a batch last night, figuring on finding any number of uses for it. Besides simply eating it right out of the bowl with a honkin’ big spoon, that is.
As for the waffles, I had made those a couple of weeks ago when Eric, the Princess Fiona, and Zonker came a-calling. I had used the basic recipe that came with our Belgian waffle iron, substituting melted butter for the vegetable oil and throwing in a pile of wild blueberries to give ’em some extra flavor and color. But I had doubled the recipe - you do not want to be short of waffles when dealing with partially hung over, ravenous bloggers - and as a result there was a small mountain of leftover waffles and plenty of unused batter. The extra batter ended up in the sink, but the surplus waffles ended up in the freezer in a Ziploc bag, whence they could be extracted one or two at a time whenever the Waffle-Mood struck. Not as good as fresh-made, but a lot quicker...and way better than those frozen Mini-Manhole Covers they sell at the local Foode Shoppe.
Two frozen waffles, thawed out in the Nuke-Machine for one minute, followed by a quick run through the toaster to crisp ’em up, and they were the perfect base for a couple of healthy dollops of lemon curd and a few spoons of Dickinson’s Wild Maine Blueberry Syrup. Yowza!
About two hours in the gym oughta be enough to work it off...
Wild Blueberry Belgian Waffles with Meyer Lemon Curd.
Quick, you say? Why, what is Elisson smoking? Whatchoo mean, quick?
It took all of three minutes to throw it all together...but only because the two key ingredients - the waffles and the Meyer lemon curd - had been prepared in advance. Otherwise, it would have been a lengthier undertaking.
There’s something about Meyer lemons that can brighten the dreariest February day. They have a more subtle flavor than the bright yellow everyday lemons we get in the Stupid-Market, and their thin, orange-yellow skin makes a potent, aromatic zest. I saw a pile of those bad boys at Fresh Market the other day and couldn’t resist.
Making the lemon curd requires some patience because you have to cook it slowly in a double boiler over simmering water - otherwise, you end up with a heap of lemon-flavored scrambled eggs. The recipe is one that I grabbed from the Bakerina last year, and it is the finest lemon curd I have ever put in my mouth. I had run up a batch last night, figuring on finding any number of uses for it. Besides simply eating it right out of the bowl with a honkin’ big spoon, that is.
As for the waffles, I had made those a couple of weeks ago when Eric, the Princess Fiona, and Zonker came a-calling. I had used the basic recipe that came with our Belgian waffle iron, substituting melted butter for the vegetable oil and throwing in a pile of wild blueberries to give ’em some extra flavor and color. But I had doubled the recipe - you do not want to be short of waffles when dealing with partially hung over, ravenous bloggers - and as a result there was a small mountain of leftover waffles and plenty of unused batter. The extra batter ended up in the sink, but the surplus waffles ended up in the freezer in a Ziploc bag, whence they could be extracted one or two at a time whenever the Waffle-Mood struck. Not as good as fresh-made, but a lot quicker...and way better than those frozen Mini-Manhole Covers they sell at the local Foode Shoppe.
Two frozen waffles, thawed out in the Nuke-Machine for one minute, followed by a quick run through the toaster to crisp ’em up, and they were the perfect base for a couple of healthy dollops of lemon curd and a few spoons of Dickinson’s Wild Maine Blueberry Syrup. Yowza!
About two hours in the gym oughta be enough to work it off...
RASHOMON GOES TO THE BLOGS
Many of my Esteemed Readers are familiar with Akiro Kurosawa’s classic film in which the same event is shown from different characters’ perspectives. With that in mind, here’s how I imagine a familiar story might be told from the varying viewpoints of several denizens of Bloggy-World.
Velociworld
Growing up in the South, we had no shortage of peculiar individuals. Only we didn’t call ’em that. They were always tetched. Or one rib short of a barbecue combo plate. If not loved, these Faulkneresque peeps were at least tolerated.
Which brings me to Mary.
Mary was one of those kids that even we third-graders knew was a little different. Skeery, even. Rumor had it, she kept a monkey at home in her room. A dead one. Under her bed.
One day, she showed up at school with an honest-to-God lamb. Wooly Bully, she called it, and said it was her pet.
The teacher went apeshit. Screamed for ten minutes about how all this was unacceptable, spittle flying ever which way. Meanwhile, the kids thought it was some sort of southern fried Mardi Gras. Pandemonium in the Velociclass, it was.
And that’s when the principal showed up with a rope. Hauled that lamb out of the classroom and disappeared down the hallway. A few moments later, we heard a wet “thunk.”
The hamburgers at lunch that day were especially good, tho a mite gamey. Nobody asked why.
Straight White Guy
... this morning I polished off a half-kettle of go-juice... went outside on the deck… the deck I had built with my own hands... and the fleece seat cover on which I parked myself reminded me of a story...
... seems we had a kid in class back in third grade that was a little different... every class has one, rubberneckers... yours did, too... anyway, she shows up one day for show-and-tell with her pet...
...it was a lamb, of all things... the teacher had a conniption fit... meanwhile, the wooly beast was in the eye of the hurricane... rampaging through the classroom, eating the textbooks...
...of course, we kids were enjoying the scene immensely... but when it grabbed hold of my collection of Robert W. Service poems, I had to act decisively...
...people, it was not pretty... not for nothing do they call that six-inch serrated blade a sheep-sticker...
... there’s a song in there somewhere... “The First Time I Saw Haggis”...
This Blog Is Full Of Crap
In Houston, a third-grade student is suspended for bringing an unauthorized meat animal to school.
Let’s ask Chairman Arafat what he thinks of children bringing domestic animals to madrassa...
Thank you, Chairman Arafat. Roast lamb is indeed tasty. Of course, where you are, pretty much everything is roasted.
Gut Rumbles
There was a story in the paper the other day about a third-grade kid who brought a lamb to school. Bejus!
When I was growing up in Kentucky, that kind of shit happened all the time. The teacher would scream and the kids would raise hell. But the principal had a sure fire method of handling the situation.
First time, the kid would get a warning.
Second time, the animal would be dragged off and shot.
Third time, the KID would be dragged off and shot. End of problem.
Now, they send thefucktard poor misguided soul to counseling to find out why her self-esteem is so low that she needs to bring her pet lamb to school. My aching ass.
At least it wasn’t a fucking CAT.
The Dax Files
What Should Dax Do?
Yesterday, just as things were starting to get crazy during the lunch shift, a little girl came in with a sheep on a leash. The customers went nuts, and workflow came to a standstill with everyone gawking at the damn sheep. I told the kid to take her “friend” outside - health regulations - and then she started to give me static about it being a seeing-eye sheep. Also, it wouldn’t be a health hazard because its fleece was white as snow.
I don’t know what it is about me that I attract people with vision problems.
So here’s my dilemma. Let the sheep stay, and I might get shut down by the Health Department. Not to mention the general disruption the wooly bastard is causing. Kick the little girl out, and my customers might think I’m hard-hearted. I lose the kid and her family as customers, and I just might be facing a lawsuit if there’s any truth to the seeing-eye thing.
Yesterday, I let the kid stay, but it was a real pain in the ass. She’s coming back today. What should Dax do?
Just Damn!
Velociworld
Growing up in the South, we had no shortage of peculiar individuals. Only we didn’t call ’em that. They were always tetched. Or one rib short of a barbecue combo plate. If not loved, these Faulkneresque peeps were at least tolerated.
Which brings me to Mary.
Mary was one of those kids that even we third-graders knew was a little different. Skeery, even. Rumor had it, she kept a monkey at home in her room. A dead one. Under her bed.
One day, she showed up at school with an honest-to-God lamb. Wooly Bully, she called it, and said it was her pet.
The teacher went apeshit. Screamed for ten minutes about how all this was unacceptable, spittle flying ever which way. Meanwhile, the kids thought it was some sort of southern fried Mardi Gras. Pandemonium in the Velociclass, it was.
And that’s when the principal showed up with a rope. Hauled that lamb out of the classroom and disappeared down the hallway. A few moments later, we heard a wet “thunk.”
The hamburgers at lunch that day were especially good, tho a mite gamey. Nobody asked why.
Straight White Guy
... this morning I polished off a half-kettle of go-juice... went outside on the deck… the deck I had built with my own hands... and the fleece seat cover on which I parked myself reminded me of a story...
... seems we had a kid in class back in third grade that was a little different... every class has one, rubberneckers... yours did, too... anyway, she shows up one day for show-and-tell with her pet...
...it was a lamb, of all things... the teacher had a conniption fit... meanwhile, the wooly beast was in the eye of the hurricane... rampaging through the classroom, eating the textbooks...
...of course, we kids were enjoying the scene immensely... but when it grabbed hold of my collection of Robert W. Service poems, I had to act decisively...
...people, it was not pretty... not for nothing do they call that six-inch serrated blade a sheep-sticker...
... there’s a song in there somewhere... “The First Time I Saw Haggis”...
This Blog Is Full Of Crap
In Houston, a third-grade student is suspended for bringing an unauthorized meat animal to school.
Let’s ask Chairman Arafat what he thinks of children bringing domestic animals to madrassa...
Thank you, Chairman Arafat. Roast lamb is indeed tasty. Of course, where you are, pretty much everything is roasted.
Gut Rumbles
There was a story in the paper the other day about a third-grade kid who brought a lamb to school. Bejus!
When I was growing up in Kentucky, that kind of shit happened all the time. The teacher would scream and the kids would raise hell. But the principal had a sure fire method of handling the situation.
First time, the kid would get a warning.
Second time, the animal would be dragged off and shot.
Third time, the KID would be dragged off and shot. End of problem.
Now, they send the
At least it wasn’t a fucking CAT.
The Dax Files
What Should Dax Do?
Yesterday, just as things were starting to get crazy during the lunch shift, a little girl came in with a sheep on a leash. The customers went nuts, and workflow came to a standstill with everyone gawking at the damn sheep. I told the kid to take her “friend” outside - health regulations - and then she started to give me static about it being a seeing-eye sheep. Also, it wouldn’t be a health hazard because its fleece was white as snow.
I don’t know what it is about me that I attract people with vision problems.
So here’s my dilemma. Let the sheep stay, and I might get shut down by the Health Department. Not to mention the general disruption the wooly bastard is causing. Kick the little girl out, and my customers might think I’m hard-hearted. I lose the kid and her family as customers, and I just might be facing a lawsuit if there’s any truth to the seeing-eye thing.
Yesterday, I let the kid stay, but it was a real pain in the ass. She’s coming back today. What should Dax do?
Just Damn!
GROUNDHOG DAY
©2006 King Features Syndicate.
Yes, Groundhog Day. The day on which we ask the famous question, “How much ground could a groundhog hog if a groundhog could hog ground?” [And the day lazy-ass Elisson pulls an old post from last year
You would think that Groundhog Day is a singularly American holiday, steeped as it is in Local Color, Historical Tradition, and More Than A Little Utter Silliness. Think about it: a day on which a large rodent is expected to predict the weather based on its paranoid reaction to Conditions of Illumination. And as if Punxsutawney Phil weren’t enough, down here in Georgia we have our own General Beauregard Lee to do the predictin’ honors. Gaaah.
But, ridiculous as Groundhog Day may be, we Americans don’t hold the patent on silly-ass animal-based holidays. Herewith, for your delectation, Blog d’Elisson presents an overview of...
Groundhog Day Observances Around the World
Canada
The Canadian equivalent of Groundhog Day is Muskrat Day, March 1. If “Inuvituk Izzie” sees his shadow, no maple syrup may be consumed until the Queen’s Birthday.
Germany
Domestik-Schweinestag is observed on March 15. A randomly-selected domesticated pig is taken outside. If it sees its shadow and squeals, it is promptly slaughtered, smoked, and eaten in the form of Rauch-Schinken (smoked bacon) to prevent malevolent Teutonic spirits from lodging in people’s hair.
Tanzania
Tanzanians celebrate Banana Slug Day on July 10. If Blinky the Banana Slug does not return to his habitation promptly after being coaxed from it, people refrain from eating bananas for six weeks. At the same time, they are encouraged to slug one another repeatedly and without obvious provocation.
India
The closest Indian equivalent of Groundhog Day is Cow Day, observed every freakin’ day of every year. If you see a cow, you are expected to get the hell out of its way. You are never expected to eat the cow. By observing Cow Day properly, Indians are assured of having twelve months of suffocating humidity, heat, and monsoons. As usual.
Know of any other interesting international holiday traditions? Leave a comment and tell us all about ’em!
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
WHOLE LOTTA ZEROES
Denny logged his millionth hit this morning.
One. Million. Freakin’. Hits.
Good Gawd. Not bad for a Grouchy Old Cripple in Atlanta.
Go pay Denny a visit and congratulate him. Then come back here and congratulate me for the same thing...sometime around October 2015.
One. Million. Freakin’. Hits.
Good Gawd. Not bad for a Grouchy Old Cripple in Atlanta.
Go pay Denny a visit and congratulate him. Then come back here and congratulate me for the same thing...sometime around October 2015.
PARRISH THE THOUGHT
Eric’s post about his Tobacco Barn Dream reminded me of something from a couple of decades ago.
Back when we were living in Atlanta the first time around - this was in the early 1980’s - I chanced upon a movie, an old sudser from 1961 with Dean Jagger, Karl Malden, Claudette Colbert, Connie Stevens, and Troy Donahue.
It was Parrish, and apart from Troy Donahue’s amazingly wooden performance, the most interesting scene-chewing was done by Karl Malden, who played the ruthless patriarch-owner of a Tobacco-Farming Bidnis. What fascinated me about the movie was not so much its soap-opera plot, but its setting amidst the tobacco farms of the Connecticut Valley.
Up until then, I had had no idea that tobacco growing was a Big Deal in Connecticut. Or had been, anyway. In the early 1980’s, well before the Cigar Boom of the late 1990’s, the tobacco industry in Connecticut was a shell of its former self. But twenty and thirty years before, there was a lot of acreage in the Connecticut River Valley that was home to tobacco farms. That was where some of the finest tobacco on this planet was cultivated: the famous Connecticut Shade Tobacco.
To get perfect tobacco leaves, the kind that are used for high quality cigar wrappers, you have to grow the Noble Weed under muslin tents, so that the tender plants are exposed only to diffuse sunlight. And watching Parrish, I learned the ins and outs of a whole industry. It was worth putting up with the Sudsy Bullshit Plot to learn of a whole world about which I was completely ignorant.
What I didn’t know then, watching that movie, was that within a year, the Elisson Family would be living right in the midst of that selfsame Tobacco Country. The Great Corporate Salt Mine transferred me to the Northeast, and I prevailed upon them to place me in central Connecticut rather than western New Jersey. And thus it was that we would, almost daily, find ourselves driving past those old tobacco barns surrounded by muslin-draped fields. While house-hunting, we looked at many houses that featured rough-hewn paneling made from tobacco barn timber. You could practically smell the aroma or the cured leaf...or was it just imagination?
In Houston, years later, I spotted a copy of the novel on which the movie had been based. It was one of those “prop books” that furniture stores use to fill bookcases and cabinets; as soon as I saw it, I asked if I could buy it. The salesman ended up giving it to me, not having any idea what to charge and believing it to be worthless. I read it and was once again drawn into that no-longer-mysterious world of Connecticut tobacco. Sure, it was still Soap Opera, but how many of us can say they lived on the set?
Back when we were living in Atlanta the first time around - this was in the early 1980’s - I chanced upon a movie, an old sudser from 1961 with Dean Jagger, Karl Malden, Claudette Colbert, Connie Stevens, and Troy Donahue.
It was Parrish, and apart from Troy Donahue’s amazingly wooden performance, the most interesting scene-chewing was done by Karl Malden, who played the ruthless patriarch-owner of a Tobacco-Farming Bidnis. What fascinated me about the movie was not so much its soap-opera plot, but its setting amidst the tobacco farms of the Connecticut Valley.
Up until then, I had had no idea that tobacco growing was a Big Deal in Connecticut. Or had been, anyway. In the early 1980’s, well before the Cigar Boom of the late 1990’s, the tobacco industry in Connecticut was a shell of its former self. But twenty and thirty years before, there was a lot of acreage in the Connecticut River Valley that was home to tobacco farms. That was where some of the finest tobacco on this planet was cultivated: the famous Connecticut Shade Tobacco.
To get perfect tobacco leaves, the kind that are used for high quality cigar wrappers, you have to grow the Noble Weed under muslin tents, so that the tender plants are exposed only to diffuse sunlight. And watching Parrish, I learned the ins and outs of a whole industry. It was worth putting up with the Sudsy Bullshit Plot to learn of a whole world about which I was completely ignorant.
What I didn’t know then, watching that movie, was that within a year, the Elisson Family would be living right in the midst of that selfsame Tobacco Country. The Great Corporate Salt Mine transferred me to the Northeast, and I prevailed upon them to place me in central Connecticut rather than western New Jersey. And thus it was that we would, almost daily, find ourselves driving past those old tobacco barns surrounded by muslin-draped fields. While house-hunting, we looked at many houses that featured rough-hewn paneling made from tobacco barn timber. You could practically smell the aroma or the cured leaf...or was it just imagination?
In Houston, years later, I spotted a copy of the novel on which the movie had been based. It was one of those “prop books” that furniture stores use to fill bookcases and cabinets; as soon as I saw it, I asked if I could buy it. The salesman ended up giving it to me, not having any idea what to charge and believing it to be worthless. I read it and was once again drawn into that no-longer-mysterious world of Connecticut tobacco. Sure, it was still Soap Opera, but how many of us can say they lived on the set?
VANITIES
Step right up and getcher Vanities.
You can get ’em toasted, at the 135th Bonfire of the Vanities, this week hosted by AAFFLLAACCKK.
You can get ’em served straight up, with a Corny-Dog and a side of greasepaint, at Carnival of the Vanities #176, currently posted at Incite.
Enjoy.
You can get ’em toasted, at the 135th Bonfire of the Vanities, this week hosted by AAFFLLAACCKK.
You can get ’em served straight up, with a Corny-Dog and a side of greasepaint, at Carnival of the Vanities #176, currently posted at Incite.
Enjoy.
THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE UGLY
Holy Crap!
Good: Your wife is pregnant.
Bad: It’s triplets.
Ugly: You had a vasectomy five years ago.
Good: Your wife’s not talking to you.
Bad: She wants a divorce.
Ugly: She’s a lawyer.
Good: Your son is finally maturing.
Bad: He’s involved with the woman next door.
Ugly: So are you.
Good: Your son studies a lot in his room.
Bad: You find several porn movies hidden there.
Ugly: You’re in them.
Good: You and your hubby agree: no more kids.
Bad: You can’t find your birth control pills.
Ugly: Your daughter borrowed them.
Good: Your husband understands fashion.
Bad: He’s a cross-dresser.
Ugly: He looks better than you.
Good: You give the “birds and bees” talk to your daughter.
Bad: She keeps interrupting.
Ugly: With corrections.
Good: Your son is dating someone new.
Bad: It’s another man.
Ugly: He’s your best friend.
Good: Your daughter got a new job.
Bad: As a hooker.
Ugly: Your co-workers are her best clients.
Way ugly: She makes more money than you do.
[From Catfish. Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to V-Man for the iconic image of Tuco.]
LOOKING FOR LOOFAH
(in all the wrong places)
Ohhh...
He lives in a pineapple under the sea -
SpongeBob Squarepants!
Absorbent and yellow and porous is he -
SpongeBob Squarepants!
When bothering Squidward begins to feel flat -
SpongeBob Squarepants!
He goes to the surface and pesters the cat -
SpongeBob Squarepants!
SpongeBob...Squarepants!
Matata deals with an Undersea Visitor while resting her Meaty Butt in the lid of a packing box. “Get back in the bathtub where you belong...or wherever the hell it is you come from, Devil-Sponge!”
Technorati tags: Sponge Bob, SpongeBob, SpongeBob Squarepants
He lives in a pineapple under the sea -
SpongeBob Squarepants!
Absorbent and yellow and porous is he -
SpongeBob Squarepants!
When bothering Squidward begins to feel flat -
SpongeBob Squarepants!
He goes to the surface and pesters the cat -
SpongeBob Squarepants!
SpongeBob...Squarepants!
Matata deals with an Undersea Visitor while resting her Meaty Butt in the lid of a packing box. “Get back in the bathtub where you belong...or wherever the hell it is you come from, Devil-Sponge!”
Technorati tags: Sponge Bob, SpongeBob, SpongeBob Squarepants
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
WHEEL OF FORTUNE
If you read yesterday’s post, you already know that She Who Must Be Obeyed and I went to see the Sofia Symphony Orchestra and Chorus Ballet Arabesk perform at the Fabulous Fox Theatre.
Yes, they performed Ravel’s Bolero, that quintessential Fuck-Tune (thank you, Blake Edwards!) - but the main reason I had gone in search of ducats for the event was because the Bill-Topper was a performance of Carmina Burana.
© Estate of Carmen Miranda c/o CMG Worldwide.
No, Carmina Burana is not the Brazilian Bombshell who took Hollywood by storm in the 1940’s and early ’50’s. That would be Carmen Miranda.
© Chiquita Brands International.
No, it’s not the trademark of Chiquita Brands International. That would be Chiquita Banana...and I’ll bet you still remember that dopey Chiquita Banana jingle.
And, no, it’s not Carmen, the opera by Bizet. You will see no hot-blooded Gypsy cigarette-factory worker, no Don José, no Escamillo. No Toreador song, either:
The basis for the work is a 13th-century collection of poems - the “Songs of Beuren” - discovered in the early 1800’s in a Benedictine monastery. Orff snarfed 25 of the 250 some-odd poems to create the libretto, which is in Latin with a sprinkling of Middle High German. Carmina Burana is a celebration of the ups and downs of Fortune; of drinking to excess; of lampooning the Church; of enjoying the Pleasures of the Flesh. It’s downright earthy. Not for nothing did Orff subtitle the piece “Cantiones Profanaes” - Profane Songs. No surprise that it’s a perfect companion piece for Bolero, Shtup-Music Extraordinaire.
Carmina Burana made its premiere in 1937. The Nazis were in power in Germany, and Orff’s magnum opus became, over time, the most successful piece of music produced under the Third Reich. At first, critics were unimpressed, but then word got around that the Powers that Be actually liked the piece. It presented - so they said - a picture of Primeval Aryan Life. Before there were even Jews to torment, it seems.
All has been forgiven by now, with Carmina Burana having been performed in Israel many times, first in 1966.
You’re familiar with Carmina Burana - parts of it, anyway - owing to the numerous times the opening movement, “O Fortuna,” has been used in the movies and in commercials. It has a sort of febrile, demonic feel to it, which may explain why you think (mistakenly) that it’s the music you hear in The Omen.
We enjoyed the show, although at least one movement was just outside the Envelope o’ Capability of the baritone soloist. Too much Bulgarian food, I suppose.
Strangely, however, I left the theatre thinking of - of all people! - Raffi, the beloved children’s entertainer. There’s a song, you see...
Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring
Burana phone
Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring
Burana phone
I’ve got this feeling
so appealing
for us to get together and sing - SING!
Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring
Burana phone
Ding dong ding dong ding dong ding
Durana phone
O Fortuna
velut luna
statu variabilis
semper crescis
aut decrescis;
vita detestabilis
nunc obdurat
et tunc curat
Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring
Burana phone
Ping pong ping pong ping pong ping
Purana phone
It’s no baloney
It ain’t a phony
My cellular
Buranular phone
Yes, they performed Ravel’s Bolero, that quintessential Fuck-Tune (thank you, Blake Edwards!) - but the main reason I had gone in search of ducats for the event was because the Bill-Topper was a performance of Carmina Burana.
© Estate of Carmen Miranda c/o CMG Worldwide.
No, Carmina Burana is not the Brazilian Bombshell who took Hollywood by storm in the 1940’s and early ’50’s. That would be Carmen Miranda.
© Chiquita Brands International.
No, it’s not the trademark of Chiquita Brands International. That would be Chiquita Banana...and I’ll bet you still remember that dopey Chiquita Banana jingle.
And, no, it’s not Carmen, the opera by Bizet. You will see no hot-blooded Gypsy cigarette-factory worker, no Don José, no Escamillo. No Toreador song, either:
Toreador,What we had gone to see was Carl Orff’s scenic cantata. Not quite ballet, not quite opera, Carmina Burana has characteristics of both. Orff composed the 25 movements of the piece for soprano, baritone, and tenor soloists, boy’s choir, choir, and orchestra. Damn, that’s a huge crowd, and we haven’t even got to the Dancing and Running Around Business yet!
Don’t spit on the floor.
Use-a da cuspidor.
That’s what it’s for.
The basis for the work is a 13th-century collection of poems - the “Songs of Beuren” - discovered in the early 1800’s in a Benedictine monastery. Orff snarfed 25 of the 250 some-odd poems to create the libretto, which is in Latin with a sprinkling of Middle High German. Carmina Burana is a celebration of the ups and downs of Fortune; of drinking to excess; of lampooning the Church; of enjoying the Pleasures of the Flesh. It’s downright earthy. Not for nothing did Orff subtitle the piece “Cantiones Profanaes” - Profane Songs. No surprise that it’s a perfect companion piece for Bolero, Shtup-Music Extraordinaire.Carmina Burana made its premiere in 1937. The Nazis were in power in Germany, and Orff’s magnum opus became, over time, the most successful piece of music produced under the Third Reich. At first, critics were unimpressed, but then word got around that the Powers that Be actually liked the piece. It presented - so they said - a picture of Primeval Aryan Life. Before there were even Jews to torment, it seems.
All has been forgiven by now, with Carmina Burana having been performed in Israel many times, first in 1966.
You’re familiar with Carmina Burana - parts of it, anyway - owing to the numerous times the opening movement, “O Fortuna,” has been used in the movies and in commercials. It has a sort of febrile, demonic feel to it, which may explain why you think (mistakenly) that it’s the music you hear in The Omen.
We enjoyed the show, although at least one movement was just outside the Envelope o’ Capability of the baritone soloist. Too much Bulgarian food, I suppose.
Strangely, however, I left the theatre thinking of - of all people! - Raffi, the beloved children’s entertainer. There’s a song, you see...
Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring
Burana phone
Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring
Burana phone
I’ve got this feeling
so appealing
for us to get together and sing - SING!
Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring
Burana phone
Ding dong ding dong ding dong ding
Durana phone
O Fortuna
velut luna
statu variabilis
semper crescis
aut decrescis;
vita detestabilis
nunc obdurat
et tunc curat
Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring
Burana phone
Ping pong ping pong ping pong ping
Purana phone
It’s no baloney
It ain’t a phony
My cellular
Buranular phone
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