Audacity of Hope

Bharhach O'Bhamagh

He doesn't have a chance.
First of all, I've officially killed off the apostrophe, so his name can no longer hold its meaning "Son of Bhamagh", or more literally "of the Bhamaghs". Second, we had our Irish president - John Kennedy. We're only allowed those every hundred years or so, and as so many have told him, "It may be too soon." He thinks they mean he needs more time in the Senate.
Third, he doesn't LOOK Irish. He's black Irish, descended from those Spainiardos who bobbed up the Atlantic coast and mated with the Catholic girls to the north. It was a good match, a solid match: one, who sponsored the Inquisition; and the other, who clung to Catholic dogma so tightly, the Inquisition looked like child's play. Their offspring were devout, with dark eyes and hair. Bharhach is a striking example, albeit one with an unusually good tan.
The Irish are usually pastey-white.
For those three reasons, don't bhank on Bharhach. Other people will give you overthought, incidental, superfluous rationale. Don't listen to them.
It's lack of apostrophe, one Irish president every hundred years and he doesn't look Irish. Those are his fatal flaws.

Debaucheryness

Truthiness

You know what it means. It's not truth. It's what you believe, based on a gut feeling. You just KNOW it, that's all.
And, it's the American Dialect Society's word of the year, coined by fake newsman Steve Colbert.
Truthiness is next to Godliness. God lives in Truthy, and the messages He sends me through football games are just a glass of wine, bowl of onion dip and potato chip away. My mother is the leader of a small cult of Truthys, and she wears a white habit, the official uniform of crazy.
Truthiness tells Sunnis to kill Shiis, even though they're both Muslims. Truthiness has told the English to hang onto their last little vestige of imperialism in Northern Ireland. Truthiness tells Arabs to hate Jews, and vice versy.
Before this year, I always thought it was a good idea to believe in something, because it's good to think of oneself as being loved by a big powerful somebody. No more.
Truthiness is actually next to Deviliness.
I can't prove it.
I just KNOW it's true.

Uh, well, um, ahhh, um, I, uh, it's, um...

The Power of the Visual

As a partner in an entertainment company in formation, I hereby concede that a visual can be so powerful that it can suck the words out of your head. Glurmph! Gone. You're speechless.
Words are insipid, except for maybe Jackie Gleason's "Yaminayaminayaminayamina."
It could, however, use a soundtrack. I vote for Michael Bolton, backed by Kenny G, bongo drums by Shiela E.
Know any bass players?

Cow Affront

Dairy-Aire...The Udder Guys

Being married to a witty, intelligent writer with deadly accuracy in voicing observations can prove costly, particularly on the Sabbath.
It is on that day that we join together as heathen and Vodouissant, read Lord Buckley, then drive across the Columbia River to 42nd Street Cafe. There we perform sacrifice of beignets, andouille sausage and chickory coffee for the spirits, via our corporal selves.
Splashing through the rain-puddled parking lot, just across the street on devilish red sineage, there it is.
Blasphemy.
A badly animated cow, viewed from the rear, looking over her shoulder announcing the presence of The Dairy-Aire. "Doesn't produce a compelling urge to eat there, does it?" he rhetoricized. "Nope," I thought.
On this particular rain soaked day, I noticed a smaller sign near their side entrance, "We're the Udder Guys."
The result of relaying my observance to the heathen writer was dead silence. Dead like thundering silence dead air has, when the radio should be playing, and isn't.
While we spoke no more of this, I know what we were both thinking.
You could have had a good name. A name that conveyed who you are, what you represent - something meaningful that is an overall part of your corporate communication plan.
And you went for the butt... tits and butt jokes. No, we're not prudes. Say what you want. Use words that are powerful when you are saying something powerful. No editing. I want assholes to sound like assholes.
Don't descend into the realm of potty humor. Stay with me here.
At which beer-soaked meeting at the Sea Hag was this idea scrawled on the back of a napkin? Didn't you sober up? Don't you have friends who tell you when you're being a moron? You don't want people to equate you with a cow butt. You're selling DAIRY.
Well, I'm sure it was a hoot at the bar when somebody slurred, "Dairy-Aire!" "Whoo hoo, that's a good one! Write that down."
"Wait, wait, we're the UDDER guys, get it?"
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
It's sad. Just sad, when you don't look at that the next morning, crumble it up and say "I'm NEVER drinking Zombies again!"
Imagine operating on that level all the time.
I can only hope that it was an economics issue: the person with the idea was funding the business with a below-market rate loan.
I can only hope.

Attractive Corpse

Tales of Airport Security (c) Harry Shearer

Harry may have copyrighted the title, but the story is all mine.
Sons of bitches! Idiotic, bureaucratic, ridiculous damned airport rulemakers have deprived me of one of my very favorite things.
A very long time ago when dinosaurs roamed the earth, my brother gave me a very incredibly cool little Swiss army knife. It was red, with the Swiss army insignia - not one of those hideous pink 'Ladies' knives. It had a little knife, scissors and nail file. Teeny tiny, but oh so useful!
Those sons of bitches took my Swiss army knife. Jesus tapdancing Christ!
Look at me. Not bad for my age. Sport a sort of bohemian fashion, but more hippie than burhka. I'm reading The Economist. Note to airport screeners - NO terrorists read The Economist. You can bank that.
Anyhow, with minutes remaining before the plane herding ritual, I am given an ultimatum. Go all the way back out of Security, mail it to myself from that post office waaaaaaay down there, and come back through Security, or give it to him.
"Grrrrr," I growl. I picture my suicide tape, hippie bandana tied around my head, pledging that killing this guard with my teeny tiny little Swiss army knife will improve airport travel for my fellow Americans.
But I stop. By the time I kill him, all those 15 year old National Guard kids armed to the teeth with rifles will riddle me full of holes ten times over.
"Grrrrr."
I surrender my weapon, but only because I intend to be an attractive corpse.

The Battle of Good vs. Evil

In the NFL, God, in His Almighty Wisdom, smote the living crap out of evil Bill Parcell's Cowboys through the Diving Intervention He bestoweth upon His New Orleans Saints. Saints - 42. Satan and Cowboys - 17.
God sends me His messages through football games.
The Apocolypse is hereby suspended until further notice.
Ahhhhh-mennnnnnnn.

Eddie

lookin' bugged

Quothe the Snoop Dogg, "Nizzlemore"

The Bugbird (The Raven)


Richard "Lord" Buckley
M'Lords and Ladies of the Royal Court,
Edgar, the swinging Edgar Allan Poe's
magnificent torch, "The Raven,"
as translated into the semantic of the hip.

It's a Bugbird.
And like I say, Poe --
Eddie Allen Poe was a swinger.
He loved to en-joy that good whiskey
and chase them little ladies all over the place,
undstand what I mean?
Now, you see Poe didn't want that bird,
he didn't need the bird,
he didn't dig the bird,
he didn't send for the bird,
he didn't even know what aviary the bird came from.
If they've knocked the bird on him post paid
he wouldn't have dug it.
'Cause he was hung in front
for a chick by the name of Lenore,
who had already swoop the satellite.
But that didn't bug Eddie.
He's still knockin' that torch and coal on there,
say: "Can they see me in Flip City?"

But just like I say, so many times,
when you don't want the bird,
when you don't need the bird,
when you haven't got the first possible use for the bird,
vrrrrpppt, that's when you get it.
And that's what happened to poor Eddie.

I want you to picture that cat:
he's sitting in his pad, he's all spread out.
He's flipped, he's flapped, he's had it,
undastand what I mean?
He can't make it.
If he had it, he couldn't swing it
so he's sitting there goofing the cool,
ya see what I mean?

He say:

It was a real drug midnight
swoooooooooooooooah dreary
I was goofing
Beat and weary
Over many a freakish volume of forgotten score
When suddenly there came a tapping
As if some cat were gently riffing
Knocking rhythm at my pad's door.

Ah, "'tis the landlady," I muttered
On her broom she flies the rounding
Sounding for her rent
WHICH only this and nothing more

Ehh, ooh, will I ever get out of this feeling?
Emmm, emmmm,

Ah, so solid I remember,
It was in that wrought December
And it's swingin', jumpin' ember
Blew it's phantom upon the floor
Groovily I woo'd the morrow
Still hung I sought to borrow
From my book kicks
To knock the sorrow
Sorrow for my gone Lenore
For that sweet, square but swingin' maiden
Whom the fly chicks tagged Lenore
Nameless here forevermore

Oooh, man,

And the silky wear deturning
Of each upper curtain
Moved me, hound me
With freakish flipples
Never dug before.
So that now to cool the beating of my ticker
I stood repeating, "'Tis some strange midnight stud
That's sounding a money beat on my pad's door.
A deuce to cool the morrow
Or some juice to drown his sorrow
Some lightweight riff this
And nothing more.
Jack!" I said, "Or Jilly, if I've crossed you.
Ha ha. Don't jump sore
For the solid truth is
This cat was napping
And so cool did you come tapping
And so light hip you came rapping
Rhythm at my pad's door
That I was scarce sure I dug you!"
Here I opened wide the slammer, Jack.
Swhoosh, I dug the breeze
And nothing more.

Ooh, what are they trying to do to me? I'll show them - what do they think about - get my way out of this - why they - uuumm, what was that? Look out, look out, look out! Take it easy, take it easy, take it easy, take it easy!

Stoned into the darkness peering
Long I stood there
I was hung there
Flipped and fitting
King spinning dreams
No mortal cat had ever rode before
But the gasser was unbroken
Diggin' so hard my wig was goin'
But nathin' shakin' nathin's sure
Just one radar blip was goin'
The whispered word: Lenore
This I sounded and it sounded back
Swoo-Swooooh, Lenore.
This one sad lick and nothing more

Oooh, why don't they leave me alone,
why don't they leave me alone?
They're draggin' me.

I backed into my pad
Still turning
All this jazz within me burning
And again I dug the tapping
A stronger beat then was before
"Unsolid hip," says I, "I don't dig
what that is jumpin in my window lattice.
Let me get hip what the rat is
And this big flip I will explore
Let my pounders stay cool
And this flip I will explore"
swoo-shoo, Jack, I drew a blank
And nothing more.

Swhoooo - Who do they think they are to do this to me?!

Gone full out
I found the shutter
When with many a flip and flutter
In there stomped a king sized bugbird, Jack
From way back days of yore
Not a minute tipped or hung he
Not a minute brought or down he
But with stance of king and queen
He swung above my sweet pad's door
Lit upon the bust of Paris
Sat goofin' there and nothing more.

"Unsolid hip," said I, "That you're not craven
Gasser grim and beat up raven
Goofin for the night's Plutonian shore.
Swing hip me to what thy tag is
On the night's Plutonian shore."
Flip the bugbird, "Nothing more."

Solid wig me this bird to dig me
Though it copped out not upon the score
We cannot help it
Being that no single human being
Ever was so sent by seeing a wig like this
Above his pad's door
With such a tag as: Nevermore

Now you see this blasted bugbird came bugging Edgar
and gave him such a dreadful time of it
that Edgar now wants to divorce the bird.
He wants to expel the bird.
He doesn't care whether the bird knew Lenore,
Eleanor or any of these cats.
He wants to blow the bird.
So he -
I think the bird put one too many Nevermores on him.
I don't know how much they weigh
but it was just enough to flip that little Eisenglas
at the end of the fuse and vrrrpppppt,
blow the whole gig.
Poe is now flipping.
He looks at the bird and he says,

"By this lick you have flipped my meter
You nauseous gasser!
You endless repeater!
Screw before I blow my red hot stack!
Go back to your Plutonian shore
Leave no feather on my heather
Take your black jazz blown together,
Leave this pad my torch unbroken
Screw from the roost above my door!"
Flipped the bugbird, "Neezever Meezore."