Archive for April, 2011

Crafty Ideas With Naked Ladies

Ha! Got your attention!

Okay, we all have heard the expression “Bust a gut” and heard (and experienced) having “smoke blown up one’s ass”. Well I have managed an intertwinglement of sound of one into the sense of the other thus: “Gust a butt”.

Oh, I think I wet my pants!

Alright then, working on the right way to get a date going? Try this: “Let’s find somewhere quiet and give each other a lot of lip.”

Hey! Take it easy! I’m only little!

On Sighting The First Lemming Of Spring

Having been cited on my penchant for grandiloquence (perhaps bloviation?) 
on the odd occasion I have, from time to time, felt the need to respond 
(Yo mama! Or Bite me or…) . Recently, in an e-mail to Cuz, I referred to 
this style as a kind of vocabularic ballon,  delivering perio-labial plies and
uber-lingual arabesques (left tonsil over) at will, all the while keeping ones 
linguistic posture and artistic hauteur.

If you'll excuse the mini petrarchan conceit above, the following two pieces 
were written in response to a good friends jibe that this overbearing verbosity 
was "gibberish".

• Looking Down My Nose On A Snowy Evening

Did gibberish lie in my prosodic burst
Or bon mot-gravitas this sublunary heart beguile
And turn away from temperate attest
An erstwhile champions accepting smile

Must diglossia my repertoire invade
And have me settle out two sets of tongue
One in modest murk and careful shade
And one separate for equals whence among 

They listen with an existential ear
To transcendental calls from mountains high
somehow within the vanity of their fear
To bring some sober sense there to them nigh

What beckons earthbound sentiments to lie
In bonds that keep their elder values ere
While that stillborn apprehension cluttered sky
Wearies their lofty quests and artful flair

Jesuit Enlightenment

For those with a cultural slant
Who speak intellectual cant
As they meet with the rabble
It all sounds like babble
That definitely does not enchant

Whose Dirt This Is…

A speck of dust upon a hat
some dung beneath the strollers shoe
The smoke that pours from burning fat
Should give us now, a wayward clue
And teach us now, without adieu,
Although it wont amount to much,
Of Sysiphus and brooms and such.

Things I learned

In my youth I learned many important things from my Cousin Bruce and My Uncle Ed.

Cuz taught me:
Always wipe your glasses with your hanky before you blow your nose
Never sit down with a pocketful of caterpillars
Avoid kissing a moving rhino on the lips

Uncle Ed taught:
Its not a loin cloth its a groin rag
A conversation piece is a good looking woman that talks a lot
Balancing the check book is easy. Especially if you have a flat spot
on the top of your head for it.
To buy a week or so with your creditors just write out all of their
payment checks and place them each in the wrong envelope –
bah-dah-boom bah-dah-bing you’ve got some time to think up
a new scheme!

And with these faithful rules in mind i went on to learn these on my very own:
You cannot hide brocolli in a glass of milk
It is impossible to hold a cat and a hair dryer at the same time.
There is always one more idiot than you anticipated.

Oh…
and when dressing in the morning:
First the pants THEN the shoes!

 

For Whom The Shell Is Quiet

Since you did not ask (doing as you were told {tolled}) I will update you on your status of tolee-electitude.

The shell (without a clapper the bell is just a hollow shell) cannot be tintinabulative and doesn’t toll for any one.
However, you could invert and fill one with wine or Jackie D or absinthe (I rather favor Wild Turkey 101).
So sit back and worry not, the shell tolls not (naught) pour vous but, it makes a fine hat.

Think on this!!

Where would we be if Pasteur had not invented the cow?

Consider the consequences if Poe does not invent the clapper in order to give
meaning to the polysyllabic tintinabulation, with the necessary meter for his poem.

The bell would toll for no one and, as usual, no one wouldn’t even notice…can you hear that??
The absence of tintinabulatory distraction – right there, outside the quiet sphere of my matter-of-factitude.

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