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Well, if you got here via the bi-chromatic Universe and "Dez", thanks. Their being available means they can be rented out, so to say, to vendors. For example, they'd be great in promoting pastries. Kids love cookies, so do adults. As for that ascending numeral three, it came about by way of ignorance. More than once, I'd see that same numeral with wings or a halo or both even on this or that pickup truck. And, dumb me, I'd think they were like golden horse shoes or four-leaf clovers ... good luck charms. It wasn't until later, I found out those threes are meant to commemorate one posthumously charismatic NASCAR driver. To inspire all those signs of grief, that guy might've had the makings for ... well, that's likely better left to the intuition of NASCAR votaries.

Thursday, July 06, 2006

jay and fitz and kay spell poison



Call me philosophaster . . . eYep, once again, I'm being snide with a reference to the first sentence in the most famous but least read novel in American literature. Nonetheless, I think I'm entitled.

In the first several paragraphs, I hope I'm communicating with my colleague Americans . . . I wrote "colleague" simply as courtesy. Our presidential "election" in 2000 resulted in the residency of "dum'ass botch" in the White House . . . please note, dear Reader, the first set of enclosing quotes in the immediately preceding text.

A large number of Americans, me being among same, blame this result, in large part, on the vainglory of Ralph "raphie boy" Nader, one-time cultural hero, now and forever pariah . . . oh, yeah, and the laughing stock of this country's right wing . . . oh, let's avoid all the seamy details, and slash to the cheese.

Talk about irony! The Democratic Party of today owes the major share of its current resurgence to ralphie boy. It was he who has, for the next two generations at least, poisoned the ground for a third party. Americans, who are thoroughly disgruntled with the administration of dum'ass botch, have nowhere else to go.

Every so often, I listen to talk radio luminary Randi Rhodes. On occasion, she has to deal with a caller, who complains bitterly about the Democrats. Why (?) aren't they, so bitches the caller, stopping the inanities, being perpetrated by the Republicans under the leadership of dum'ass botch.

So far, all I've heard with regard to curbing the aforementioned mismanagement relates to the Democratic Party. So far, I've yet to hear any talk about founding a third party.

It's gotta be as obvious as a baboon's butt . . . so thoroughly discredited has the once up-and-coming Green Party become that the stench of fiasco permeates the nostrils of anybody, who voted for or wishes had voted for the candidate, who suffered defeat at the hands of the Supreme Court of the United States of America.

Now that I've given my colleague Americans some inkling of what is here meant by "poison", I should like to animadvert to that American president, who assigned this country the task of landing a man on the moon, and returning same safely to earth.

Yes and yes again, I mean President John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Elsewhere, I've ventured the opinion that he fractured the backbone of the so-called Union of Soviet Socialistic Republics . . . at bottom, Russia in the guise of a beacon for a world-wide proletarian revolution . . . oh, br'dah, what a sorry joke!

Talk about irony! When he took office, he kvetched about the soviets' attitude. Good ole J.F.K must've believed they operated under the presupposition, and I'm quoting, "what's ours is ours, what's yours is negotiable". More than likely, the thought of accomplishing what he did had never occurred to him.

Even more so, he died, never even suspecting the lunar project he had launched would eventually poison Islam. Maybe, what's meant by "poison" in this instance should be explained. If so, let's take for example a rattle snake. As such, a rattle snake is a POISONOUS reptile. That reptile POISONS whatever person it bites. And the person thus bitten is POISONED.


Elsewhere, I've written about the ignominies, under which that major faith must bear. For one, the timetable for religious observance by the Faithful is determined by the phases of a monument to American infidel technology.

For centuries, the major graphic symbol for Islam is the crescent, which represents the moon. Because the crescent links both the Message of the Prophet and the heavens, it has an even deeper meaning for Islam, than does the cross for Christianity.

. . . oh, yeah, and there's the other ignominy . . . the Temple Mount, which ever so many Muslims claim has nothing to do with the Jewish temple that was destroyed by the Romans, now has all the significance of a consolation prize. As if to rub salt in wounded pride, I issue a challenge. Show me the sapsucker, who rejoices in the ownership of a consolation prize. And I'll show you a "sorry ass" loser.

If anybody cares to call me a victim of my national news media, I'll refrain from objecting. If I may be allowed, I should like to acknowledge that I'm pretty flexible, when it comes to concessions for the sake of civil discussion.

For example, I'm perfectly willing to allow that the "West" has invaded and occupied sacred Arab territory. What's more, the West had absolutely no business to invade Iraq, and has absolutely no business in continuing their occupation of that unhappy country.

And here's something else about the West. The West is now exploring the celestial regions beyond earth. Knowledge, once impossible to glean, now comes in floods via probes much like the early Pioneer 10 and Voyager. In medical laboratories, researchers are working assiduously to find treatments, if not cures, for diseases that have plagued mankind, since before fire was domesticated.

And just (?) what does Islam have to offer! Websites that teach sexually frustrated young men how to fashion explosive vests with the end of murdering innocent people in suicidal paroxysm. Time and time again, the Israelis recover the heads of successful suicide bombers. And time and time again, the latter died sporting a silly smirk.

. . . ah, you dear Reader, come a little closer to your monitor screen. I have a secret to share with you and the monitor screen. Ever so discreetly look around, make sure nobody is looking over your shoulder.

. . . now that the three of us are alone, please allow me to regale you with anecdotes about my mis-spent youth. I shall start by mentioning that, in major cities, there are "after-hours clubs". Thanks to arrangements with the beat-walking gendarmerie, those clubs are allowed to serve, discreetly mind you, drinks and entertainment after legally mandated closing.

oh, that brings back memories of the nights I spent, waiting my turn to elicit laughter from inebriate losers. Sometimes I "killed". More often, sad to say, I "bombed". But I didn't care. I was young, and I was positive I was on the way to the top. All I needed was getting noticed by some scout for Johnny Carson.

Lemme tell'ya about Lenny Bruce. He was my idol. .. . oh, alright (!) already, I'll own up to it. Yes, I did snatch "shtick" from Lenny As said in music, mediocre composers pay homage, great composers steal. Gets me sometimes how things change. Shtick that got Lenny hauled up before the judge is today rube roast on The COMEDY CENTRAL cable channel.

No, I never met the man. Nonetheless, I knew enough to prognosticate his eventual self-destruction. Whom the gods would destroy they first make mad. Maybe, he was mad towards the end. Here I want to quote a poetess:

"I burn my candle at both ends.
It will not last the night.
But o my foes, ah my friends,
It gives such a lovely light."

At this point, I should to remind the reader about those remnant heads with silly smirk. For a while, I was puzzled about what could've been taking place in the psyche of those suicidal bombers. Like a bolt out of the blue, the insight came to me.

In the years of my mis-spent youth, I was incessantly on the lookout for new material, from which I could distill jokes, gags, yucks, quips, wisecracks, et cetera. Maybe, I never did quite turn off that search.

. . . darn, darn, the jokes I could come up with now. Just my luck. Now that I have great material at hand, Carson's gone to his eternal reward . . . lissen'up, wize'ache'err, I'm talking fabulous comedy material . . . I mean up there in class with Johnaton Swift's A MODEST PROPOSAL.

I know the cause for that silly smirk. As those "martyrs" press, ever so slowly, down on the detonator button, they're getting their jollies, getting their rocks off, shooting their wad, dropping their load, burping baby gravy, spraying tonsil polish et cetera.


In the parlance of Masters & Johnson, they're having an orgasm. . . . oh, br'dah, what a way to get relief . . . well, with any luck, they got to finish with their "happy ending" before they had ended their time on earth, and gone on the way to their Maker.

. . . now, dear Reader, do you (?) comprehend what I mean by "up in class"! . . .

Maybe, Islam does deserve to be poisoned . . . or the current version thereof at any rate.

As for the graphic, I took it upon myself to design something for those patriotic Americans, who happen to adhere to the Qu'ran.

ya'know, I think it's a nice design . . . eye-catching at any rate.

toodles
....../
.he who is known as sefton


sorry lessons that had to be learned the hard way -

Chances of success for any attack plan that depends on the enemy's best behaviour lie between slim and none.

It may be prudent for recipients of social services to ask what's expected in return. Those providing same may be doing so for reasons other than, say, out of gratitude for being loved by a compassionate God. Might (?) it be likely they have an agenda!

In general, there's one huge problem with gun runners. Paid enough, they'll gladly provide all the weaponery, needed to put up a fight. More often than not, however, they fail to supply enough to win.

By the way, clicking on the envelope icon brings up a page that facilitates e.mail.

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2 Comments:

Blogger BaconEating AtheistJew said...

You are all over the place with this piece. I had to read it twice, and my head still hurts.

I used to do amateur stand up at Yuk Yuks in Toronto. Ok 6 times....but I still know what it is like to blow myself up without having an orgasm.

6:29 PM  
Blogger Andie Kanne said...

hi "he who is known as sefton", although i do speak a little bit of english it's hard for me to fully get the text, but that's not to blame your style or so, rather my vocabulary.

anyway, you were asking where i got the information from on oswald spengler vs. otto opengler as author of the book "der untergang des abendlandes". that's simple, i do know otto spengler :)


ride on!

11:46 AM  

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