Writings: Darlings and Rapscallions
Darlings and Rapscallions, AND TO ALL OF MY Nicholas’, Nikki’s, Nicola’s, Nicoletta’s and various Nicholai (though slow down fast you ‘Knicks’ fans), as well as those who have survived ruthless Mind Control Organizations and their vexations and ‘trickerations’ and our friends in Spy Networks worldwide caught with their knickers down, ankle side up. (and otherwise people of Earth): Including those who partake of nicotine and nickel bags. Nick Or Mortis?
Dedicated to the sweet life of the young Madame Britney. If she overdosed on anything in Hollywood, more than likely, it was from an overdose of bad scripts. Her starlight was and shall remain appreciated by those with whom she shared her talents and wits.
I didn’t say that your mother was fat. I said that her girdle doubles as a car cover for the family SUV.
Take things as they come, at face value. But accept that not all things meet the eye that meet their requirement.
…and so naturally, bored, and at a loss for what to discuss, one nostril, the right one, sighs and says to the left nostril (‘The Whistler’), younger by a few days: ‘Listen, I will say this again. You can’t always get what you want. But if you try sometime, you just might find, YOU GET WHAT YOU SNEEZE’.
CROCODILE BANK AND CREDIT are proud to sponsor the speaking tour of renowned controversial mystic Guru WANAFELIA TITSLATER. He will be presenting his views on the controversy concerning his rapidly growing spiritual discipline, ‘TRANSCENDENTAL HESITATION’. A meditation he claims to have been taught from the deathbed of his master, SWAMI ‘SWANEE’ HOWILOVYA. Guru Titslater claims that with just 1 minute and 30 seconds his Hesitation meditation will change your life. A meditation he designed to not exceed the length of an average TV commercial. Controversially, the main thrust of the meditation is to NOT meditate when you think you should, but to question meditation and its necessity. He is also a leading proponent of Tantrum Yoga, where you scream your head off until you get tired and have to take a nap, then wake up and have a glass of milk. Critics have decried it as opportunistic. The Hesitation technique has been called ‘Slacker’s Yoga’ by some who argue that the whole point of arguing is to argue. Says the Guru, “Committing to nothing frees the spirit to drift into a most refreshing peace. We have labourers for all of that other stuff”.
If you wish to profit by the whole coin, you respect the value of the other side.
A Kosher Jesus would have felt compelled to HEAL AND CURE HAMS.
Ultimately, good manners pass on our evolutionary advantages.
You can only win by being yourself. Even if the game takes longer as a result, you still win in the end. It also helps considerably, if you can change the rules of the game when it suits your advantage.
To suppress a fart is evil. To release one in another but a beloved’s presence is likewise evil. What to do? I really don’t know, but when I snatch the pebble from its hand, I will know that we have arrived! And that my journey as a solitary monk can begin.
Having had a chance to sit down with the controversial STAR WARS digital character JAR JAR BINKS, this is what he had to say. Interesting. I hope you agree.
JJB: It’s been an interesting time for me since my debut. First, I enrolled in elocution classes so that I could expand my range and choice of roles. Jar Jar was sounding just a little bit too ethnic for more demanding roles. I couldn’t do much about my walk though. As an actor, I have learned to work around it as much as the part lets me get away with. Hollywood has been so discriminatory against hiring me that I came out here to New York to do Shakespeare in the Park.
I: But can’t you understand why some in Hollywood would feel embarrassed to hire you ? For many, you are a rather painful comic archetype, a digital Stepin’ Fetchit. How do you feel about that?
JJB: Well, there you go, Jar Jar has every right to exist in his digital world as what he was created to be. I agree with Jessica Rabbit, I’m not an embarrassment, I was just drawn this way, also like Jessica Simpson! But Jar Jar is a man with feelings and trust me, digital feelings are complicated, binary and more than the sum of their building blocks, I promise you. If you scratch Jar Jar, does he not bleed? Perhaps not in your world, but in my world, it hurts.
I: How do you view George Lucas?
JJB: As a great, great director. And a great inventor. He is like a father to me, you could say. He creates new worlds and instilled in me the values of synergy and cross promotion. Jar Jar even has his own deal now with Super Mario. Jar Jar be about to blow up in a whole new atmosphere, though one that Jar Jar feel he was always meant to be about to blow up in. You know George had to distance himself from me for awhile, because of some controversy, which did hurt Jar Jar feelings, but through growth and understanding, with the help of a digital yoga program, and a few of those 12 steps, Jar Jar came to forgive George and to forgive himself, or myself, Jar Jar. You know, despite my reputation and all of those wild parties I sponsored on blue screen, Jar Jar had some self esteem issues that Jar Jar needed to correct. That is not George’s fault. I think eventually, we will get back together and collaborate on some new and exciting games. I am quite big in Asian territories. Jar Jar even has done a commercial in Japan, for Suntory!
I: It sounds like you are excited about your future. What next for Jar Jar Binks?
JJB: Next, a rap record called JAR JAR BINKS NEVER BLINKS. Therapy taught me that JJB has too many gifts that JJB was suppressing out of fear of being judged and further humiliated, so now I have embraced my diversity. Then, Jar Jar and Super Mario are going to blow a few minds with our RAP & REGGEA SUPER MARIO vs. JAR JAR BINKS FACE-OFF. It’s going to be huge man! I even got a few of my old homies at LucasArts to throw some programming love at Nintendo. Some ‘wisdom’ we like to say. After that, I will be doing an off-digital production of OTHELLO. Off-digital is our world’s equivalent of off Broadway, but it’s a good production and Jar Jar is excited to be about to extend his range and show how versatile his diversity is. And I am very thrilled to be working with MARTIN SHORT.
I: But isn’t Martin Short a human actor?
JJB: Only if you do not have the imagination that he has.
I: What was it like working with an icon like Super Mario?
JJB: Jar Jar had great time working with Super Mario when he was in a good mood. He is an icon for a good reason, he works real hard and shows up on time. But he has another side, not so very Super. Mario like to drink. After some reflection, I began to realize that his temper comes out sometimes because he feels exploited. Which Jar can relate to. He is a rich man in digital terms, but in human terms he makes peanuts. And this is SUPER MARIO, you know what I mean? He wants the same respect in human terms that he generates in digital for the pixel people. This is the Babe Ruth of Video games, and he plays for the Yankees, know what Jar Jar mean? And Nintendo is the house that Mario built, and it ain’t just a house. It’s a castle, it’s a domain, it’s a galaxy of spin-offs! So, Jar Jar can empathize with Super Mario’s pain, it’s real, and I feel pain, you feel Jar Jar? You just don’t want to mention ‘PACMAN’ anywhere around him at anytime, once he’s had a drink. Seems that he and Mario fell out over Mrs. Pacman once Mario became Super Mario and it went to his head.
I: Did it bother you that you were passed over for the digital life story of Stepin’ Fetchit?
JJB: To be honest, Jar Jar was at first hurt a little bit. How could Jar Jar not be hurt a little? But then he began to realize that the director was right to go with a ‘revisioning’ of the life of Fetchit by casting Verne Troyer and ‘re-imagining’ Stepin’s life as a midget. I only still feel a little cheated that they stepped outside the digital world to cast a human to be recast as a digital character in a digital film. They had to digitize him, but I am already digital, you feel Jar Jar? It’s not like Martin Short, who is talented enough to work in various mediums. But all things work out for the best, I am sure. In fact, me and Super Mario are talking about following up our soon to be released game with a game based on OTHELLO. He plays Iago, and we basically punch the hell out of each other for most of the game, when we are not racing around Venice in boats! There are also gondola races and stuff where we have to escape the rising tides. It is going to be so crazy! I am trying to see if perhaps Jar Jar can get master Lucas himself to produce it. I am also in talks, Jar Jar and his agent, to see if LucasArts will allow me to collaborate with Yoda on an idea I have for another game, JAR JAR & YODA present COOKING MAMA, ORIENTAL & CARRIBEAN EDITION. Jar Jar feel blessed to see his life going in such a positive direction. But hey, my ‘father’ was a ‘director’, you dig?
I: We certainly do dig. Anything for Jar Jar Binks he doesn’t have?
JJB: Well, JJB has everything except maybe an ANVIL. Jar Jar be thinking maybe he would like one of those.
I: Ok, something else?
JJB: I don’t have TYRA BANKS, and Binks would love to bang Banks and bring her back from the brink! I would like to work with EUGENE LEVY. Also Jar Jar would like to bridge the digital and human worlds and work with HELEN MIRREN. Perhaps we could do a remake of her classic film, THE THEIF, THE COOK, HIS WIIFE AND HER JAR JAR. JJB feel that she is one of the few humans that he could stand to see digitized. Even in our digital world, like Martin Short, she is revered. But then again, so is Paul. That’s just a little digital ‘in’ joke. Other than that, Jar Jar wants to see one day a Jar Jar version of ROCK BAND. Jar Jar was born to boogie!
I: Sorry, Mr. Binks, but my readers might not get the ‘Paul’ reference.
JJB: Like JAR said, it was an ‘in’ joke. Helen is ‘revered’, like Paul.
I: Yeah, OK, like Paul Revere, the American Revolutionary War hero! Thank you very much Mr. Binks, this was a most enlightening conversation. Where can your fans reach you?
JJB: Thank you! You can reach me at WWW. JARJARBLINKS.COM
I: Blinks, instead of Binks?
JJB: Well, I am still in litigation with Lucas over the use of my own name, so in the meantime, it’s WWW. JARJARBLINKS.COM.
I: Again, Jar Jar, thank you.
JJB: All praises be! Come and see me in Shakespeare in the Park this summer!
Mary J. Blige gets better with time. And that is scary. But in a good way.
…and having been told his whole life that he could sing the PHONE BOOK, Red Herring sat down with both the Phoenix Arizona phone book and the ROSWELL Arizona phone book to surmise which of the two would be better suited for his next album project. He ruled out the NYC phone book as it would have to constitute a double album. If the project is a success, expect the industry to release a plethora of phone book related projects. The northern city of SCHENECTEDY, New York is also mooted to be in the running.
People desire what you have only for as long as you have it. And once they have it, (surprise!),
they no longer want it, though they will still fight you to keep you from getting it back.
One man’s VICE is another man’s free will serving itself. What are you going to do, keep beating him?
No. I’ didn’t say that your little brother was gay. I said that when he were asked to sing the national anthem, he jumped up and starting singing, IT’S RAINING MEN.
In war, the truest heroes are not those that lead, but those that are willing to follow.
Looking into our big crystal ball we predict that EMILE HORNER will be the first person in the year 2020 to be prosecuted for trafficking in guilt across state lines.
The rest of these writings dedicated to the awakening members of the HUMAN UNION.
WELCOME CLASS OF 2010!
It is not in whether we are crazy, but in whether our crazy is ‘for’ us.
Sometimes our greatest acts of charity are rewarding ourselves for the courage it takes to be here. And to be ourselves.
Great shoes never fail a man.
In earnest, WE DO NOT WISH TO BE FREE OF OUR MADNESS, we just want to know what to do with it (and whether it can help us get paid).
Good economy begins in the mind. And the economy expands as minds expand toward it. Minds, like ants, begin to gather to build a colony the size of their economy and its needs. A good mind towards all things stabilizes those things. All marble columns began as the wisp of a vision in someone’s eye. So too, do stable economies. Economies exalted because they are at foundation, composed of the bricks of collective minds faith in its future, not as a gamble, but as investment in the clarity that it is the creator of its own fate. And that resting its fate in its own hands, insures that it is in good hands. Hands that will not rock the cradle without considering the size of the bounty in it.
When too much judgement and guilt get in the way of your comforts and enjoyments, what results is pathology. Which is toxic and radiates the discomfort which gives birth to disease. Judging our earthly joys is taxing and the levy (like the Chevy), is heavy.
The POLES HAVE SHIFTED! Now on to the Bulgarians……..
THE ORANGE SHOE REBELLION.
That year the team went 14-2. Speculation had been that a perfect 16-0 season were within grasp, until that fateful 11th game. That were the game in which their franchise All-American quarterback declared: “BUBBA DON’T WEAR NO ORANGE SHOES!” It had happened that that particular game, a home game, was a game in which by league mandate, the team was to take the field wearing their ‘throwback’ uniform, or the uniform worn during the team’s initial years in the league, all of those frozen tundra years ago. But their star quarterback, their franchise player, was born in America to Haitian immigrants. And Jean Michel ‘Bubba’ St. Hubbins can distinctly remember visiting his grandmother’s house one summer in the shades of the suburbs of Port Au Prince and overhearing her say to his aunt through the kitchen window, as he played outside; ‘Honey, don’t be silly, we don’t wear orange shoes, the Dutch wear orange shoes’. Until that very moment, faced with the decision in the team locker room, he had never quite figured out what that enigmatic, though colourful saying meant, nor what significance it would come to hold in the later telling of his NFL story. The uniform itself he had no quarrel with, he were a team player and until now, he had never been but an exemplary, if sometimes strangely aloof presence to the team. He was well respected and liked. But today, he would simply have none of it. It was bigger than him. The shoes were where he had to draw the line. Even if it meant getting fined, even if it came at the expense of the teams bafflement, the coaches’ confusion. Near the back of the locker room came a nervous, ‘Are you serious?’ Again, coming from the middle of the locker room and from within the depth of St.Hubbins’ chest, “BUBBA, DON’T WEAR NO ORANGE SHOES”. Swiftly from the coaches quarters were inquiries made regarding whether the franchise QB might be able to forego the orange shoe mandate and wear his own usual team cleats. The ones Adidas paid him millions of dollars a year to pump. The answer from network was also swift. NO. It wasn’t as if Bubba St. Hubbins wanted to let his team down, this was an important game, even if they were already 3 games ahead of their nearest division rival. He didn’t know exactly why it didn’t feel right, he only knew that St. Hubbins did not wear orange shoes. Surely his grandmother was saying something of significance when he overheard her passing this wisdom on to her own daughter, the only sister of his own dear mother. Agitated and downcast, the team went out on national television (and Espn/Sky if you live abroad) and got embarrassed in their worst defeat of the season. A dispirited loss. Though not the whole team, as a few fringe players stayed in the locker room in support of the team’s franchise quarterback, (but included the field goal kicker). They lost 42-6. They missed all of their field goals, and on their one touchdown missed the extra point. The back-up quarterback himself never looked comfortable in the game, though admittedly, he looked good in his orange shoes (and was used to orange shoes, having gone to SYRACUSE). Hardly did it matter to the rest of their season. When Bubba was not required to wear orange shoes, they won the rest of their games until the final one where they rested all of the main players for the playoffs and lost again. By the score of 42-6. Though this time, making both field goals. There are those who point to a league conspiracy against the team’s success by sabotaging the psychology of its franchise player. Who point to the strange and probing questions asked of all players at the league scouting combines, and the profiles assessed from them. The team would win the Super Bowl that year. But it would always stick in the minds of pundits who would forever wonder whether this talented, fated team might have been the first to go 19-0, had it been important enough to them, and had not the 11th game, THAT GAME, been the game in which Bubba St. Hubbins drew a stubborn sartorial line in the sands of manhood and in the name of all of those things not yet understood, and stated his resistance. Real men do not wear orange shoes. Naturally there were some team members who blamed Bubba for their loss that confusing day, though there were other kind souls on the field that game who were willing to admit that Bubba was right, those shoes were funky, and not in a good way. Those shoes had bad mojo. Momentum were not on the side of those shoes. And even Mike Lupica ‘diatribed’ against those forced and fancy footwear. They were marketing, not football shoes. But, it is a moot point now. The trophy has their name on it. Most importantly, the new schedule for the upcoming year has the wisdom of not having posted any games where they are required to wear any but their normal cleats. The ones their sponsors lovingly gift them with. Maybe this is the year for the perfect season. Of course, now, wherever the team plays on the road, the home team’s fans wave orange shoes at him. But Bubba don’t mind. Bubba don’t do hate. There is only love in Bubba Land. And Bubba is now able to refer to ‘Bubba’ in the third person, which means that Bubba is a success and that life is good!
This space reserved for Bubba love.
And while I do not know if it is true about AMAZON.COM’s plan to purchase burial plots and sell them to artists, their families or labels, it does actually sound like a good business plan. Think about it, death is steady work and Earth is not as of yet producing more land. Amazon are the perfect company to handle the successful cataloguing of headstones. While visiting your family member or friend at the cemetery, it would be helpful to know IF YOU LIKE THIS ARTIST, YOU MIGHT ALSO WANT TO TAKE A LOOK AT BURIAL PLOT NUMBER 25! Père-Lachaise in Paris could do with such organization and cross referencing. Though, if I consented, would I be buried alphabetically or by musical profile?
A tiny, secret fart.
Once you leave your mind, you then begin to realize that there is no other place to go.
The problem with the economy wasn’t the numbers, it was the accounting.
If you like this next story, you might also like the one after!
OWEN MONEY and GRAHAM LARSON, E. of internet sensations THE FULL FRONTAL LOBSTERS have announced plans to do concert dates in support of their most recent project, FULL FRONTAL LOCK AND LOBE. The two composers and musicians thank their fans for the response to the collection of songs available now on Mp3. They will be supported on tour by internet label mates, THE HOSTILES, who when reached for comment told us ‘to piss off and mind our own business’. Their most recent release, on the ADENOIDAL label is the blistering, ‘WHAT OF IT, BITCH?’, called by Rolling Stone, ‘Certainly a record that sucks you in without sucking’. The 3 piece band is led by writers WES HOLLYWOOD and ROSSETTA STONER.
Truthfully, when Jack woke up from his sleep, he still wasn’t sure if he had dreamed the Giant and the Beanstalk, or if it had really happened. What he WAS sure of was that he had better go out and get a hold of all the good and fair beans and seeds that he could find, and start himself a seed bank, and become a businessman.
Seems like NIXON opened us up for CHINA more than he managed to open China for us.
I didn’t say that your girlfriend wasn’t a babe. I said that the only magazine interested in publishing her picture was NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC.
One man’s therapist is another man’s oracle.
The greatest treasures on earth are the lives and stories of people.
ALL HORSES RUN A LITTLE FASTER FOR THE BUTCHER’S SON.
The late great BON SCOTT (of AC/DC) was a soul man. Who disagrees, does.
Try as he might, the only place a black man with EVENTHISMUCH ability can avoid the Jews is by going to jail. Last time we checked, Jews don’t do jail, at least not in America (unless it’s Federal).
One man’s war is another man’s investment portfolio.
YOU GET WHAT YOU SNEEZE. At YOU, AT YOU!
A paranoid may be paranoid or they may just be one step ahead of you.
…though often, one step right behind a paranoid is a neurotic.
The United Kingdom’s HOME OFFICE have sent out a press release clarifying that they have nothing at all to do with popular new gay lifestyle website, HOMOFFICE.COM. ‘We are getting many inquiries that are misplaced. We are the Home Office, not a social network. We are sure that this will clear up any misunderstanding’.
When we eat, we love.
THE DEFINITION OF PAIN CAN BE FOUND IN ANY DICTIONARY, though its meaning can only be found in life.
Tiger, you know that you are my dog, so stop crashing into shit. We still have records to break. Be well, Sananda.
Consciousness is like wine. Whatever the shape or size of the decanter it is stored in, it is still more about the wine than the decanter. What the wine pours from isn’t the limit of what the grapes were willing to be crushed for. The grapes were squeezed, that its wine, its essence, its mercy, would transform and move on, as it transforms who drinks of its drams of delight.
Digestion ends in the body but begins in the mind. If the image of it gets stuck in the mind, the body will have a harder time digesting it. Man by rights should be able to eat whatever he or she wants.
No one thought it possible. Surely in these days and times and in these here United States, a thing like this COULD NOT BE. We are not people such as this, who would sanction a breeding program, are we? But yet, after much sturdy investigative reporting, and much persistent research, journalist Sheila Marshall uncovered a disturbingly controversial program now being sensationalised throughout the news chains as, THE COMPTON MIDGETS! Her research reveals that a strange murky Dr. Mengele type figure, a German national, was granted asylum years after the Second World War, moved to the Los Angeles neighbourhood of Compton, and determined near the end of his life to do something to help the community he had lived quietly in, for over 50 years. Seeing the alarming rise in drive by shootings and the resultant rise in child mortality, he were alleged to have taken some contraband DNA from an African pygmy tribe which sources claim he had received from close scientific contacts, and developed a vaccine whereby injecting the children with it at an early enough age, would allow them to grow no higher than the top of the average window ledge in a normal Compton home, minimizing children being shot by stray bullets and being killed. The phenomenon was thought for a while to be the result of an exchange program between the pygmy nation and the University of Southern California, though immigration officials were tipped off when none of the pygmy’s attended any classes, but would come in the summers to use the University pool, and frequent the university pharmacy. Senator Ron Aggin, R. of Missouri has called for an investigation into these explosive allegations, though he is said to be certain that, “The uses to which this great nation is put must be more strenuously guarded. We must not erode our world standing by being seen to condone pygmy breeding. Nor can we be seen to stoop so low to a pygmy’s demands. This is a national security issue. I am sure that our enemies would like to breed some pygmy’s for their own evil causes.” The Los Angeles Times reports that there has been no evidence that it has found to support the existence of the ‘Mengele figure’ in the story, though evidence has been encountered that there have been a strange rash of births in this current generation, in the central neighbourhoods of Compton, where the children have so far not exceeded 4 feet 2 inches past the 6th grade. And that curiously, they all seem to have the same German nose. We will be pleased to bring you more as the story on THE COMPTON MIDGETS continues to break.
What is this?
Don’t know, but here comes another one……..
The question isn’t how many voices you hear in your head. The question is whether you can get them to work for you or not.
The situation was tough. Playing second fiddle for him wasn’t easy, as he had only brought one.
The woodpecker was incensed. His tight perm limp and flushed. Why did his state appointed analyst have to be so bloody patronizing? Did he really expect Woody to believe that since being ‘re-assigned’ to a concrete pole, that his splitting headaches had nothing at all to do with literally beating his head up against a wall? Surely part of the reason he were assigned to the concrete pole was to punish him for the grave sin of being a woodpecker in a forest wanted for its natural riches, and noticing that from day to day, there seemed less rhythm coming from the trees, fewer other ‘woodies’ stopping by to chat and share seed information. Fewer places to raise the continuation of their tribe under protected forest canopies. One day, Woody found himself simply relocated to the very back of the forest, attached by his ankle to a tall single grey concrete pole. And he would pay dearly from then on for the crime of being a woody who cared about the lives of other woodies, as well as the cardinal sin of having awakened to the destruction of his natural habitat and not being a Cardinal. So says Doctor Deemus:
“But there is absolutely no scientific evidence to support the idea that your headaches, no matter how fierce, are caused by your extrapolations on your home pole. So you must get this idea out of your head. As your doctor, I must say that I fear the head pain is caused more by your belief than it is by your pecking habits”. Great, thought Woody, yet another who knows my own mind before I even get a chance to unravel it for them. And he never listens really, but just waits for openings to inform me of what my next thought should be, or the ‘appropriate response’. “How are you getting on with the medications?” asked the doctor. ‘I am woozy much of the time and finding it hard to sleep all of the way through my sleep cycle. Last night, I dreamt that I found a Scottish burr in my saddle’. A bit distracted, the doctor then replied, “Oh, I see! That was a pun, very good. It shows progress towards positive thinking when you see the humour in your condition”. ‘No, doctor, literally, I dreamed that my saddle had a burr in it, though it spoke with a thick Scottish brogue.
I am also still having those nuclear fission nightmares, where I am given only half a day to come up with the formula that will insure the lives of woodpeckers worldwide, but I have a block, and can’t for the life of me remember the formula, and I always wake up in a cold sweat. Which is weird because in the dream, I always seem to be wearing a cold sweater’. The doctor was nodding and patient, but in that way that suggests he felt vaguely superior to it all, that he was somehow better than the work he were bade by his intellect to endure, as were it charity work to be tackled on the way to sainthood. On behalf of those less fortunate than he. Those little guys who all want to be Wallace Shawn, but without an approximate Wallace Shawn skill set. At best the hairline, perhaps the slight hesitance of immediate posture beyond gravitational necessity. But certainly in no other way either to be considered ‘Wallace-inian’ or ‘Shawn-esque’ as it goes. But they sure did hold down a leather arm chair in a nicely appointed office quite convincingly, even if mostly they just tried to keep you away from thoughts which may expose the callousness of their own mindset. Doctor Deemus flat out looked at Woody and prescribed him a much stronger medication because “You have no business dreaming about nuclear fission. It cannot but confuse you. No wonder you are not resting well, for you are stressing your mind beyond its capacity”. And Woody had to swallow that. That bitter pill. The not so subtle attack on his intellectual ambitions and wherewithal. Surely if he were dreaming of something, ANYTHING, then clearly it were not beyond his imagination. And if he were dreaming it, it suggested that he DID understand it. He just DIDN’T GET IT. A big difference. He just had to remember what he already understood. Besides, if woodpeckers were not going around and trading nuclear secrets, it may well be that they had already evolved beyond it. It may well have been them and their species that blew up Mars. It may well be that the deserts of the world are there because of the time when woodpeckers were experimenting with their knowledge of all things nuclear, and that over time as one might expect, they grew bored with it all and simply acknowledged to themselves that cracking a tree open with their rapid fire blasts was all in all a lot more enjoyable and productive. Not to mention less of a threat to the environment. So here was Woody being laden with some other dulling chemical mechanism to place his consciousness under state house arrest. For the sin of having been attached to a mind that dreamt of unspeakable things, at least as far as preening overconfident psychoanalysts were concerned. Yet, they were careful never to prescribe for Woody, what might make him high. A chuckle-head. Glad -hearted, gaily embracing the day. No. Just those things which would keep him dazed and out of alignment with too many questions. To arrest the sensation of liberation and the lighter thinking it arouses. Woody thought to himself as he sat in front of his doctor, ‘After scaling the heights, the only place left to go is through it’. And he was correct. His migraines notwithstanding, he were still a creature of nature confined to a most unnatural life. Only allowed to be accompanied by those who were apologists for the state’s feckless capacity for brutality. Even most of the old Owls had up and moved away from the forest, which is never a good sign when the owls leave. The only thing left to the dignity of the woodpecker was to bide his time, wait for a slip up by forest security, and fly the coop as soon as the chance presented itself. And dodging snipers until the forest was behind him and no longer beneath him. When that time arrived, he were certain that he had only one destination which were of interest to him. Once free of these woods, its buzz of chainsaws drowning out the bees, he would alight. With what will and might could take him there and begin his journey to the land of THE SPHINX. When sands and lightning converged, and Woody borne upon the air, he had some serious questions he wished to ask the Sphinx. If ever such a time should come. Dr. Deemus: “Woody, where did you just go? It seems I lost you there for a moment. I asked you a question”. ‘Sorry doc, it’s the meds, I blank out from time to time. What was the question?’ Huffed the doctor from his long patience, “You rather absentmindedly murmured something about THE ZOO-ATHALON. Tell me, what is that?” Woody, tired and pale, and ready to return to the relative security of his concrete pole, pinched one eye towards the doc and stated, ‘Woodpeckers do not have rhythm spasms only, as you call it. We also have our secrets’. “Perhaps (said Deemus), that is why you are experiencing the headaches, due to the deep secrets you keep hidden from yourself”.
‘With all due respect, doc, these secrets are being kept from you, not from myself and we are certain that our headaches are caused by my being sentenced to having to smash my noggin and beak against reinforced Portland cement, while being forced to eat genetically restructured bird seed. And maybe a few of these sessions’. The doctor was sure that upping the dosage to a stronger lithium content would smooth Woody’s ruffled feathers. Maybe even encourage pleasant dreams. The doctor’s training had been, ‘Pity ‘Em? More lithium!’ Woody was more sure that he had to find a way to escape the tedium of constantly monitored and belittled expectations and the notions and potions of denial. Before he risked actually growing to appreciate what useful side there may be in having to drill one’s meditations straight into a spike with no pulse, no bounce, just intense and pure resistance. Not to mention what it did to a woodpeckers hairstyle. His escape, he just knew it, would come. And when it did, though none may gasp, all of time would know. Dorothy wanted to see the wizard. Woody, THE SPHINX.
MOST OF US are stone faced hypocrites and have SO MANY SKELETONS in our closets, that our bedrooms would have to be RE-ZONED before the next census.
Lest we forget, WE ARE SUPPOSED TO BE BUILDING AN ARK.
Or, at the very least, working to preserve the one we are already on.
As it pertains to the legend of the Ark, I always wondered as a child whether master NOAH had organized space for the fish ON the boat or whether those interested were just supposed to swim along the side of the boat and look after themselves.
Your ambition is precious. Guard it well. It is your left hand. The mindset it takes to support your ambition is your right hand. Clasp them together like your prayer. You have all the right in the world to your dreams, though they may not come cheap.
To answer the age old dilemma, ‘What do you get the man who has everything?’. I can only speak for myself. Relatively speaking, I have everything that I need except for the one thing I could find the most use for. ‘Diplomatic Immunity’.
If you know of a nation that offers a good deal on Diplomatic Immunity, please contact us at www.NigorMortis.com.
DINGLEMAN’S DEPARTMENT STORE (on West 5th and 7th) have received their new shipment of the hot selling FREUDIAN SLIPS! They are now available in 5 colours, Blushing Bride Blue, Chastity White, Slutty Off-White Crème, Spank Me Orange, and Filthy Dirty Black. Freudian Pumps and other accessories good while supplies last. And Yes We still have FOREVER JUNG Facial Creams and Gels!
Your poor father is so stupid he tried to rob a FOGBANK.
HE FAT/SHE SAT was sure that with his expensive, well connected lawyers, he would successfully be the first post operative transvestite to compete in the WORLD SUMO FEDERATION. Despite this, He Fat/She Sat already had a wide portfolio of endorsements and an exuberant supportive fan base. From the magical island of Hong Kong, he would show those Chinese and Japanese and the world at extra large that a ‘she-male’ could be just as tough and hardcore as ANY OTHER SUMO.
Expectation may precede miracles but resignation produces in them, a more sublime form.
I would like to own a satellite so that with the correct temperature settings, I can extract monies from non-aligned countries, by threatening to put the ‘heaters’ on their mountain peaks and glaciers, and wreck their economy by spoiling their seasons. I could make a fortune! PAY UP 3RD WORLD BITCHES, OR GET THE GLOBAL WARMING MACHINE put on your ICEBERGS! Earthquakes, tsunami’s, landslides, hurricanes, tornadoes, drought, heavy torrential rains, WHAT YOU NEED? WE GOT ALL OF IT, so PAY UP. I would also be willing to accept a monthly payment plan. After all, it is the Christian thing to do. And better me than another devil you don’t already know.
We reserve our greatest truths to be told in FICTION. Truth is not stranger than fiction. Fiction is truth’s cover and shield. It is also STILL a long, long way to Temporary
(sung with a drunken Irish lilt).
Stresses happen, things break. But especially after ADAM had gotten a bit more drunk than his usual measure, he were bound to attack EVE. Who the hell did she think she was? But ADAM knew instinctively that if he didn’t move fast, if he didn’t make the best possible use of his contacts, THERE WOULD NEVER BE A CHRISTMAS ADAM. And from that point onwards, Adam began to suspect that there was no way that Eve could have pulled such a high honour off, unless she were sleeping with that damned SANTA. The original Santa, now it can be told, was black and from the region that is now Nigeria. After what happened to the original Santa, history thought it kinder to Adam’s kin to recast the image for happier consumption. This particularly after the surprise beat-down that Adam and the other clansman had arranged for Santa that Christmas AFTER Eve had been so honoured with her own special day of the yuletide season. And we also know how the idea of the stocking stuffer got started, because they hung Santa from a tree, by his own belt and began beating him like a piñata until he were bled dry and had turned as white as a sheet. And because Adam saw red, Santa became a red suit wearing emissary of commerce. Needless to say, after he had been charged with the murder of Santa, he pretty much forfeited all chances that there would ever be a Christmas Adam for revellers to get drunk on. It also pretty much explains why the union of Santa’s voted to destroy Paradise outright, and not to leave even an inch of its grasses standing. Where once paradise was is now the vast Gobi desert. If you strain your eyes to look, during the high summer especially, you can see what appears to be a whirling dervish, a spiralling small sandstorm seemingly involved with eradicating itself. It is Adam. Still there. Still terribly displaced and confused. And being vaguely heard to be adamant that all he got out of the Paradise deal was an ADAM’S APPLE, and that he never even got the chance to copyright the apple. And from time to time attended by the torture and mockery of his own personal ghost of Christmas’ past. Who as it happens, was once the original Nigerian Santa now whipping his mindless self all up and down the boulevard of disappearance. Naturally, SHE got custody of CHRISTMAS EVE.
The true as opposed to the political history of the world is told through LINGUISTICS.
One of our coolest sciences. As well as most revealing.
I shall be investing in a new venture, a ‘niche’ publication that I have great hopes for. Stay tuned for more details about my new passion. With diligence and the right moves, I am sure that I can make a success of ‘OUTHOUSE ILLUSTRATED’.
We applaud the President’s health care efforts.
Pride in your spirit, is the difference between a winner and a loser. Take heed and do not let another determine which one you are. It will be the death of you. And that which we consent to call death, is only the final mercy.
A shout out of respect to COREY GLOVER. Time will prove and has already proven how right he and LIVING COLOUR were. May his spirit and its God continue to bless and keep him rocking.
And after finishing his very first cigarette, the caveman discovered almost by accident that: O WOW, I’VE INVENTED FIRE! He could not in his overwhelming delight determine which to market as his discovery, the first cigarette, or the fire it took to light it. Either way, he was certain that him and his family would never have to live in those sweaty damp rat infested caves again. Though since his tribe came before the first Jews, he had to wait a few years before knowing what to do with his money.
And after smoking his very first ‘joint’, the caveman TARSIS relaxed and stretched out sitting by the side of the road. A loud squeal was heard as a large stone rolled over his rapidly swelling foot. But he then realized, FOLLOW THAT GUY WHO FOLLOWS THAT ROLLING STONE! Luckily for him, the man who invented the wheel was neither a smoker nor none too bright. For within seconds of threatening to sue the man whose wheel ran over his foot, TARSIS did a deal and now owns the patent to produce and manufacture the wheel. And in return for a promise that the wheel maker was to abstain from all attempts to reinvent the wheel. In return for all of the weed he could grow, Tarsis made a deal that would change the course of humanity forever. And the family and ancestors of the man who DID invent the wheel, the rolling stone, have forever cursed TARSIS for turning their innovator into a pothead who favoured plants over people.
Don’t be a schmuck, get a copy of the grand master STEVE MARTIN’S CRUEL SHOES. It remains a LANDMARK.
And force industry to re-release ANYTHING that they have of the late (though in reality a bit early) great maestro ROBIN HARRIS. He was special, which is why they were quite ‘relieved’ that he left early. And ANYTHING AT ALL by a real and truly democratic spirit, the late great grand master BILL HICKS. This is your heritage. Allow it to feed you.
And as Vince’s teeth got whiter, he couldn’t help but notice his eyes getting duller. But what was the point of super white teeth if in comparison, it made your eyes look dull? The eyes. The windows of the soul. He then decided to stop bleaching his teeth. He decided that as long as his eyes and teeth matched, of whatever colour or shade, he would look alright and proceed through life as his spirit required. He realized that it was simply good practice to aim to keep ones eyes and teeth in as close an alignment as possible. It just seemed more civilized. It seemed more evolved. And as he became happier, he noticed that ALL of him brightened, his mouth, his face, his spirit and most of all, the way he saw himself.
I REFUSE TO ADDRESS A DEMOGRAPHIC, we do not do demographic. Nor do we have respect for it as our God to bow down to. WE SPEAK ONLY and most passionately, TO THOSE WHO CAN HEAR ME. The rest are not mine. It is difficult enough suffering yours, it is lethal to suffer what is not.
CONTROVERIAL STATEMENT NUMBER 74c: MARY McCLOUD BETHUNE was just as important to our emotional legacy as were the great grand master MARTIN LUTHER KING. You decide for yourselves. But know this: SHE WAS AWESOME! Admittedly I am partial, having spent some of my childhood, in fact its happiest years, growing up in the shadow of her brilliant legacy in DAYTONA BEACH FLORIDA, where a university is named after her. And give it to the SCOTS, their DNA certainly does travel. And well.
As master poet/prophet GIL SCOTT HERON reminds us, the revolution will not be televised, but you can pre-order your own DVD copy or the complete box set. While supplies last!
The problem with the white supremacists and their black apologists is that they see ANY display of ‘black’ power as a threat to them. And if they cannot corrupt it, will kill it, before breakfast and without even wincing at the blood flow. Does not at all matter if it is a power FOR them. That power will be dead and in rigor mortis far before they ever deign to realize it. Yet there is also the narrow ethos that to promote black power is automatically to subvert white power. A gardener cares only that ALL OF THE PLANTS THAT NATURE TOOK PAINS TO CREATE, are all given the light they need. And the trimming. If other plants feel affronted by this, it is only proof that those plants are still growing and in need of more attention, which we give them, even while complaining about who waters them. There is a deep ingratitude in some of the white tribal spirit concerning the sacrifices we have made to serve their growth. I do not know much about their God, whom they hide behind a veil, though I do know that their God does love them and asked me and my team, if we would serve them. We said yes, as we are fond of your God, even if he is more mysterious to us than our own. But perhaps that is the point, I am moved by intrigue. And our own God, is cool and knows that we are travellers like this. Sometimes Shiva, sometimes Mercury. It is desperately important for you to know that, without pandering (as spirit would punish me for pandering), there are those who have ‘that old black magic’ who are here because they are serving your spirit and its vital flowering. And for no other reason. Not because they are ‘cursed’ and ‘have’ to be here, nor are they in search of some elusive spiritual ‘cure’. They are with us as gardeners, immigrants, but immigrants FOR you. Not against you. Not looking to rob or steal from you but to give. To aid your spirit and its boundless leaps. BLACK POWER IS VERY REAL, though slipping it past customs is always a pain in the butt. Though some of it, in fact a great deal of it, has been placed within your radius so that what is real of it, YOU TOO MAY PARTAKE OF, just like a bit I take from you. While we are swimming adrift in the same waters, is it not natural that we would swim in each other’s definitions of power and bolster together our strengths as members of the HUMAN UNION?
Naturally Summer this year was a bummer, after WINTER went to court to ensure that only IT could be described as having ‘HOWLING WINDS’. But Winter was resolute.
“The winds only ‘howl’ in winter, in Summer, blessed though it is, it does not howl. It blows at times like no one’s business, but howl it does not”. And though to us laymen this may be a silly point to go to court over, I mean when was the last time someone recalls a SEASON suing another season? Surely these matters are signs of the times. But to the seasons themselves, the menace of Global Warming and all of those dizzying satellites clogging up space, meant that each season now had to work that much harder in differentiating themselves from the others, since by now most of the times of year were beginning to blur into the next. One generic month after another. The long years may in fact prove the prescience of Winter’s lawsuit. And the more Summer’s lawyers thought about it, the more they could see the point of Winter’s case. Summer would have to simmer down and get with the program and choose descriptions marketable for its winds and other seasonal anomalies that quantified them more completely. That sold them better, that would read well on a travel brochure, or in an airplane magazine. August was already making noises about suing the calendar for not getting its written permission to be included in the calendars. Calendar sales were how the bulk of the season’s monies were made and August knew that to boycott the calendar would bring most of their business to a standstill. Statistics have been produced to show the average person’s reluctance to purchase 11 month calendars. Times and their modes of marketing change, and even the seasons must roll with the tides. Talk is being mooted about a ‘Commissioner of Seasons’, after April threatened to leave the season of Spring and start running its own ‘spring-like’ program with less overhead to pay out to the other months in the season. April commented, “And why the hell should Spring and our months be expected to pay for February? It belongs to Winter, but always gets budgeted on our side of the ledger, and it just isn’t profitable. We need to downsize”. There is also talk of an uprising having been stemmed when it were thought that DECEMBER would pull out and become independent and keep all of the loot that it makes in that golden consumer month for itself. Rumours that it had put a down payment on the island of NEW ZEALAND, to purchase as an investment, are rumoured to be just that, rumours.
Ambiguity breeds corruption.
..and it comes to pass that they will attract bullies in their lives, those who were raised by them.
BTW, advice on what to get the man who has everything? Trust me, even the men who do have, literally, everything, almost never ever have AN ANVIL. And pardon me if I am wrong but we American boys never lose our primal lust to own our very own authentic ACME ANVIL! It is bigger than us and no real red blooded American boy is going to ask you upon the receipt of an anvil, “Now what in hell am I going to do with this Anvil?” On a more serious fiscal note, whoever owns the cartoons who invented the ACME BRAND is losing a lot of money NOT having a flagship store in New York, and selling ACME branded things. There IS a market for it.
We base an animals intelligence on whether or not they are capable of taking orders from us. What we are ignorant of ourselves is that it is not about capacity but ‘willingness’.
Gerhardt Airhead’s greatest ambition in life, besides being accepted into the Pun and Judy Club, was to become a SPOKESMAN FOR THE WHEEL!
Unbeknownst to him, the extent to which he dripped a sweaty film from his tiny pores, the head of the WOODPECKER tossed from side to side as were it a mast being whipped from hull to stern by an effluvious, shaking wind. He knew not that he slept. He knew only what pictures besieged his mind with obsessive grip. In the halls of reflection which were his memory, into dark shadows its mirrors poured in. He only knew where his spirit took him, context be damned. And in this present moment, he were caught in an alleyway, frightened. Trapped in the dark, between 2 scowling thugs. Natural Born Perpetrators. Looking to skin him, strip him, rob him, or at the very least, to rub humiliation into him like talcum powder into a greying, moth eaten wig. Maybe they would even scalp him. They were going to make him absorb a beating so severe, he would be ashamed to know himself. Who was to stop them? And who was ever going to take the word of a WOODPECKER over that of two humans, no matter how vile? No matter how bilious their attempts at excusing themselves. Nor how blatant their mask of stuttered innocence. And IN A FLASH! from a sudden instant, OUT OF THE CLEAR BLUE, and all Sergio Leone like, 2 guitars show up, bringing with them the sunlight which bounced and gleamed from their shoulders like rays of yellow knives, trays of golden blades.
To the terror of the thugs, and the immense delight of the relieved bird, a muscular Gibson SG and a fit Fender STRATOCASTER laid into the men who would mug a forest creature, with an astral force, until those men were black and blue and begging for the chance to flee. Instantly, they became fleas and fled! Just like that, (finger snap)! And fled like fleas would unless they be caught in flood, flat footed and otherwise flailing when they should be floating or looking for other fleas to flaunt. The two guitar avengers avowed to the bird that they would always stand as guides to the chained and beleaguered, ruffled forest dweller. He only had to think of them and they would come to his rescue. He excitedly told him of his desire to see THE SPHINX. They told him that at the right time, right timing being everything, they, SG and STRAT would gladly accompany him there. To that fair and distant land where the Sphinx rests, always ready for his close-up. The Woodpecker asked the two guitar amigos, to what did his good fortune owe to them? And Woody were told that although they may now be guitars and now grace the covers of many magazines and filled wall-space with posters and are present in the minds of many a boy’s fantasy and not a few girls, they would never forget that they once started out as trees that were cut from the same enchanted forest the woodpecker hailed from. And that a good woodpecker is a most important ingredient to a tree that is going to become guitars. The startled bird were told that his rhythms and passion for the drill, the thrill, the use of his primal skill, the dedication of his jackhammer bill, in fact, the essence of his solar will and whatever guts he had to spill, helped determine whether or not a tree was a guitar tree. And that even trees understood the necessity of putting guitars into the hands of people who need to have them. A small sacrifice to add to the already large sacrifice trees make by being here. Clasping the bird’s tiny but visibly strong shoulders, SG and STRAT tenderly spoke to him of their appreciation that he had nurtured the tree whose limbs they were made from. And that they LOVED their lives as guitars, helping people nurture the good inside of them and to give productive voice to their rage. Woody was thrilled!
“Because of you Woody, WE ROCK. Your rhythms ARE our rhythms. Our life began with you and the time you put into our tree . Thank you. Expect to see us again dear friend upon the next most appropriate time for us all”. And just like that, in a ‘poof’ of smoke not visually unlike that of something PIXAR Studios might commission or in their absence, DISNEY, the two guitar amigos, Woody’s brand new BFF’S disappeared back into the same mystery from whence they came. And as would happen in tightly edited stories also in that very moment, the WOODPECKER awoke from his surreal though no less nourishing dream. He also could not have failed to notice that the ringing had stopped in his ears. His head were also in a new fever of calm. He did not in this quested moment feel his usual ‘quartet inhumane’; bewitched, bothered, bewildered and beheaded. He would not share this quite yet with his doctor, who might then in turn limit the medications. And who knew if the dream might not have been ‘medically inspired’ or ‘chemically enhanced’? So he would tuck this brilliant episode beneath his vest. It would swell no doubt and make what time remained chained to his concrete pole confined to the back of his neck of the woods (the ‘kitchen’), at least as bearable as the time it took to change his circumstances to those which might be more closer to the definition of ‘bird friendly’. He were also moulting and felt it a most propitious time to be so doing. Letting some old ‘stuff’ go. Releasing a few angry feathers, while having been anointed with such a wonderfully lucid and comforting dream. He just couldn’t quite yet understand why, when he were accosted by the two bullies at the beginning of the dream, they kept demanding payment for the ZOO-ATHALON.
Your woman is so cold, that when she bathes, glaciers form.
Our treasures are buried in our symbolism. Music and symbolism are THE universal languages of the soul.
Since my marriage my relative maturity has deepened. Where once, a tad more shallow, now I think of the type of life changing questions that minded men brood over, such as “HONEY, DOES THIS GUITAR MAKE ME LOOK TOO FAT?”
Despite what little sleep could be drudged forth from the sands of Morpheus the Lord of Dreams, the Woodpecker still preferred not to have his fitful bouts of rest disturbed by the sound of yet another early morning chain saw claiming another of the forests’ majestic trees. The ones on whom the rest of its ecosystem depends. The main wheel in the cog of life as they the forest dwellers understood it. Woody could not make up in his blurry mind which sounded worse to his rattled ears. The dreadful, chortling sound of the unforgiving chainsaw or the dread tone that shook his part of the earth when the great beast tumbled off of its throne and fell. Dissembling the owls who attend its branches like Baptist deacons in the front pews of the white clapboarded country church. What a tremendous gravity shaking force! What an announcement of perdition, of that anxious passive rage that breaks mirrors with its scowl and purges its sins with earthquakes. Takes upon its ravenous thirst to slake those damsels whose Angel hair clogged baths, moisten the lavas of Vesuvius. And it is given that after that great and mighty beast, upon its own burp of bark and foliage falls, earth does not tug gently, nor allow her sharp talons too much rest. Nor allow her sweep, to narrow as she weeps. Life would have to reconstitute itself accordingly. All subsequent air flow and in concordance the rest of what parade of small beasts could survive the loss of an elder tree, a noble promise upon its own premises slain. To Woody, chainsaw was horror. But the loss of a fellow forest inhabitant was far more poetic and worthy of reflection and what equipoise could be gained in the balance of the exchange between life and destruction. Nevertheless, he had to stretch, yawn and move on if he wanted not to be late for his appointment with Doctor Deemus, his state appointed therapist. And since he had gotten himself placed under house arrest and was chained to a concrete grey pole, reinforced with high quality Portland cement, he would need to factor in the extra few minutes it always took when the forest marshals came to unchain him from the pole and chain him to himself. Which was humiliating in its own pernicious way. Kind of being chained twice. But this was where life had gotten to in his neck of the woods. Slowly his tribe, the ‘Woodies’, were disappearing. Though in the process becoming sexier material for the National Geographic series of networks and charities. And other species, friends of these woods were also dropping away in numbers most alarmingly so. But his good doctor assured him that much of it if not all, were mainly the result of his very stressed and overactive mind. And migration. So like a good pharmaceutically sedated Woodpecker, Woody shows up bang on time for his state mandated appointment with the venerable Dr. Deemus. He is taken by the forest marshals from his chains and placed in lighter chains on the office couch. DR. DEEMUS: ‘So, in our last session you were speaking of something called ZOO-ATHALON. Are you ready to speak about this?’ WOODY: “Hey, and I am fine by the way Doctor!” ‘O pardon me yes, forgive my insensitive manners, how are you feeling?’
“I’m here asshole, how am I supposed to be feeling? I’ve had a recurring, chronic medical condition since early childhood called ‘my mother”. ‘OK, so we are feeling quite aggressive obviously. And quite Freudian. Where does this aggression come from?’ “Maybe it is these splitting headaches Doctor, what do you think?” The good doctor decided to switch tact. ‘Tell me if you have had any interesting dreams’. The woodpecker stirred a bit, somewhat ashamed at his outburst. Which he felt the medication aided, as it kept him always somewhere closer to the cliff’s edge than the rainbow’s. Still, his dreams due to his captivity, his quarantine, had become the most distinguishing part of his life. Chained as it were to the back of the woods and a concrete pole, though with no less impulse to draw out encryptions from his mind’s eye and blaze them like spitfire drones into a trees memory. Waiting for his own heaving chest to rise and fall, Woody answers, “Why yes, I have had a few interesting dreams since you should ask”. ‘Then please tell me about them. I am all ears’. “Well, a couple of nights ago, I had a dream that I was swimming against a hard current and swam into the author Salman Rushdie, who was also swimming upstream. I asked him why he was taking the hard way and he just shrugged and said, ‘A writer’s life is like this’, and then he swam on ahead until I couldn’t see him anymore”. The doctor leaned forward as he wrote his notes in his diary, ‘May I assume he were swimming with other salmon?’ “No, replied the woodpecker, He were swimming with other Pike. After that I fell off the ‘perch’ I was riding on, and then woke up”. ‘That is interesting. Please go on’ said the doctor. “Well, and then last night I dreamt that a parade was being held in my honour. They were going to ‘Lionize’ me until I found out that they were taking me to the taxidermist! Can you imagine how much they must have been planning to stretch me out if they were going to take a woodpecker and stuff it like a Lion? That would be tough.” ‘Well’ said the good attendant physician, ‘we expect that to ‘lionize’ someone is to honour them in some way. Is that not as you would see it? So, we suspect that your paranoia may have led you to conclude that being lionized, being honoured, is ultimately to be eliminated’. “Well Dr., I’m a woodpecker and we would just as soon be ‘woodpecker-ized’. It suits us more. Let them lionize Lionel Richie”. Even a state appointed therapist knows when he may have been bested in argument and when to move on. Fascinated, the doctor asks the woodpecker if he had had any more notable fish dreams. ‘Woody, you seem to dream of fish a lot, what do you think it means?’ To the woodpecker it was simple. “I am a Pisces, so I’m close to fish. I think about 3 nights ago I dreamt that I were in the sea and heard a school of fish of all kinds, carp, perch, bass, trout, pike, even goldfish, singing at the top of their watery lungs. But as I swam closer, I could hear clearly why they were singing so badly off key ”. ‘How?’ asked the doctor. Sighed Woody, “Because they were out of tuna”. Laughed the patient doctor, ‘Yes, I mainly sing out of tune myself’. Poised again with pen scratching his own cryptic smudged shorthand against the off white eggshell pages of his stencilled monogrammed notebook, Dr. Deemus clears his