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Today Is For The Fighters

     That is Woody Guthrie to the left, with his fascist-killing guitar. I am not sure if he is considered a veteran of World War II, or not. He served in the Merchant Marine and shipped out three times and his ship was torpedoed two times (although the Oklahoma Historical Society website says he had three ships torpedoed from beneath his feet). He was then drafted into the Army and Germany surrended the same day.

     On one occasion, he saved the life of a shipmate and on at least one other, he made sure that the guitars made it to the lifeboats. Woody wrote books, songs, poems, drew sketches and eventually became the spiritual Father of the 1960s folksong revival movement. These days, we have people who are referred to as ‘the new Bob Dylan’, like Bruce Springsteen and a number of others. In the 1960s, Dylan was ‘the new Woody Guthrie,’ and was often dismissed as being a poor caricature, until he proved himself.

    Besides serving his country in the war, Woody served before and after, singing for the starving ‘okies’ as they were abused by the system after losing all to the Great Dust Storms. Along the way he wrote songs like Bound For Glory and This Land Is Made For You And Me and other songs about the triumph of human spirit. He may not be an official veteran but he served.

     Today is Veteran’s Day and we should honour those who stood in harm’s way to fight and serve. If you made it through four years in the service because a judge gave you the choice of ship or time in jail, then you really do not deserve the free lunches that the restaurants are putting on the table today. It is there for the old guys and the ones who hear the bullets flying these days.

     Who am I to say? I tried to get out of the war in the usual ways. College, join before they draft you. I aced the armed forces exam with a high percentile so I had my choice of any branch. Spring 1975, the death count climbing like crazy in Viet Nam, I went for the Air Force.

     Long story short – the war ended in May and there I was signed up for four years. The draft was over. Happy days were here again, sort of. Luckily, the recruiter lied to me and left gave me a reason to back out. I had a letter, an official form that said I would be inducted on such-and-such a date. I had not taken the oath, though. Whew!

     In the end, Gentle Readers, the recruiter died pretty young. My mom used to tell me how many times he called looking for me. She thought he was funny and felt a little sorry for him, too, like some sympathetic character on a sitcom, or if I daresay, a book.

     I had meant to blog about Lord Buckley but I got distracted somehow when somebody told me he was going to different restaurants to get some free meals. He had served in peacetime as a ‘noplace else to go move’ and should not have free pie and ice cream, really.

I’ma post war breakout
I’ma post war breakdown
I’ma post war nervroe
And a post war hero
I’ma post war skitzoe
I’ma post war freenyoe
Post war nerve case
And a post war face history

I’ma psykoe pathy crackdown
I’ma looney blooney breakdown
War shocky suki yaki boy
I got a long personality
I got a medal I’ma hero
I got an id, I got an ego
I got a pocket book and no dough
Justa post war shock job.

I’ma evil minded breakdown
I’ma vulgar thinking crackdown
I’ma lascivious lewdy nude boy
I’m a great long doctor book full.
I’ma irresponsible hobo
I’ma noncommy drifter
I’ma mad old raver loose jaw
I’ma Ex G.I. for sure sure…..by Woody Guthrie


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How Not To Disguise Your Handwriting, Good One Slik Dick!

     Rummys and Readers, this is a special blog since yesterday I noted that the next blog would look at the wondrous Lord Buckley, possibly the spiritual father of all things Beat.

     Today we present an example of how the obese brain can cause people to do things that are not logical. Many recent studies have likened the affects of obesity to brain tissue to those of crack addiction on the same cranial areas. Sometimes it takes the actions of a dimwit to bear out the theory.

     First, we need to look at why abused people have the tendency to make assholes of themselves. It is not their fault. They are told from an early age that they are worthless, or made to feel that way, and so it dogs them through life. I share this problem with a friend of mine who is also plagued by an abuserino. He was nice to some idiot and helped the guy with his writing, often re-writing whole stories so the bumbling fool looked good. The numb-nut in question, in this case, reacted wrongly instead of being grateful for the help he was given. He carries on like a child (since the abused brain gets stuck at the age of abuse) and rants and stamps his feet and is still heard to be making a fuss to those who have not deleted him from their web accounts). He insults, chides, even created a website on which to do it, but the most stupid thing is that he does it all in a failed attempt to garnish the attention of my friend, Patrick, who he has turned into a perverse form of father-figure.

     Patrick and I have a lot in common. I am a father figure, too.

     When a teen, I fell in with a crowd of kids who were not too smart but had all the right materials to make things fun. We knew each other for about a year and a half until things started to wear thin. Punk rock had a lot to do with it. When I was 17, it was the cutting edge of rock and roll and I welcomed it. Disco had been a dominant force and my plan was to try to subvert the disco machine with country-swing music when Punk stuck it’s ugly head out of a manhole cover and let it rip! I still like both of these musical forms.

     This occurred in Pennsylvania which, with the exceptions of Philadelphia and Pittsburgh, is about as far away from being a hotbed of intellectual activity as you can get. By the times these guys liked Punk, it was almost over but there were a number of poseurs who claimed to be hip to it all along. Dumb people are not so bad, in fact they make nice housepets. The annoying bit about this State is the number of psuedo-intellectuals. They are a little smarter than the rest but they are still incapable of original thought. Still, they see themselves as superior but it is all psuedo.

     A good example is a guy named Slik Dick. Dick is, by the way, just that. Dick is one of those people you know for a year and a half and lose track of. Then he finds you on Facebook and it is all ‘buddy-buddy’ but in a matter of weeks, the reason why you have not chatted for some 38 odd years is quite apparent. Slik Dick, like a lot of crackheads and fatheads, has a big mouth and is always right. We were very good friends until my opinions on world trade upset his sexually-ambiguous sister and she insulted me, which opened the door to an onslaught of low insults.

     Hey, we should all get along but if you are going to insult me, expect a little something in return.

     So, because of a verbal dispute about a subject he has no working knowledge of, Dick got mad at me. When I become angry with somebody, I do not even want to look at them but since he became riled, the Big Dick has tried to annoy me via various means. He wants my attention. I am a father figure to the obstreperous obeser. He just cannot allow things to pass and spends time and money thinking of ways to ‘get to me’, all of which are laughable and childish but are the hallmarks of the classic victim of abuse. Still, I do not feel sorry for him.

     The latest example of the ‘little kid crying daddy at the top of his lungs in the empty market’ came yesterday, when Dick sent me an anonymous letter. It was so anonymous that I knew it was from him before I opened it, even though he went through the trouble of sending it from St Louis to Pennsylvania, where one of his intellectual equals put it in a local mailbox so I would think it came from nearby. At least the post office sold some stamps.

     What the fool did not realise is that I had handwriting samples. Another sign of the failing brain is inattention to details. While Big Dick barely changed the basic form of his printing by making it big and squared when he wrote my address (this is done by grasping the pen in closed fist and writing like a caveman, as opposed to holding the pen in the usual way), he was so damned stupid that he forgot to change his writing on the return address.

     Details, details…

     When examining handwriting, there are certain things that are dead give-aways so let us review a few of them now, Gentle Readers. First, the way a person crosses the ‘t’ and dots the ‘i’ can be telling. Look how the ‘t’ is always crossed down near the center. See how the dot on the ‘i’ drifts to the right every time. The ‘r’ is much more significant, since it not only is always made with a straight line to the right at the top, but that top line most often drops at the end. Or how about those ‘m’s? They always look like a ‘v’ on stilts. This is the most pathetic coverup job since the Florida elections that Gore won but Bush was credited with winning. Even moreso, look at the address and how the ‘s’ on sutters always begins just below the cross on the ‘4’ in ‘904’…what a cowfaced maroon he is!!! And look how the word always goes downhill after the numbers…elementary, Dear Watson.


     Ah, Slik Dick, does a secret love for me burn in your hungry heart of flabby flesh? Is it really so hard to get on without me, now that you have found me after 38 years?

      See, Dick is one of the few people I considered a friend who ended up stealing from me because I allowed him in my home. I may have stolen from schools, employers and done my childhood shoplifting but never once did I pinch anything from someone who trusted me. That is low. Stupid people do not know low from normal, so it is best to avoid them. I would not even be mentioning him now, if not for his silly attempts and the cash he wastes on stamps to get my attention. If you know him, count the silverware and snack cakes next time he is in town.

     On the back of the envelope is the ominous date of 11.12.10. This may be ominous because anyplace I go that day, I will carry a few rolls of quarters in my fist and if anything weird happens, somebody will be wearing his nose on his ear. OOOhhhh, sppoky 11.12.10…shall I sit inside and peer out the window in fear? Why bother? I have a security system and haven’t had to break a nose for a good many years. It may be fun to have a tape of it to post. I really am non-violent but provocation always leads to a bad end.

     Slik Dick, with your filthy, unflushed home and your alwats right fat brain…when will you ever learn?

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Hell Devil Sex In Kimchi Pots Makes Korea Cabbage Suck

     Gentle Readers, a horrible misunderstanding in culinary circles has brought kimchi to our attention today. Many people wonder why anyone would ever eat it, when they can have good german sauerkraut, laced with brown sugar and apples and topped with a juicy pork chop. Two strips of cured canine on a plate with a heap of fowl-smelling kimchi can gag a maggot.  Add some dried fish, found dead and floating on top of the Naktong River and it is twice as offensive. Why do people eat this stuff?

    Of course, we all know that America is Number One in cabbage with its sexy cole slaw! It is so good that people pay a lot for it, yet it does not lead to the social problems that are associated with ‘devil’s leaf” from Daegu. There, it leads to violence and kimchi rage, accompanied by the usual kimchi crack smokers and kimchi whores, who sell their bodies for the cabbage they must have.

     It is put in pots and buried deep in the ground so the devil can reach the pots more easily from his place in Hell! At night, the devil has big sex with the steamy pots, leaving them with the foul smell that predominates the Korean continent. There is nothing more scary than a crazed slut with kimchi breath propositioning you. They will offer ‘the tooth brush,’ an odd sex act performed with strings of shredded cabbage hanging from between rotted teeth. A visitor can only run to a safe place and wash off the smell…or try to.

     The devil in the kimchi soon gets into the brain, like a venereal disease, many of which are a standard ingredient in this evil foodstuff.

     I have a sauerkraut cask in my kitchen. It would hold 20 gallons but I do not invite the devil to my home. I will eat it in german homes and stay with the number one – american cole slaw! Yes, it is the best.

     Here is my recipe: take half a cabbage (a real one, not one of them tiny kimchi cabbages that are no good for people) and two carrots and grate them coarsely. Add mayo, a pinch of sugar and a dash of celery salt. mix. chill. taste. add more celery salt or sugar to taste. Add more mayo if it seems too dry.

     This is the way to eat cabbage. Do not eat cabbage from other countries if you fear the devil. Some places, like Korea, do not fear the devil and so they eat his spumy froth as it mixes into the precious kimchi. How wrong can they be? Are they devil people? I hope none of them read this. That could get scary!

     If you do not believe this, you can yell Dokdo at the Sea of Japan!!!


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