Critics

Dear Sirs,

I've been reading the literature you produce for some time now and I feel the time has come to address a few issues I have with it. I am not by nature a bellicose individual but your web log has broken through my gentle spirit and given me a case of the sour waters. I am a man who finds himself often afflicted with a variety gastric distresses. Your foolish rambling and crimes against sentence structure only serve to aggravate an already delicate equilibrium of colonic upwellings and vaporous surges. You manage to summon from me the most mournful, sonorous farts ever witnessed by myself or my fellow public library patrons. In my 37 years as an assistant crutch assembler for the Knights Of Columbus I have never had to subject my underlings to such powerful gaseous outpourings. I can hardly find the appetite for my deviled eggs and medicinal cabbage water any more. Only yesterday I was stuck on stalled subway car so I decided to partake of my lunch of prune reduction, duck bisque, and sardines sandwiches, when my mind turned to your last post. It upset me so much that my subsequent bottom bossa nova caused a poor prostitute to faint, and an elderly man to vomit up his breakfast stew. It lasted nearly 45 seconds and a small man whom I had inadvertently pinned against the sliding door had to be lead away by caring hands and placed into a doctor's care. Much of my modest income is taken up by the various wrappings, cummerbunds, and foundation garments that my various internal concerns demand. My hips, thighs, and each buttock necessitate several swaddling procedures and your foolish twaddle puts me back to square one every time. If I didn't take the time between dressings to have some buttermilk and onions with a slice of black pudding, then I don't think I could cope. In conclusion Sir, your blog is utter drizzles, and it's giving me the shits something cruel, so stop it.

Yours

Latimore DeBounce

Brushing Up On Love

Name: Floyd Purchase
Age: 33
Seeking: Women aged 20 to 60, all shapes, smoker or non, employment a plus but not fussy, pets welcome, English a plus but not fussy, will drive out of town, not fussy
Occupation: Mobile Library Owner/Operator
Turnons: a woman
Turnoffs: none
Say what: "Hey ladies how about a Purchase of me, meaning a pun on my name and not meant to imply I am a male prostitute, because I certainly am not one of those."

Name: Mrs. Beretta Cross
Age: 73
Seeking: William Michael Cross, 40 1/2
Occupation: Unappreciated
Turnons: A little consideration
Turnoffs: Lazy ungrateful sons who go off and marry the first whore who will cook something approximating dinner when she couldn't possibly know what he likes when it's his sainted mother who raised him for 40 years without a word of thanks.
Say what: "Don't worry about me you just let that hussy desecrate the mother son bond and I'll commit suicide to keep things simple for you and that cheap c-u-nevermind-t."

Name: Francis Lee Marvin
Age: 29
Seeking: Women for sure
Occupation: Journeyman Rail Splitter
Turnons: A woman with a good body who works out you know. Like hard abs and muscled legs, and broad shoulders like some females have. And a deep voice like when I close my eyes you sound like a man but you're all woman because I like women.
Turnoffs: Gross girls that are all soft and curvy and round. Those sissy girls don't appeal to the hard man who is deep inside me.
Say what: "It's tough being a single guy these days. When I think of all the lonely single men out there I just want to say that I really feel you men and it's hard, and getting harder all the time. And you know that it's getting hard for me too, and I know you feel me and want to reach around and offer me relief. Am I right ladies?'

Poetry Hutch

Grand Mall Epoxy

From wind upon the bloated spruce
To the holy legs of Jesus
The sour belch of nature's scorn
Sends bees and cakes to please us

The dog will hump on Uncle Bruce
As turkeys crush between us
My father wore a silken gown
Beneath the light of Venus

fin

The above poem brought a ignominious end to the third annual Ladies Town Hall Literary Awards Supper Social when the author strode nude and filthy through the buffet shouting his work at the top of his lungs while tossing plastic cups of body fluids and solids among the assembled literati. Althea McMannus, the organizer and hostess of the event, was pleased with both the reading and the overall success of this year's event. The controversial 'dirty protest' theme was an unusual one for this annual charity, pot luck literary gathering whose assemblage is more used to stylized readings of Walt Whitman or musical interpretations of Robert Burns. We look forward to next year's event with great interest.

A Word From Edmond Groat

Hello good Ladies and Gentlemen. I am Edmond Groat and I am a business associate of the owner and propagator of this fine web log to which you are currently giving your attention. I have taken it upon myself to hire out space on this site until my current revenue minus expenses ratio reaches a point where I can negotiate the vending of a personal computer, an Internet account, a table, a chair, a wall socket, a wall, and electricity. Recent economic conditions have rend asunder my various investments and ventures. My consulting firm closed it's doors for good after some unpleasantness with a malfunctioning shoe buffer and some poor judgment on my part regarding some fake $250 bills. I had assumed that my astute business acumen would be in demand among the financial elite, but I was quickly and soundly undone by certain difficulties on my part involving, legalities, international trade pacts, generally accepted accounting principals, telephones, decimal places, long division, and fainting. I have since taken many hard lessons to heart and moved on to my strength as a product developer. I will admit that I got off to a rough start. My Arthur Fonzerelli Grill was ahead of its time I'm afraid (The grease just drains awAaayyyyy) . The world was not ready for the Trouser Crock Pot ("Who wants pants stew") and I daresay it ever will be. Funky Funerals (Who dead up in here?) lacked the interest I was sure was in abundance. And of course, I was premature in my belief that the world wanted a nasaly administered laxtive (Momma needs a Sniffy Plop? Yeah Yeah!!!). But I can assure you the I am nothing if not persistent and I will not let failure, bankruptcy, incarceration, restraining orders, Papal censures, or death threats keep me from bringing the most exciting and unexpected products into your homes. So keep any eye on this space and prepare to be amazed and stunned.

Yours Truly

Edmond Groat

Your Sweet Horosope Pudding

Aries: Let yourself become more comfortable in white denim. You may be subject to the whims of a man in a soiled dickie. Your planets today are Mars, Venus and the brown one with the stripes. Your wish stone is the flat one and your soul number is 107.

Taurus: The last person who used your toilet did so under false pretenses. You will encounter a small lady carrying a fish and a copy of the Sermons Of St Bonaventure. Walking backwards should be avoided unless there is clear financial gain. Your home stars today are Polaris and Treat Williams.

Gemini: You have Munchhausen by proxy.

Cancer: The pain in your legs will get better once you loosen your cummerbund and discover that the marriage certificate was never signed. Your royal house is Tudor and your lucky warming implement is a blanket.

Leo: Love is just around the corner in the form of a lonely, manipulative, alcoholic, with father issues. Food eaten while standing on one foot does not count for the next 12 hours. Your cold cut of the day is olive loaf.

Virgo: Although you may be assured by those you trust that it ain't nuthin but a thing, be warned that it may in fact be nuthin but a chicken wing. Your greeting for the current moon phase is the awkward wave and smile.

Libra: Quit gumming up the works. You will have three importune, totally involuntary farts this afternoon, but you will, in each case, be in the presence of a sleeping hobo on whom you can blame the emissions. Your jams are raspberry and unsweetened black current.

Scorpio: Don't be all like you're better than me just cuz you think you all that when you don't even know me and jus prolly jealous anyway cuz I'm sexy and I'll slap a bitch who gets all in my business like they got somthin.

Sagittarius: The five second rule does not apply to soup. Don't get talked into a camping trip by a man who purchases his shoes one at a time. Everyone knows your touch does not cure dandruff so stop telling people that it does. Your mode of ambulation while Saturn is in the second house, strolling.

Capricorn: You are so hot right now. Your small intestine is the topic of conversation among people who admire such things. You will get lost in a large chain bookstore and never be able to admit it to yourself. Your response to people whom you find yourself no longer listening to should be, "yeah, for sure."

Aquarius: Don't sweat the small stuff unless it is poking out of your skin. If you can see it through a shirt then call a doctor. If you can see it from across the street with a coat on then call The Guinness Book Of world Records (medical oddities and abnormalities division).

Pisces: Although two wrongs never make a right, three wrongs can be quite acceptable if the person being wronged is truly a prick who has been asking for it like some sort of fancy college boy with his four wheel drive and linen suit.

Letter Of Complaint

Dear Mr Fish,

As I'm sure has been pointed out to your esteemed personage on several occasions, you continue to misrepresent yourself as a legitimate blogger. This I feel is in conflict with, if not the letter of the law, then at least the spirit of the noble institution that we call the Internet. You continually and maliciously claim to be the producer of a blog yet at not time have you mentioned a relevant current event, commented on a broad social trend, or ruminated on the tooings and froings of some popular glitterati with which the public feels the compulsion to heap regard upon. This state of affairs is compounded by the fact that you seem to relish in the ridiculous, the profane, the nonsensical, and the profoundly irrelevant. You may feel that I am over harsh, even spitful, but please good sir, you can not fail to see if six people read your blog then their are at least six people more deeply out of touch than yourself.

Regards

Perez Hilton

Tonight's Menu (with english on reverse)

Le Canard de la Honte


Beginnings

Soup with two spoons and peas from Spain........................................................................2.63
One egg beside one egg with one or two breads..................................................................2.17
New salad green without coating not chosen (choice on side)............................................2.11

For the Main

Delights of fish without or among glaze and seasonal tubers..............................................11.49
Larger or minuscule area of ham arranged in a fashion......................................................10.80
Fifty percent of duck with embellishments..........................................................................22.50

Trolley of pies will follow you!

bon apatite!

Central Intelipol's Most Wanted

Lidia "Momma" Cruft: Last seen purchasing large quantities of Sunny Delight and counterfeit cowboy hats in the parking lot of The Upper Marlboro, Maryland Chamber Of Commerce. If seen, DO NOT APPROACH, but go to the nearest civic authority and report.

Threat Level: Dark Blue

Reward: Imminent

Karl & Promethia Burst: Last seen in or around Mississauga Ontario attempting to gain entrance to The Knight's Of Columbus Anti-Post Marital Sex Dinner Dance & Fund Raiser dressed as someone else. If cornered, lay face down and place arms rigidly at acute arcs until negotiators arrive.

Threat Level: Eminent

Reward: Voluntary

Elija Wong: Last seen testing the waters of a Red Lobster crab tank due south of the Tropic Of Cancer. Do not make eye contact unless accompanied by a doctor of science.

Threat Level: Too Legit

Reward: Rumored

The Rhododendron Brothers: Last seen boarding a slow boat to Northern Tweed, heavily laden with after market truck parts. Upon discovery the activation phrase given to the local constabulary is, "The goose is juicer when the chef is patient", followed by a double wink and a Petite Mal seizure.

Threat Level: Eggy

Reward: Three Times A Lady

Mason Walsh: Last seen holding court in the Laotian garment district clutching a copy of Yes I Can, gamely holding on, while being pelted with pieces of The True Cross. Upon introduction, do not linger with your finger, but move slowly to the back of the room, humming as if your life depended on it.

Threat Level: Double Down

Reward: Upon Clarification

Dear Sisters Of The Stigmata Refugee Detention Center

To whom it may concern,

I am writing to offer my deepest thanks for your hospitality over the last week. Your facility is both clean and welcoming. After a night of celebrating the local squad's promotion to "D" Division Men's Football, one can only hope to find oneself placed into to the hands of such a fine holding center when one is brought low by Drink and Jocularity. I have been lead to understand that yours is one of the most respected names in itinerant men's hostelry in the tri-shire area and the reformatory of choice for those frequently afflicted with public drunkenness. I am lead further to believe that you have been fire free since late 2007 and relatively absent of corpses for several months. I only hope that the process of my internment was not overly stressful on you fine staff. After the Red Banjo's handy defeat of West Milan lead me to over indulge during the post match festivities, there my have been some regretful property damage on my part and some unprovoked attacks on a Police Horse. I would also like to inquire after the whereabouts of one of your permanent lodgers with whom I shared a bunk with on my first few nights. He was an associate of mine has been availing himself of your amenities for some time, usually between stints at the local bailiff's pleasure. We had been enjoying an amicable dalliance for a time but this has recently come to a halt with my release and I don't want to risk losing touch with him again. I can't wait until the next time that special forces called out for acts of aggravated football hooliganism. He is a robust giant of a man with a shock of auburn hair and a proud mustache. He is often seen in the company of a retired bus conductor as they try to gain entrance to exclusive supper clubs in the guise of man and wife. I would appreciate your assistance in reaching him. If you would be so kind as to check his room for signs of death, flight, abduction or elopement. Perhaps a note of some kind. DO NOT APPROACH HIM. Thank you for your time.

Regards

Michael

Excerpt from "A Gentleman's Correspondence" (part the 4th)

Dear James,

Once again my morning stoop has has produced succulent fruit in the form of your most recent letter. Among my bills, subpoenas, cheeses of the month, cease and desist orders, and Modern Bride, I find a correspondence from my dear friend. Your state ordered convalescence appears to be doing you the world of good. The Good Sisters of Mercy deliver a convalescence that is both bracing and informative and once you emerge form their loving embrace all transgressions will be long forgiven and forgotten. Let us hope that angry husbands, grieving pet owners, and bitten police constables will respect your need for a quiet and gentle reintegration into polite society.

Your latest missive has awoken within me a wistful reminiscence of days long gone. Your talk of tinned pony meat takes me back to my days at St. Finbar's Home For Wayward Boys. It was there, beneath the life sized portraits, displaying in graphic detail, The Martyrdom Of St. Giuseppe of The Nine Corsets that we dined on pony meat, candied turnips, and mare's milk pudding every Sunday. Ensconced within its heavily sound proofed walls we took our lessons from the defrocked clergymen sent from diocese far and wide to mend their ways and provide guidance to young arsonists and thugs. We read aloud from Joyce in the cloistered sweat lodge. We debated finer points of scripture until our arguments, degenerating into fevered leg wrestling, left us wheezing in the thickets, bespittled and spent. And we danced. Oh how we danced James. We danced, and sang, frolicked, as nude as God made us, among the tobacco plants, bellies groaning with pony meat and steamed whelks.

It was during one of our frequent outings to the local textile mill that I met Francis Wong. He was a cross dressing, amateur wrestler and devout Catholic with dreams of playing for his beloved Cardiff Red Banjos of the heavily contested South Wales "D" League (reserves). His untimely death within the clutches of a rag separator was, I feel, memorialized fittingly when his beloved "Reds" took the coveted West Swansea Five-a-Side tournament that year when none of the other teams turned up.

Yours in wistfulness

Michael