All Entries in the "Reflections on Disorder" Category

The Tarzan and Jane Dialogues

Jane: Don’t be such a stuffed shirt, Tarzan. You haven’t seen Ward Cleaver since the war.

Tarzan: Not like Ward. Him know-it-all.

Jane: Ssssh. Here they come now. Hello June. Hello Ward. Hello boys. My the boys are getting bigger everyday.

Wally: A miracle of modern biology.

June: Now Wally that’s no way to speak at the table.

Ward: I always say, the manners learned at the dinner table will dictate the kind of man…

Wally: Shut up, Ward.

Tarzan: This wildebeast tough, June. How long dead?

Jane: Tarzan! I’m surprised at you. It’s not wildebeest. It’s fried lion.

June: Oh, that’s OK, Jane. I may have mixed up the zip-lock packages from the freezer. It does have that wildebeest texture…Hmmm, but the package clearly said cat…

Beaver: Someday I hope to be the curator of paleontology here at the community college.

Ward: Good boy, Beaver. That’s the stuff! I always say, dinner etiquette formulates later behavior patters. Why, even if a young man eats nothing but humus he can still open a can of tuna or grill a biscuit.

Wally: Kiss off, Ward.

June: Wally…

Tarzan: Wally OK, June. I used to have same problem with Cheetah until I borrow cattle prod from Ubangis.

Ward: Beaver! Get a shirt on! What’s the matter with you!

Beaver: Tarzan’s not wearing a shirt.

June: But, dear that’s part of his costume.

Wally: Yeah, Beave, like Donald Duck not wearing pants.

Ward: So, Tarzan, are you on line yet?

Tarzan: On lion?

June: Oh, Ward, don’t be silly. We’ve seen all of your films, Trazan. I particularly liked the one where the locals were chasing Jane and you called out the elephants. All that testosterone! Do apes really ride ostriches?

Wally: What a geek. Ask her about her two-piece loincloth. Pretty risqué for the Forties, wouldn’t you say?

Beaver: Thanks for dinner, mom. Can I go over to Whitey’s and read dirty magazines?

June: Yes, dear, just so long as you’ve finished your homework.

Ward: Excuse yourself, son.

Wally: He’s trying to, dad.

June: Now Wally…remember your manners.

Ward: Yes, Wally, table manners have everything to do with…

Wally: Shove it, Ward.

Ward: Well, Tarzan, let’s retire to my study and smoke cigars.

Tarzan: Not politically correct to smoke. Not politically correct to depict women as servants and domestic support entities…

Ward: Say what? This is the Fifties. It’s OK. It’s even expected.

Wally: Great humus, mom. I’m going over to Lumpy’s and shoot heroin.

June: Be home early, Wally. It’s a school night.

THE END

 

PEBBLE SOUP

IN A FUNK THIS TIME OF THE YEAR? Here’s some advice to chase away the blues: 1.) Eat breakfast naked 2.) push a junk car off a 200-foot cliff 3.) Climb to the top of a cottonwood tree and make banana sounds. 4.) Eat a screen door 5.) Seduce someone at the feedlot. 6.) Wear sexy underwear in mixed company. Like these gems? Send for a complete Funk Fighter’s Guide available from Testosterone Brothers, Boston. We’re in the Jello Pages.

 

Leaving town for  bit? We will visquine and duct tape your house in case of terrorist attack. Reasonable, bonded. Ed’s Duct Tape and Visquine Ltd., Wimpton, Colorado.

 

Get your Honorary Law Degree from Bland Valley Sand and Gavel without leaving home. Computer correspondence programs to tapered for your budget and agenda. Classes now forming for spring semester. Applicants must have suit and brief case. Car helpful.

 

Read the small print: Colorado Hunting and Fishing Licenses carry with them a two-year military commitment. Now you can put your ass on the line just like the elk and the kokanee – Your friends at the Colorado Division of Wildlife, “Surveillance in the deep woods”.

 

Desperately need official lyrics to Little Latin Loupe Lou by Friday. Reward. Blind Box 399, Horseshoe.

 

Earn your auto mechanics certificate while working toward a PhD. in clinical psychology. Too easy? Call Shrinks and Manifolds for a catalogue today.

 

We need between seven and thirty-six persons capable of giving themselves a common cold. Extensive tests. Cash paid daily. Medical insurance possible. Retirement benefits if the ledger sheet balances. DR. Simon Lackluster, St Roscoe’s Memorial Hospital, All American City Roundabout.

 

Wanted: Men to lie to me about how beautiful I am and will become. Sarah, Littleton.

 

FOR SALE/TRADE: My pride. Was caught with my hands in the cookie jar and boy is my face red. See B. Lonie Sausage in Canon City. Visiting hours are posted on the website. Send more cookies.

 

Ed’s Liver and Onion Wagon will be in your locale sooner than you may think unless the wheels freeze up. It’s cholesterol free!

 

Cleaning lady needed for local slaughterhouse. Must have good sense of humor. No vegetarians or communists please. Mel’s Meat Mall in Gunnison.

 

Wanted: Man or woman to keep an eye on our town during AA meetings through the rainy season. Room and board plus small stipend, whatever that is. Box ARE, Horseshoe.

 

Help Wanted: Scout for wagon train headed west. Must be willing to travel back in time one hundred and fifty-five years or so. Risks include Indian attacks, flash floods, chronic drought, prairie fever, mountain passes and bad food. Great pay at 1880 standards. Ward Bond look-alike preferred. Drop us a note as phones don’t exist in this fantasy. Time Warp, Nevada (no zip codes yet either).

 

Why fight rush hour traffic daily when there are innovative ways to get to work on time? Call Enselmo’s Industrial Bunjy Cord for the recreational experience of a lifetime. Cures lisps and stuttering on contact. Custom work our specialty. Mexican Gulch.

 

Bike for sale: Boy’s 114 inch, 37-speed mountain variety. Too big and mathematically challenging for junior. Will consider trade for jumping beans or anything coated with Naugahyde. Sally Spokes, Almont.

 

Grow hair for major rug company and never work again. Dial 6.

 

Bagpiping enthusiast seeks potential mate familiar with a cappella performances sans kilt. Mac at the Horseshoe.

 

Don’t forget: November 4 is the final deadline for refunds from the 2012-2013 Unused Firewood Tax Credit Act. Stop by anytime.

 

Brain irrigation wanted: For small Western Slope town. Commission only but great working conditions. Some experience helpful but will train the right person. Send resume and references to Cahone Town Hall before March 31.

 

Cut up to three strokes per hole off your handicap with Dr. Bowen’s orthopedic spikes. Available everywhere sensible shoes are sold.

 

FRIDAY NIGHT FISH FRY

(Centerville, Ohio — 1956)

Perhaps it was because my front teeth had only recently returned as viable chomping tools. Maybe it was because I hadn’t eaten since lunch, but I was hungry as hell in a room full of heaven-bound perch partisans. The large, brightly lit grade school auditorium remained rather bleak with drab tile, chilly echoes and dusty curtains, separating the saints from the sinners.

At the far north end, adjacent to the stairs were the heralded cooks…The Knights of Columbus. They looked more like the Knights of Hudepohl* sipping away at one hopped diversion that would never be declared even a venial sin. As the fish sizzled, the men of the parish drained their mugs, keeping a watchful eye on hush puppies and slaw.

Everyone smoked. This was America in the Cold War, the days of Beaver and Wally, Dwight Eisenhower, and muscle cars. Puffing was part of the admission price, I guess. This was before the great enlightenment with regards to first, second, third and fourth-hand tobacco. This was before the insurance companies, losing money on health claims, strong-armed the feds to legislate anti-smoking propaganda in schools like this one.

The scene: Humphrey Bogart takes a bullet in World War I. He’s about to go under. What does his buddy do? He puts a lit Viceroy or Chesterfield in his mouth, and tells him to hang on until the medic gets there. Bogart smiles and sucks in a lung full of smoke…

     In no time the hall was full of people wanting to eat fried fish. The cooks now had become servers and plopped the prescribed ingredients down on paper plates. The line was long but, as I said, I was quite hungry.

I looked up toward the action and saw Mr. Petrocelli serving up the fish and Mr. Schultz manning the hush puppy tray. Both had red noses and smiles. Mr. Gillhooley, a man who according to close friends even smoked in his sleep, was standing by in foggy reserve. He filled the glasses of his two colleagues and topped off his own mug for good measure.

Watching as my fellow diners found empty card tables and began to eat I became desperate. There were my mother and sister chowing down. Even my baby brother was gnawing on a piece of fish.

If I don’t get some fish soon I’m going to pass out. I caught another whiff of smoke. The wheels of a seven-year-old’s mind only turn so far. What is the attraction with this puffing? Will I smoke and act like this when I embrace adulthood? I remained perplexed as to the behavior behind the counter. Beer and cigarettes…and maybe laughter in the dark. Probably a lot of converts.

After what seemed as long as the drive across Nebraska I got close enough to pick out a piece of fish. That one, no that one, the one in the front, the big on…and more hush puppies,” I thought to myself. “I don’t remember when I was this hungry. I hope they don’t run out before I can land seconds.”

As I shuffled next to the serving table a terrible thing happened. Mr. Petrocelli switched jobs with Mr. Gillhooley, and Mr. Schultz was  up to his elbows in flour and grease. Now the lineup read: Mr. Petrocelli on slaw, with a pinch hitter called in to bat for Mr. Schultz, who had now switched to Schoenling**. By the time I arrived at the head of the line it was Mr. Gillhooley serving up the fish.

I watched in awe as he lit another cigarette. It seemed instinctual, even for a semi-polite seven-year-old to let a few people ahead of me. It was the Christian thing to do. That cigarette… Go ahead Mrs. Gmaz. After you Mrs. Higgins. You were here first Mr. McDuffy…No I’m sure. Please go ahead. The ash got longer. It looked like the beginnings of another Ash Wednesday on his lip. He’s gonna drop it. No. It’s holding firm. Gravity has got to make a play…It’s getting longer. It’s gonna drop right into the batter…It’s gonnna drop into the slaw.

By now my hunger had subsided. Mr. Gillhooley’s cigarette ash now measured about four inches. If he spoke or wiggled his face the thing would have to fall into the plate of some righteous diner. God help us if there’s an earthquake or a sonic boom!

Not taking any chances, I backed up so as to vacate the line that I had once held so dear.

The ash hung there, like a parched worm, like a burned out firecracker.

“Drop! Drop!” I urged silently. “Drop Gilhooley ash! Drop ash of Satan!”

“Wait! Kid, don’t you want some fish?” said Gillhooley, turning abruptly,  his cigarette ash floating harmlessly to the floor.

“Sure, Mr Gillhooley,” I said, recovering.

“Aren’t you Walt’s boy? Now there’s a fine gentlemen if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Thank you, sir,” I muttered, checking my fish for dark intrusions. It looked all right. As I walked away from the serving line my appetite miraculously returned. Even though the hush puppies were cold and the cole slaw was warm the meal went down fine.

I made it back into line for seconds thanking divine providence that the good nuns had not been invited to witness this impious fish fry.

– Kevin Haley

* a beer brewed in Cincinnati

**another beer brewed in the Queen City (Cincinnati)

 

UMPS INSTRUCTED TO SHORTEN GAME

(New Jork) Baseball Brahmans here, fearing a drop in fan interest due to lengthy games, have once again turned up the heat on Major League umpires. The latest suggestions include reducing the size of the field, limiting behavior while the ball is not in play and terminating other age old traditions in an attempt to pasteurize the sport.

Insiders confirm that there is a move afoot to shorten the distances between the bases and between the mound and home plate. This would, according to anxious supporters, speed things up at all corners and give the pitcher a better advantage over the batter.

“If this doesn’t work we can always make the fences taller and add a few more outfielders,” said Pee Wee Drysdale, former owner/manager of the Grand Junction Ferrets, a now defunct Armenian Association franchise. “Another idea is to eliminate the dugouts. Do you know how long it takes for the average player to climb those few steps and trot back out onto the field at the change of an inning?”

Other plans involve speeding up play by limiting neurotic keystone habits such as giving multiple signs and issuing intentional walks.

“We feel that a manager or coach can get by with a minimum of three to four signs per inning,” explained Drysdale, “and limit his mound visits to weekends only. Anything else is just mindless repetition.”

On the subject of intentional walks Drysdale was adamant in his critique of this wasteful procedure saying that the current practice was simply a tedious pantomime that resulted in exactly the same situation whether four balls were actually hurled or not.

“How many times have you ever seen a decision to walk a player changed after the count reached 3 balls and no strikes?”

In conclusion, for the time being, Drysdale praised efforts on the part of progressive owners to do away with silly traditions such as stolen bases and check throws which he says waste more than 117 hours during the course of a season.

“I don’t see why we can’t limit throws over to first base or pitch-outs to two per inning,” he shruggedl. “Is that oppressive? What about limiting stolen bases to night games only? That would speed things up.”

Calling baseball traditionalists “moldy throwbacks to another time” Drysdale  insisted that the game must keep pace with changes in society if it is to survive another century.

“Take the practice of the home run hitter jogging around the base paths after doing his dirty work. It reminds me of the ancient Roman gladiators,” he laughed. “What are they hoping to achieve? Are they waiting for thumbs up or to be showered with flowers? I think they should have a time limit to get the hell off the field and get on with the show.”

One reporter responded by agreeing in part with the new plan but raised the question of how the league would schedule the multitude of commercials slotted on radio and television broadcasts.

Drysdale’s response was swift and to the point.

“Just run the ad spots while the first batter is in the box. They usually don’t do anything all that exciting anyway and if they happen to we always have instant replay.”

– Kashmir Horseshoe

 

UFO REPORT

by Zelbrat Acknor, Astral World Three

Welcome children of the universe and our new readers in the Twor and Hakka Bennie Galaxies. As you all are aware we have been observing the residents of the planet Earth since the first Sputnik entered what they refer to as Outer Space. To update you on the situation here, we must first describe the daily rituals of humans living in a country called the United States.

This culture has succeeded in not only destroying most of the atmosphere, but it has also exported its ideals to other parts of the planet. The result of all this is the choking off of the air supply and the termination of millions of indigenous species. In short, the planet earth has achieved the status of damaged goods in comparison to the more progressive planets and stars. All this destruction has occurred within a very short time span, even in earthling terms.

These things have come to pass so as to acquire what these creatures call worldly goods. The amazing thing is that, although the planet is shared by all beings, only a small percentage of these people control most of the wealth. An innate ability deep in the heart of this phenomenon called rationalization allows these beings to perform in this way. Ironically, it is this same ability to rationalize that is said to separate these humans from the other primates and lower forms of plant and animal life. According to human mythology, that difference designates the human as clearly superior and accounts for the miserable treatment handed down.

The average human here begins his day with an assortment of government-approved drugs, rushes off to a job, and, according to some remote norm, spends the greater part of his/her day at that often tedious pursuit. After that time, or, as the humans say, when the whistle blows, they are set free to endure hours of electronic entertainment via an evil inventions until they retire to recharge for the night.

Another recent human invention, the Hubble Telescope, has been busy taking pictures, like one massive intergalactic Japanese tourist. Luckily, due to some twisted sense of vanity, most of the snapshots are of the self-absorbed earth itself and scientists there still don’t know we’re out here.

One saving grace is that the temporary occupants of this planet have shown themselves to be rather charming on a one-to-one basis and I have to admit that I find them generally warm and amusing if not loving and creative.

Although there has been talk of condemning this planet to the stellar wrecking ball, observers, including the 2 million alien space travelers now residing there, suggest that we take a wait-and-see approach to this mindless planetary drooling and doodling. Later, when another century or two has passed, we can decide on the final fate of this former Eden.

It is our fervent hope that we can open up lines of communication with the rat and the cockroach, two harmless groups who have exhibited the ability to withstand brutal human assaults since the last hurrah of the dinosaur. These two species have not been guilty of this stumble-bum ecological suicide and should be treated with respect by those who would intervene at a later stage. These scurrying survivalists, it is supposed, might even withstand a nuclear annihilation the type that has not been seen since the Cosmos Forty War, which, like a good bump on the head, seemed to corral stubborn mavericks throughout the Universe.

That’s about that for this month. We’ll be back again unless the earthlings accelerate their activities and cease to be, thus solving another riddle in our rich, scattered megacosm.

 

Psyched Out with Doctor Edwin Whom, Phd.

Regional Hatred Healthy

Although it gets a lot of bad press, regional hostility can be quite productive. For one thing it defines a common enemy and allows for families and villages to pull together without a lot of petty bickering among the leaders and a lot of distrust of approved neighbors on a daily basis. A tranquil village is a happy village and all without therapeutic drugs.

Regional hatred also promotes the creation of many functional cells of ex-patriots in places like Paris and New York. Without bigotry and anger many of these people might be stuck in their crummy villages without the slightest chance to see the world. It is in this way that the defeated culture can export its thoughts and philosophies while keeping the lid on things back home.

Perhaps the most important advantage to be gained from the ethnic and racial hatred is in the field of culinary art. Clannish and ethnic elitism is partly responsible for most of the regional cuisines in a place like China, for instance. How do you think the distinction between Hunan and Szechwan came about? What about northern and southern Italian food or Equatorial and South Chicago Soul Food?

This is not to imply that ethnic hostilities always result in better groceries. Despite all the problems they have created over the years the British, somehow, were not blessed with a cuisines of their own, so they stole from the Irish.

Another benefit of regional hatred comes in the form of a boon to the flag business. The more different warring factions in the field the more flags are sold. Some 13,000 flags in

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