James Monroe
Was the last
Pres-i-dent
To wear a white wig
He died in New York
Broken and broke
But unlike Millard Fillmore
He did not become a Whig
The Diogenes Club
Saturday, September 7, 2013
Gizzards
He was a tall, lanky young fellow, this specimen standing next to me at the gas station minimart. Probably about 30. Short hair, glasses, ears that could be used for radar. He had a cartoonish overbite. He looked like he was dressed for an occupation in some office.
Next to us was a glass enclosure where food items were for sale. Most of them were deep fried, meaning the consumables were immersed in boiling hot fat. Then they sat under heat lamps until such time as a customer requested one. Several of the deep fried products were originally pigs or chickens that had been killed, cut up, deep fried, and assigned a price.
A clerk asked what the young man wanted. Without hesitation he said, almost with a sense of pride, "Gizzards, please!"
Gizzards. Some part of an animal, probably poultry in this case, that vaguely has some function involving digestion. Never before had I heard the word "gizzards" uttered in a public place with such gusto. This meant the young man had to actually build up some extra energy in his lungs before exhaling the word that would bring him what he desired. And his desire must have been strong. For gizzards.
I wonder why.
The clerk went to the enclosed case, removed some deep fried gizzards, and placed them in a small black plastic bag. The young man was told the price, he paid it, and then confidently strode out of the store with his small black plastic bag of deep fried gizzards.
A couple minutes later I drove past him as he was walking down the street, eating the food that was now his by virtue of the fact he had traded tokens of his labor for it. He had a blankly pleased expression, like he was happy but possibly unaware he was happy.
I wonder if, after we die, there is someone around to explain some of the mysteries of life we had experienced.
Next to us was a glass enclosure where food items were for sale. Most of them were deep fried, meaning the consumables were immersed in boiling hot fat. Then they sat under heat lamps until such time as a customer requested one. Several of the deep fried products were originally pigs or chickens that had been killed, cut up, deep fried, and assigned a price.
A clerk asked what the young man wanted. Without hesitation he said, almost with a sense of pride, "Gizzards, please!"
Gizzards. Some part of an animal, probably poultry in this case, that vaguely has some function involving digestion. Never before had I heard the word "gizzards" uttered in a public place with such gusto. This meant the young man had to actually build up some extra energy in his lungs before exhaling the word that would bring him what he desired. And his desire must have been strong. For gizzards.
I wonder why.
The clerk went to the enclosed case, removed some deep fried gizzards, and placed them in a small black plastic bag. The young man was told the price, he paid it, and then confidently strode out of the store with his small black plastic bag of deep fried gizzards.
A couple minutes later I drove past him as he was walking down the street, eating the food that was now his by virtue of the fact he had traded tokens of his labor for it. He had a blankly pleased expression, like he was happy but possibly unaware he was happy.
I wonder if, after we die, there is someone around to explain some of the mysteries of life we had experienced.
Friday, September 6, 2013
Bil Keane Statue
A statue of Bil will be dedicated on Nov. 8 in Scottsdale, Arizona (I would so like to be there) and possibly a museum will be built covering his life and work.
Here's the article.
The Business of Guns
View The Business of Guns, click here
Minute MBA has a very nice and nonpartisan short video on the gun industry in the United States.
My own interpretation is that U.S. gun ownership is a measure of our own paranoia as a nation. Maybe in the past pioneer era having a deadly weapon was useful, but in Century 21 private gun ownership is not about freedom, it is about fear.
As for hunters, they can use crossbows, that way it'll be a real sport.
Two links to clarify:
Watercolor series: Since I originally posted this, I have moved more solidly into the gun control camp. The more I read about Americans shooting each other, the more I welcome the day when the NRA is considered the terrorist organization it is and gets shut down. What they are promoting is destroying our country.
Cold Dead Hand: The Jim Carrey video that riled up Fox and the NRA. Go Jim!
Morty Comix # 2641
Postcard - Sanibel Island, Florida
1960s.
Favorite Movie Quotes: Stagecoach
"I'm not only a philosopher, sir, I'm a fatalist. Somewhere, sometime,
there may be the right bullet or the wrong bottle waiting for Josiah
Boone. Why worry when or where?"
Thursday, September 5, 2013
Morty Comix # 2640
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
The George W. Bush Song
George W. Bush is a moron
He helped Dick Cheney's friends get richer yet
If you were poor he just piled more on
And took away the social safety net.
MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!
He was in way over his head.
And Americans wound up dead
Looking for weapons of mass destruction
that didn't exist.
MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!
He stole the Gore election
The stocks went tank-o-rama
And after seven years
He never caught Osama.
MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!
And although I am not trying
To sound any meaner
He did a heck of job
With Hurricane Katrina.
MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!
George W. Bush wrecked our country
I hope he's happy painting dogs and cats
And if his brother Jeb wins the White House
Ladies and gentlemen, hang on to your hats!
MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!
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Morty Comix # 2639
Phone photo 2779
It is rather difficult to see from the ground, but in this James Abbott mural on the back of the old Rhodes Grocery, he portrayed one of the many "soiled doves" that held a prominent place in the history of this Wild West company town.
McCleary, Washington
Postcard - Daytona Beach, Florida
1960s
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Confidence
The Chester Alan Arthur Song
O Chest Chest Arthur
O Chester Arthur
O Chest Chest Chest Arthur
O Chester, Ah-Lawn, Arthurrrrrrrrr
He learned that Roscoe was a louse
He sold the furniture in the White House
He was a dandy, his duds weren't old and worn
And it is quite possible he wasn't native born.
And when he walked into a room
Everybody said,
"Who?'
O Chester Arthur
O Chest Chest Arthur
O Chester Arthur
O Chest Chest Chest Arthur
O Chester, Ah-Lawn, Arthurrrrrrrrr
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