‘Twas the week before Christmas, and grocers grew fey,
As they set out their produce in cheery display
In which veggies foreshadow the Birth of the Lord
With a Rudolph the Red-Nosed made out of a gourd,
It was captured by Mrs N. Work with her phone
As she shopped for potatoes and fresh provolone,
And repurposed to say have a most Happy New
Year, and Merriest Christmas. Yours, Nice W.
There once was a man called Assange
Whose name did not rhyme with mélange.
“You must say it,” he said,
“Not like ‘mange’ but instead
“Like the Congolese river, Ubangi.”
From William Shakespeare’s Life of King Barry I, Act 4, Scene iii
O that we now had here
But one ten thousand of those men (or women)
That are out of work back in the U.S.!
KING OBAMA the FIRST:
What’s he that wishes so?
My servant McChrystal? Er, no, I mean Petraeus:
If they are mark’d to die, they’re enow
To do your country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men (or women), the easier to sideline and dismiss
As victims of post-traumatic stress disorder.
No, faith, lackey, wish not a man (or woman) or woman (or man) more:
Rather proclaim it, Petraeus, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him be interviewed by the Times.
He that outlives Afghanistan, and comes safe home,
He that ignores the recommendations of our VA deathbook and sees old age,
Will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.
And say ‘These wounds I had in Mazar-i Sharif.’
And the VA Admin will blink and wonder “Who? What? Where’s that?”
Old men (or women) forget: Kabul shall be forgot,
But some Oath Keepers will remember
What feats they did there: then shall our names,
Familiar in his (or her) mouth as barnyard words are in ours:
Barry the king, Gibbs the Jester and Axelrod,
Pelosi and Reid, Barney and Durbin,
Be in their flowing curses freshly remember’d.
Those few, those unlucky few, that band of outsiders;
For he (or she) to-day that sheds his (or her) blood in this
Illegal conflict I inherited from Bad King George
Shall be an outsider — Be he (not she) ne’er so vile,
One of my Czars shall manage to vilify him further:
And Democrat men now a-bed with each other
Shall think them accursed who were there,
And hold each other’s manhoods whiles any speaks
That languished in Afghan upon Saint Crispin’s Day.
For the original version of Henry V’s Saint Crispin’s Day (October 25) speech to the troops before the Battle of Agincourt, go HERE.
You have been looking a little blue lately. At first I thought, hypothermia. But your condition has gone on too long to be that, and besides, your core temperature is normal. Further observation strongly suggests that the cause of your cyanosis is clinical depression. You need emergency cheering up.
My first thought was to buy you a happy mylar balloon. Always does the trick. I faced a problem though. Namely, how would I get it to you? There was no way. At least not physically. Neither of us exist. But, despite that obstacle, perhaps there was a way…
The Plan: find a cheerful balloon at the flower display in Ralph’s Fine Foods, take a photo of it and post the picture here, right here on the Web.
I am a man of action. With me, to think is to do. I sprinted right over to the nearest Ralph’s and spotted a really nice monkey balloon. LOOK!
Ah. I can tell by your merry whistling that your mood has improved. It’s tuneless and annoying, but better than the baying like a hound with which you’ve disturbed the sleep of your neighbors these many days past. If it slips into a minor key, or stops altogether, I will post another, more potent seratonin reuptake inhibitor: a photo of a mylar Spongebob.
The ritzy, hoity-toity stretch of Mulholland Drive that wiggles along the ridge between Bel Air and Sherman Oaks may have its Lenos and Sheens and even its David Lynch car crashes, but our humble little offshoot here on the wrong side of the mountain has charms all its own. For one thing, there is a couch on which you may sit absolutely free.
But if that sort of public display disgusts you, you are under no obligation to stay. Leave. Please. Just go. Continue west/northwest and hang a left onto the 101. Head westward until you reach the Moorpark exit where you will do just that, then motor north for half a mile and park at Mimi’s Cafe. Inside you will find mumbling waitresses, coffee poured into your tea, food better left to itself, and, there on the wall, a mural by none other than Syd Hoff (1912—2004) whom you may best remember as the author/illustrator of Danny and the Dinosaur.
Posted in Delights, L.A., Public Weal
Tagged Charlie Sheen, Couch, Danny and the Dinosaur, David Lynch, Jay Leno, Mimi's Cafe, Mulholland Drive, Sofa, Syd Hoff
Friends don’t let friends make midnight refrigerator raids while driving drunk, but in this case, nobody really knew each other, so a car driving into a kitchen last night is perhaps just within the bounds of propriety. Here’s the story with a picture of the munchie-maddened SUV wedged halfway into a house just a few blocks from the NiceWork News Bureau Home Office: CLICK FOR CRASH PIX N FAX.
After smashing two parked cars, the SUV was understandably hungry and had its nose stuck in the fridge where it foraged for snacks.
But here at NiceWork, the Weblog of Southern California Life ‘n’ Culture, we don’t rely on KTLA for our reportage. We ourselves, unshaven and hair uncombed, hastened to the scene with our camera and captured the aftermath of last night’s bacchanal:
Nor were we alone. Unsleeping television news crews were already on the job, shooting and broadcasting from one of those vans with the cable coiling up a twenty foot mast. Unfortunately, the camera lady seemed unable to find the house where a gaping façade remained as a grim reminder of careless parking after the naughty automobile had been hauled off to car jail.
Is this the future of automobiles crashing into houses in Los Angeles? Only time will tell…
I read a book last night, but I’m not going to tell you about it. My pleasure in the book, which was great, must remain undiluted. It will ever be mine and mine alone. At the very least, I won’t have to share it with you.
There’s the pretty little book now, on the shelf, gleaming, unsullied by your squinting eyes or prying fingers. I would sooner burn it than let you know so much as its title.
Go find a book of your own. Stop pretending to be helpless. Buy a book and a chair. Sit in the chair and read the book, or read as much as you have patience for. Then you can write a “review” of it and the world will thank you.
Charles Bukowski wrote one final novel, Pulp, in nineteen-ninety-something, then died.
Last week, or maybe last month, I read it. Nobody made me read it. Nobody tried to stop me from reading it. I live in the USA, not in Canada or Iran.
You want to read it? Be my guest. You want to pan fry it and eat it with asparagus? Have at it.
Pulp, a pastiche of detective fiction, is the least gross obscene of all Bukowski’s novels. Or maybe Hollywood is. Tough call.
Did it make me laugh? Well, yeah, sure; Bukowski was a funny guy before he died. Now his books are funny. But what difference does it make to you whether I laughed at Pulp or not? You don’t know me. For all you know I laugh at damage to squirrels. Maybe you laugh at damage to squirrels. I don’t care one way or the other.
Or call me Lester Mizzerabulls. Here’s where I spent the portion of my morning normally given over to surface-dwelling:
No, not to elude Javert, though I was cautious not to draw the attention of zealous inspectors of the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power. In fact, I climbed down into the bowels of L.A. to retrieve a cat — our stupidest cat, Thomas the Cat — who, evidently lured by the siren sound of scampering rats, had dropped through the curbside opening into the deep concrete drain, and was trapped.
I offered a plank for him to climb out on. He blinked at it a moment and returned his attention to the whispers coming out of a tunnel angling downward into a murky region where the living are envied. Either he did not understand the plank’s purpose, or understood perfectly well but preferred to remain in an environment not at all repugnant to his feline sensibilities. He would not come to me. I had to go to him.
Sewer covers are surprisingly heavy objects, unsuitable for the frisbee fun of mere mortals, but not immovable by a determined man with a garden tool. The problem of how to lower my great self to cat level nagged me until the cover slid aside and sunlight pierced the cloacal depths. Ah!. The manhole comes equipped with a built-in ladder. I used it, once descending burdenless, and once again, this time ascending with a scrawny, imbecilic, protesting cat.
All before breakfast, too. But, to draw a cheerful moral, a day begun in this way can only get better.
They agitate our kitties from the valley next door. They gibber like scary girl-ghosts at night. They dare prowl the streets by day.
They are the coyotes of California. And their days are numbered.
Well, their haunches are numbered anyhow. Behold my new stealth missile launcher:
I call it the Varminator. The varmints will soon call it “The Invisible God That Spanks My Butt at Night.” They want to howl? I’ll give the devils reason to howl.
Morgan the Penguin and Bjorn the Gnome already know the power of the Varminator. Soon the world will know.