fishpond: a prophecy

Will Rogers

2011-04-01T14:49:00.005+11:00

Will Rogers
November 4, 1879 - August 15, 1935

Early in my Extreme Traumatic Brain Injury recovery phase (which I am still in), I began a new collection of free, public domain poems, called 'Brummer Striving' (and also the freebook 'Microminibliss'). This poem, inspired by Rogers' life, it's my aim to put in 'Brummer Striving'. I intend that before long will be seen all of that varied collection, in my Poetry pages at wilsonsalmanac.com.

Only a few American comics do it for me.
But I like Mark Twain and Will Rogers.
In 1893 Will toured Australia doing rope tricks in Wirth Brothers' Circus.
Mark Twain was here for months and saw Woolgoolga.

I’m not too afraid of death any more.
Not even too afraid of getting old.
But paper cuts suck.
Maybe he saw Toormina.
I even like circuses, but I can’t say anything witty about them.
Not like Will could have.
I never met a man I didn’t like.
I never met Will anyway,
and a handful of men I’m not crazy about.
I never met a woman I didn’t like.
Though a handful of women I’m not crazy about.
And I never met a tit I didn’t like
Even if, to tell the truth,
I’m not crazy about one or two.
I like them long, straight, curly, fuzzy, snaggy, shaggy, ratty, matty
Oily, greasy, fleecy, shining, gleaming, streaming, flaxen, waxen
Knotted, polka dotted, twisted, beaded, braided
Powered, flowered and confettied
Bangled, tangled, spangled and spaghettied.

You picked it like a nose.
I’m a bit more scared of getting old than I let on.
’Cause we’re all loved more young, young, young.
And of writing poetry that doesn’t rhyme.
It’s so hard to get into the poetriati,
Whether you do or don’t rhyme,
Though in this blip of history,
Rhyme’s no joy and it’s for the hoi polloi.
That doesn’t rhy … Shit. Slip of the … Oh shit!

Years ago, before economic rationalism added to irrationality,
A mate of mine worked in a bank. Once a week he put up the date. That’s it.
He might have had some client like me, cuz I check the date a few times a day.
Because I intend to become a poet.
Best on my CV: I wouldn’t work in an iron lung.
Dad’s always said that the best thing about his nature is
He knows when to stop skiting.
And I’ll go before I start.

Fridge

2010-02-28T04:05:00.002+11:00

Fridge

Oh God, here I go again bitchin’.
There’s a bad smell somewhere in my kitchen,
A bloody horrible pong
And I think it’s coming from my fridge.
But before you say I’m a nong,
I cleaned out that appliance
A week ago,
And three days ago so did my flatmate,
So that’s that, mate.
Unless there was unmentioned noncompliance
Which I doubt.
I mean, it’s not really rocket science.
I should be able to work it out.
But are we, all of us
Us and our fridge,
Really being ridgy didge?

Feminista

2010-02-22T14:48:00.000+11:00

Oh, oh, oh, I hate to be cruel.
People who know me know I am a fool,
But that I am not cruel. I am many wicked things, but I am not cruel.
I am one, I know, but scarcely the other.
But I would rather be unkind to 100 bastards
Than see a thousand million good people suffer.

If I, or my friends, are ever again raped
In body or spirit, or both,
By a feminista,
Till we cringe, cryless, hot and hurt in our dry and uncaring beds,
While the sisterhood giggles and phones their friends
For a good old chinwag
About our weakness, and the things men never did for humanity,
And how silly we are for promising to stand between a bullet and you out of loyalty,
Then my hope is this:
That each feminista will punch it, punch it, punch it up her arse,
Punch it up her arse till all her ideology and clever paperbacks and sublimated selfishness wither like dried vulva, like figs gone dry that you chuck on the compost heap.
And may they be cursed with man children
Who, like I, adore women whose hearts
Are as good as men's, and
Have not been formed in their early years
By other demented women who say that the gene of the male is inferior.
Such women who dared to say,
As was said by a 19th century hero of mine,
Elizabeth Cady Stanton,
"We are, as a sex, infinitely superior to men."
Oh, Elizabeth, Elizabeth, if only I could meet you downtown, shout you a coffee, and in ten minutes rearrange your mental brain cells.
I know you are intelligent enough to chat with me.
I’ve always considered you so.

Or as Germaine Greer proudly said,
"As far as I'm concerned, men are the product of a damaged gene. They pretend to be normal but what they're doing sitting there with benign smiles on their faces is they're manufacturing sperm."
Germaine, you are the godmother of one of my dearest mates.
But even most women now think you are a germ. Grow up.

Or as feminista goddess Andrea Dworkin wrote,
"Rape is the primary emblem of romantic love".

Or as Erica Jong said, when she was not pontificating about Fear of Flying (like a dreaded Roman pontiff, who is almost as rich as Erica),
"I believe that women are the more spiritually advanced sex".
How surprised must we be that two of your four husbands, Erica, worked at US military bases in Germany
Or as American divorce lawyers?
Erica, let us arm wrestle on spiritual advancement.
Oh, Erica, Erica. And for all your rampant sexism, you still have publishing contracts and, no doubt, mansions in Manhattan, Waikiki and Malibu.
I could raise a family off 3% of the interest of just one of the caretaker’s flats at one of your feminista palaces, which you bought through the propagation of sex hatred.
Well done, O oppressed one.

And still, each day, we of truth must struggle against the lies of the feministas
Until, gods and goddesses willing, the fabulous, horn-raising tits of the feminazis
Will dry up like the milkless dugs
Of ancient, uncared-for bitch dogs,
buzzing with scabies and blowflies,
like old cow pads
On the poisoned farms of humanity.
(Huwomanity.)
And we men will attend to them by day and by night.
While their men and baby victims
And what is right
And true
And kind
And generous
And understanding
And non-ideological
And non-sophomoric
And capable of conversation that can rise above a man’s chest,
And far more intelligent and well read
Than the chatterocracy of Murdoch's millionaire cunt-rags,
And fair-minded
To the achievements and soft hearts and divine dreams
And pillow-drenching losses
Of MEN – most men, who,
As the minority of the population,
were but the minority of the electors who voted
To invade Afghanistan and Iraq –
for absolutely no discernible reason but racism
And oil for the four-wheel drive cars in which
Erica and Germaine's protegés pick their kids up from school because the wee angels mustn't get their PRECIOUS little wings wet,
And for WHO Magazine celebrities and the Women's Weekly,
And the female majority of voters who kill in Iraq and Afghanistan 1.3 million innocent men, woman and children …
AND MEN AND WOMEN'S BABIES.

Men who rise high above the three generations of silly, unlearned, angry – and proudly angry – harpies
Whose rhetoric floats u[on the polluted winds of truth and prejudice,
Like weed-seeds of Crofton weed and privet and lantana, which men will dig out
With sweat and blisters and blood dripping down their arms,
Without time to sit and watch Oprah, or do tummy exercises.
Men with hope that their baby boys and darling daughters might have food on their tables, and real milk to drink,
Preferably from goddess tits,
But more likely chemicals from plastic bottles that protect sad, sad, falling bosoms, fun-bags about which men no longer even contemplate without laughter and derision ...

And may those new babies become strong, and true,
And never sear their hearts to wanton untruths.
And lies. And cant. And cruelty. And utter, utter, utter silliness, illogicality and straight-out bullshit.

Because we did not do this to you – not in our generation.
You did this to us.
You did this to us. And because we are men, we will use our brains and find a way to undo it.
And for all our faults, our innocence was like the soft part of an oyster shell
That a good oyster shucker knows where to strike.
And you shucked us good, real good.
Oh boy, you shucked us real good.

Shuck you.

And in time, we shall all forgive,
Because men and women are a forgiving race, even after the truth is told.
But we have a way to go, because you are not as ready as we, methinks.
You are not as ready as we.
Sadly, you are not as ready as men.
Maybe when we are old.

This One’s For the Hippies (to Misty)

2010-02-11T12:32:00.000+11:00

This is one for the hippies,
Derided for their passion,
Who warned about climate change
Forty years before the fashion.

Who couldn't get into clubs
Even when they rarely had a dollar –
Blokes ejected at the door
If their hair even touched their collar.

Men and women bashed on city streets
Because of their flamboyance
And love of life and Nature,
For their precognition and clairvoyance.

Let's hear it for the hippies
For decades taken for granted
And mocked because they called this globe
Not 'the world', but 'your precious Planet'.

This one's for the hippies
Society's whipping boy.
This one's for the hippies
Who bosses wouldn’t employ.

It's for those who talked of cycle power,
Alternative fuels, and co-ops for food.
Who sweated to make workers' co-ops,
And land co-ops … not that it did much good.

Who could see that every suburban block
Didn't need fifty washing machines.
Who believed in evolution
While Neanderthals vented their spleen.

Those who accepted being the laughingstock
Because they knew we must save the trees,
And, decades before governments announced it,
Exclaimed, "You’ve nearly killed the seas!".

So this one's for the hippies,
Who were 99 per cent right –
And it's to the five per cent of them
Who stayed true and didn’t shirk the fight.

To those who conspire and dream and scheme
And for humanity spend their lives,
And who generally die well burnt-out,
From unpaid activism, around about sixty-five.

So this one's for the hippies
Who, the older that they get
See daily vindication in every nation,
With immense pride, far too busy for regret.

Categories: hippie, yippie, alternative

Thora Girl

2008-05-16T10:25:00.006+10:00

(Homage to 'Galway Girl' by Steve Earl)

Well, I was walking down by Boggy Creek
Yippy yi yi yi yi yay
I saw a pretty girl and she did speak
Yippy yi yi yippy yi yay
And I ask you, friend, what's a bloke to do
'Cause her hair was black and her eyes were blue
And I knew right then I'd be takin' a whirl
At the Thora Hall with a Thora girl

We walked to the river where the creek runs in
Yippy yi yi yi yi yay
And she showed me where the platypus swims
Yippy yi yi yippy yi yay
And I ask you, friend, what's a fella to do
'Cause her eyes were black and her hair was blue
So I took her hand and I gave her a twirl
And I lost my heart to a Thora girl

But I was too scared to speak to the Thora girl
So I looked at the river and acted cool
And I ask you now, tell me what you’d do
If her hair was black and her eyes were blue
I've travelled around this great big world
But I ain't seen nothin' like a Thora girl
No, I ain't seen no one like the Thora girl

Bellingen song

2008-05-16T10:25:00.002+10:00

Flow down the river,
Hmmm, purple haze.
Flow down the river.
Here is where I'll spend my days.

The rockets' red glare will not touch me,
And I will become pure and free.
I will kiss this green land as my country
An ancestor, I will be.

And the sting of the city won't hurt me
I will fly with the black cockatoo
And the song of my youth won't desert me
And my vision will stay strong and true.

I'm in Bellingen
I'm in Bellingen
I'm an ancestor
Strong and true.

In the flood, and in the bright dawning
Around my strong fire and the dew
I will breathe in the mist of the morning
And my vision will stay strong and true.

I am Bellingen
I am Bellingen
I'm an ancestor
Strong and true.

Bello Ramble

2007-10-25T14:11:00.000+10:00

Oh this is what it’s like sometimes
oh this is how it goes.
A wild colonial boy
in the Bellingen ‘Truman Show’.
and this is what it’s like sometimes
and this is how it goes.

And it’s endless sky and it’s mists of grey
and we must do it again.
And it’s hi-yi-yi and it’s hi-yi-yay
for don’t we love Bellingen?

My first wife was the Hyde St clock,
for I said she was always wrong.
I said I was off to the crossroads
she said she couldn’t come along.
And just sometimes I get it right –
think it’s the times I do it alone.

My second wife was the footpath
on the east of Lavender’s Bridge
’cause she was on the wrong side.
Thank Christ we didn’t have kids.
Something she said split us apart
and something that I did.

I remember there on Hyde St
I was in the greengrocer’s shop
it was about 19-and-76,
the grocer he leapt up,
lowered the roller door with a crash
I wondered what was up.

And it’s endless sky and it’s mists of grey
and we must do it again.
And it’s hi-yi-yi and it’s hi-yi-yay
for don’t we love Bellingen?

And all was dark within that store
and by the spuds stood I,
and the grocer peeked out through a crack
until the funeral passed by.
When Mrs Reid’s cortège had passed
he flung the shutters high.

And I looked out into the street,
for Mrs Reid the town was shut
till shopkeeper after shopkeeper
opened all the shop doors up.
For that was how it was my friends
and on that I won’t shut up.

And it’s endless sky and it’s mists of grey
and we must do it again.
And it’s hi-yi-yi and it’s hi-yi-yay
for don’t we love Bellingen?

And my third wife was the Bellinger
’cause she was new but old.
My fourth wife was September
for she was hot and cold.
My fifth wife I remember
took my silver for her gold.

And my sixth wife was a black cockatoo
whose cry said rain was coming.
My seventh I called the valley,
she set my heart a humming
she set my heart a humming
a billion cicadas drumming!

And it’s endless green and it’s endless blue,
at the wharf the cedar’s still loading.
And lay me down with corroboree
and remember my heart exploding
for this deep soil and my youthful toil
and may I leave nothing owing.

And it’s endless sky and it’s mists of grey
and we must do it again.
And it’s hi-yi-yi and it’s hi-yi-yay
for don’t we all love Bellingen?

Le end

2007-01-13T20:12:00.000+11:00

This blog is closing. See you at Wilson's Blogmanac.

The Legend of le Tuff: (9) Man of Constant Travels

2006-07-13T22:17:00.000+10:00

Baz le Tuff, always full of surprises!

I hadn't seen the chap for some time, when this note came from him yesterday, scribbled in a girlish but commanding hand on the reverse side of an artful photograph:

"Wilson,

I trust you haven't forgotten your friend, mentor and heliotrope.

"I have been travelling the world for the first time in months, and forgot to inform you of my passage. I do beg your forgiveness.

"Sardinia was marvellous, and my fishing for catamite very sucessful. Greece -- plenty of Greek. Wish you could have come.

"Toronto -- lives up to its name! Now I can see why they called it that.

"Been snapping a few. Here's one of the CNN Tower.

"More when I get a chance.

"Cheers, old man.

"le Tuff"

Oh, le Tuff! What a character! What a pity he won't join flickr ... just because they leave the 'e' out. Oh well, who can argue with genius?

To Mr C Green, me mate who's a bit crook

2006-05-26T18:16:00.000+10:00

It's not easy bean a human bean, for life can be a bitch
As I often find when bludgers knock me just for bein' rich.
It's not easy when a camel kicks you in the bloody spleen –
And I'm bloody sick and tired of it!
And it's not easy bein' green.

It ain't no fun to be an Eskimo when they spell it with a 'q'.
It's a bugger being a Paddo ponce when the alimony's due.
It's not easy being a lentil tossed into a soup tureen.
It's hard to be a bonza bloke!
And it's not easy bein' green.

I tell you it's hard to be a gentleman when the world is bloody mean.
Any king would feel that keenly, more especially his queen.
Being debonair is hard to do when it's a deviation from the mean.
It's even hard to wash your underpants!
And it's not easy bein' green.

I mean it's hard to wash your underpants in the kitchen bloody sink.
That's what I meant. Because it makes your sheila cranky and the crockerary stink.
That's why I recommend some kind of washing thingo type of machine.
Ah, it's a burden being brilliant!
And can be a bummer bein' green.

You know it's hard to be about 60 and it's hard to be 16.
Yeahhh, and it's hard to be a sheila like that one I nearly rooted once, Charlene.
Cause in about another 30 years or so her back'll hurt like mine, know what I mean?
It's hard to have enormous jugs.
And it was never easy bein' green.

Far and few, far and few, are the lands where the jumblies live.
So they tell me. It's a bleedin nuisance, I wanted them to give
A hand while I try to tork into this fancy recordin' machine.
It isn't easy being half mad,
And it's not easy bein' this particular shade of pink.

I know a bloke in Sydney-town, up there on Bungan Head.
He lords it over all the world with the rantin's in his 'ead.
He's got a bonza missus, she's so patient and serene.
He's plugged into every-bloody-thing except a dialysis machine.
He's a funny cove, does a good cabaret comedy routine,
Sort of a cross between Humphrey Bogart and Humphrey McQueen.
So he's not very funny … but then neither are the Mujahideen
But that didn’t stop them getting Oscars on the silver screen …

He hasn't got a cracker and he hasn't got a bean.
Another shitty day in paradise …
Nuh! -- it ain’t easy bein' green.

2006-05-17T10:18:00.000+10:00

Fingers crossed for Feedblitz

If you are an email subscriber to this blog, your subs from today will no longer come via Bloglet but via Feedblitz. I hope the transfer goes smoothly, and you are welcome to let me know if it does or doesn't.

(If this first post from Feedblitz has a backlog of old posts, please excuse and things will be normal from now on.)

If you don't get this blog in your email box each day, you are very welcome to join the happy throng by signing up in the sidebar on this page.

Update: I'm a dirty rat. I've said harsh things in the past about Bloglet, but this post at Feedblitz explains a lot of stuff I didn't know, so this is my public apology to Monsur who pioneered blog-to-email subs and did it altruistically, not as a money-making scheme. He has actually allowed Feedblitz to import all his free 'customers' (read his new post). Good luck to Monsur in all ways, and thanks. And anyone else who appreciates what he did can email him at bloglet at gmail dot com.

Tagged: internet, rss, email, internet+resources, blog, bloggers, blogging

2006-01-17T19:27:00.000+11:00

After five years of daily Almanac posting, I'm taking a few weeks to put my energy into a few things that need doing, including my nearly finished novel. I might pop in from time to time, but for about a month I hope you'll excuse me from regular posting. In the meantime, you might like to use the menu bar at the top of this page for plenty more at the Almanac. Thanks, dear reader.

2005-09-26T22:13:00.000+10:00

Le Tuff's generosity knows no bounds. Today the post brought me a gift parcel containg some 19 items of charming silverware bearing the monogramme of the Bishop of Toronto. Attached was a card in that familiar spidery hand: "Wilson, if you don't get on with the story I'll kick your teeth down your throat".

Oh, the wit of the man! Righty-o, le Tuff!

2005-09-04T19:43:00.000+10:00

The Legend of le Tuff: (8) The depth of his insight, and an entomological observation

"Wilson," le Tuff said to me after a little time (it now being about eleven), "let me show you something you won't soon forget." Needless to say, the prospect thrilled and enthralled me.

At this he methodically removed his paper turban and artfully flung it on a rusty hook, donned an Argyle cardigan over his yellow raincoat, then almost theatrically removed the cardigan, all in a series of moves as though choreographed by Diaghilev himself. It troubles me not at all to concede that le Tuff's intellectual acuity far outshines my own, and that I was, quite frankly, baffled by this brilliant ballet.

"You have no idea what that means, do you Robertson?" he said, no doubt punning on the middle name of one of my uncles.

"None whatever, I'm afraid le Tuff," I confessed with a nervous laugh. He sighed just ever so cacophoniously.

"So I have to show you again. Watch this time, for God's sake, man, or I'll tell the press about ... your little secret!"

I gave a due smile of admiration. Trust le Tuff to plunge into a man's heart and soul with such perspicacity! I watched closely, as closely as one might in a large room frugally lit by a small fluorescent camping lamp painted in psychedelic patterns with flaking acrylic paint.

Again, like a clever magician, Indian fakir or showman of the stage, he adroitly removed his cardigan and then replaced it on his fine, slightly lopsided torso. He lay down again, this time on the Ford Fairlaine seat by the refrigerator.

"Mean nothing to you, eh?" le Tuff said, then he quickly rose up, fell back onto the seat, rose again and walked purposefully if a little unsteadily (his war wound, I suppose) to the window, pulled back the Flinstones curtain, hawked very loudly, and vigorously expectorated as only a man of tremendous thoracic strength might do.

"Crippen!" he called to his loyal manservant and ward, "you left the window closed all day!"

What could the donning of the cardigan mean? Although his eyes never met mine (for he had commenced to groom his toenails, as only a man with extraordinary eyesight would dare to do in such poor light and with such cutlery), he somehow intuited that I did not comprehend.

"Bees," he said.

"Bees, le Tuff?"

"Yes, bees, idiot. That was how I discovered the principle of how bees moderate the temperature of their hives."

"Oh, splendid!" I cried. "That has been such a boon to the apicultural industry. Well done, old bean!"

His inscrutible reply was meant for my edification, I'll be bound.

"What on earth are you talking about, you stupid, boring little man," were his only words, but words to encourage me, I felt certain on that pleasant evening, and so I believe to this very day.

"The bees, le Tuff. And the cardigan. That is fantastically wonderful!"

Le Tuff moved close to me and took both my shoulders in his differently appendaged hands. He drew his rheumy eyes to within an inch or two of mine, and, although we were new friends, whispered softly as though we had been firm pals for many, many years:

"Williams, you are out of your fucking, fucking mind."

To be continued ...

2005-09-03T22:16:00.000+10:00

The Legend of le Tuff: (7) Mementos of genius

I wonder if in the Great Book at Judgment Day there will be less than an entire chapter devoted to Baz le Tuff and his deeds.

It was on my very first visit to Scrotsmuir that I pondered this question, as around me I beheld mementos of a wonderful life lived to the full.

The great man's loyal manservant and catamite brought in tea, and even so humble an offering as that refreshment was remarkable, served as it was from an enormous pot of finest Parramatta porcelain and poured into the most delicate Tibetan cups I had at that time ever seen. Both forms of utensil, teapot and skull, told of wide travel and daring adventure.

On the western wall of le Tuff's chamber, above an arras of pink and green, was the switchboard of the vintage monorail that ran right around the room and out to goodness-knows-where. I asked my gracious host why the switch was placed at so high an elevation, and his reply was concise and brilliant. Regrettably, to impart that to you, dear reader, would require the breaking of a confidence and consequent legal considerations. Suffice to say, there was a certain involvement of a vintage toy train collector, a news boy, the Rector of St Swithins, a delightful young German actress, two kilos of Norco butter, and a Barnacle goose.

"Cigarette?" le Tuff generously offered, and I accepted the filterless Sobranie Black Russian. Such is le Tuff's foresight that he has a ready supply of them in the basement, or so Crippen told me on another occasion. Apparently his master keeps White Russians as well; although I admit I have never heard of such a cigarette, I should very much like to try one.

As I drew on my cigarette and waited for the great man to speak, my eyes surveyed this wonderful room. Indeed, they did so for quite a time, as le Tuff does not condone idle conversation, a character trait he kindly suggested I should endeavour to cultivate (and I am learning, thanks to him).

As the sunlight outside dimmed and the beautiful gloom in the chamber enveloped all, some three or four hours after I had extinguished my Sobranie, I had ample leisure to take in a good half of the visible objets d'art and objets trouvées in the room before le Tuff roused from slumber and spoke with that unique, grating, and slightly slurred voice of his that we have all come to adore ...

To be continued

2005-08-31T11:46:00.000+10:00

The Legend of le Tuff: (6) Supple -- and subtle

One can only suppose that years of championship fencing must have honed le Tuff's reflexes to the sharpness of one of the many broken Gillette safety razors scattered on his desk, for it was only a matter of a quarter of an hour or so of Crippens's incessant friendly blows before mein host leapt to his feet and greeted me as warmly as if he had known me for years and was fully conscious.

"Wilson! Do come in!" he ejaculated.

"I am in already, le Tuff," I replied. Oh, the wit of the man!

"So you are, so you are. That will be all, Crimble."

Le Tuff's loyal manservant and occupational therapist shuffled to the door, turned, bowed, smiled, scraped something off the sole of his shoe and left the chamber.

"So, what brings you here, old man?" the famous navigator and entomologist inquired.

"Your invitation was intriguing, Baz -- if I may call you Baz."

"Yes ... and no," was his enigmatic reply.

Le Tuff "wrote the book" on personal hygeine, and as he flossed his teeth I became aware of a genuine French bidet in the corner of the room, but I gave no compliment at this moment for I saw that he was about to speak. His great mouth opened wide, he drew breath, and that aquiline eye shot through the window of my soul like an arrow.

With one eyebrow cocked, his gaze transfixed me for a full minute, as he slowly and almost gracefully pirouetted, like a huge cog in an ancient grain mill, still staring like a cobra at my receptive eye. His body, so supple from a lifetime of extreme calisthenics, twisted, and lowered itself such that within a fascinating moment his face showed through the space between his svelte legs, near his crutch. An amicable and intellectual-looking grin spread from cheek to cheek, and he disarmingly spoke to me -- just seven eloquent, mysterious words that burned into my soul and will remain with me till the end of my days:

"What about that Son of Sam, huh?"

2005-08-29T21:28:00.000+10:00

The Legend of le Tuff: (5) O Scrotsmuir

Like so many, I left my heart in that wonderful mansion by the sea.

Parking my car outside the high lilac walls of the property on that sunny day, I pushed heavily on the grand gates, and suffered a mild hernia. Only later did I discover that those remarkable iron contrivances were so designed as to pump water, with every visitor's entry, from a neighbour's swimming pool to a cosy little lake in the Scrotsmuir grounds. "Saves a fortune in water rates and chlorine," he told me years later. Le Tuff is nothing if not inventive.

My footfall was crunchy up the gravel drive that wound lazily around the hillside like a white serpent. With considerable exertion I climbed the wide front steps, caught my breath, stepped to the immense, Byzantine Hardiplank doors and rapped loudly on the great bronze knockers.

Le Tuff's faithful manservant and amanuensis was at the door within tens of minutes. "Oh do come in," he said musically, "Master has been expecting you." It was to the tune of Favourite Things, I think, but that is neither here nor there.

As I followed the humming Crippen through the labyrinthine corridors and halls, my neck also became herniated as I stared around me at an opulence like unto nothing I had seen since my days in ... well, where those days were spent is of no importance compared to the opulence of Scrotsmuir.

When I was finally shown into the library of the great man, I found him comfortably prostrate on a Queen Anne chaise longue of noteworthy design (it being some three times the length of my new friend).

"Good morning, le Tuff," I ventured. But nothing was replied. As I inched forward through the fashionable darkness, I noted that his charming tricoloured eyes were closed. Crippen saw my nervousness, and came to my aid.

"Master is suffering a slight bazzitude today, sir," he said, gentle as the morn.

A terrifyingly loud thunderclap rent the sky outside. "Bazzitude?" I asked, endeavouring not to appear ignorant.

"Yes, sir. Bazzitude. It has been in the last two Greater Oxford Dictionaries, ever since Master's novella memoire, 'Sack and Burn the Back Streets of Detroit'. Have you not heard the word?"

I shamefully confessed that I had not, though of course I knew the masterpiece intimately.

Crippen sensitively crooned Ted Nugent's Dog, Dog, Dog Eat Dog as with telling compassion he slapped le Tuff across the face with a short piece of 4 X 2 pine.

"Wakie, wakie, hands off snakey, sir. You have a visitor." ...

To be continued

(Part of today's episode was suggested by a reader, Sylvia from London. You suggest it, I'll try to write it.)

2005-08-28T20:24:00.000+10:00

The Legend of le Tuff: (4) The enigmatic epigrammist

I really must tell of my first visit to Scrotsmuir, as I promised, but first an aside about one particularly touching side of the much-copied but never-equalled le Tuff personality.

The Holy Bible, Shakespeare, Emerson, Franklin, Wilde: their famous apothegms so fill the quotidian language of learned and unschooled alike that we scarce know who first penned them. The oft-quoted truism "An intangible yesterday is the compliment you pay to the fool and the rebuke to the wise man" is such an one of these. Most think it is from Scripture. Not so; it is a le Tuffism.

"A forgotten inkstand in the nose: no disgrace."
"Mercies are to the fisherman what spite is to the standing."
"People who dine by partridges need no alms makers."
"There is many a slip betwixt Fleet Street and the blood of the chimneysweep."
"Yeah, stick another two fingers in. No you fool, I meant the bourbon."

Each and every scintillating adage by Baz le Tuff!

You doubt me? Oh, but see She who was nigh Singapore, now is comelier: Gentle thoughts and crude for the yearning youngster (le Tuff, Baz, OULP, 1987, 684 pp). Be amazed, and be illuminated by these familiar epigrams that improve the mind and character, as you discover that all these commonplace maxims come from the one outstanding intellect.

I leave you with just a few more randomly chosen examples of over 4,700 proverbs from the teeming brain of the greatest epigrammist of the 20th and 21st centuries:

"Forget thou that ye hast sniffed until the morning night."
"None knows the hour of the spite of doo-wah-diddy."
"A full bottle of Scotch; half a bottle of scotch; blahdy blahdy."
"Look before you buy; try before you leap; inkstands."
"As you make your partridge, so you must spite your hahaha nose."
"Do as I say, not as the partridge must spite your too fucking much nose."
"None knows the hour the partridge wearily spites the nose of the bloody chimneysweep."
"Whack it up your sleeve. I'll hold the belt."
"Desperate diseases call for desperate inkstands."
"Stupid publishers: stupider people. Set them on fire I say."
"Something about inkstands. Chuck anything in here. Bloody belch."
"Don't count your chickens to spite your whatever partridge-stand."
"A great big, big, big, big bosom. Try it with ice. Nup better straight. Partridges yeah yeah."
"Dah de blah de dum partridges Johnny Walker something something."

Baz le Tuff, thank you, sir!

(Excepts from She who was nigh Singapore, now is comelier: Gentle thoughts and crude for the yearning youngster (le Tuff, Baz, OULP, 1987, 684 pp) reproduced with kind permission of Oxford University Little Press.)

To be continued ...

2005-08-27T19:05:00.000+10:00

The Legend of le Tuff: (3) Strength in the bottom of adversity

Young folk these days are sometimes surprised to learn that there were not always le Tuff enterprises in the world.

Indeed, even for the mature, it is difficult to imagine a world without the le Tuff rectangular piston, BazleTuff Disco Drops, TuffGuevaraMedia and of course the invention that started it all, Tuff Wipes, to name but a few runaway mercantile successes.

The Tuff Wipe that you, along with more than four billion other grateful consumers, use each day was not always large and green, and indeed, not popular in the competitive world of personal hygeine products. In point of actual fact, le Tuff's 1972 prototype resembled more a craggy yellow spud-gun than the familiar jumbo-sized sanitary aid in today's 'little room'.

The initial product trials were disappointing -- "Damn hopeless," le Tuff himself admits today, but this is where character and the famous never-say-die le Tuffian attitude came to the fore. After several months of experimentation requiring great personal expense, and the tragic sacrifice of several dedicated laboratory assistants, the current model was given the famous le Tuff 'thumbs up' and -- well, of course the rest is history ...

To be continued

2005-08-26T18:43:00.000+10:00

The Legend of le Tuff: (2) His origins, his transportation and an observation on Scrotsmuir

Le Tuff is nothing if not modest, and very few people outside the criminal justice system really have much idea of his many achievements, nor of the events of his life.

The time and place of his birth are not known, to this writer at least, and it is indeed hard to imagine le Tuff as young, but it is said there are in the British Museum some sketchy records of a childhood spent in South Wales, Patagonia, Beijing, Alburquerque, Wagga Wagga, Rhodesia, Zimbabwe, Ouagadougou, Kabul, Monaco, Tierra del Fuego, Melbourne, Kilkenny, Madagascar, Honshu, Swaziland, New Jersey, Wormwood Scrubs, The Hague, Auckland, Castro Street (San Francisco), Easter Island, Kuala Lumpur, Madras, St Petersburg, Glasgow, Ulan Baator and the Mississippi delta where he picked up a slight American "twang" and a Louisiana record-breaking number of STDs.

A brilliant 43-Man Squamish quarterback in high school, he won an Offshore Rhodes Scholarship and read Natural History at St Helena, taking the university medal in his first year.

When le Tuff turned his mind to the engineering sciences his aptitude was clear to all, and it is said that his substantial fortune today rests in large part on his Thuringian Amplitude Device which revolutionised the sub-Saharan food industry as well as enabling the drainage of marshlands in Iraq. He has told your writer on numerous occasions that the social good that has come from the T. A. D. was well worth the loss of two daughters and three fingers of his left hand.

How he came to reside in Australia is as hidden as the facts of his youth, but Poxlough says le Tuff's intriguing secret is shared by some of the best-known names at Scotland Yard. Be that exciting notion as it may, he has made this country his own and we have accepted him as one of our sons, much as Britain has taken Rolf Harris to her ample bosom. His first antipodean years, spent at some place in Victoria called Pentridge, unknown to your writer, were apparently uneventful, and the later alleged sale of a shipment of date-expired canned food and medicines to a network of Queensland orphanages, mere scuttlebutt and hearsay. Of this I speak on the authority of none less than the great man himself.

His towering mock-Federation home on an ocean cliff just outside the pleasant vale of Toormina-on-Tasman is as eye-piercingly beautiful as it is comfortable, for le Tuff if not for his many less-sophisticated guests (he is democratic above all). Miss Emberley avows that it is the grandeur of the magnificent granite colossus of Sir Robert Menzies, nude and astride the white gravel drive, that accounts for the swooning of many young local girls. Le Tuff self-effacingly shrugs off their disappearance and will take none of the credit. "Nothing to do with me at all, old bean," he once said to me as he quaffed his morning tot of methylated spirits. "They see the faux topiary, and I suppose they are inspired to travel le Grand Tour of the Continent before age and infirmity take their toll." Ever humble, ever kindly, eh, le Tuff?!

Oh, well do I remember my first visit to Scrotsmuir and the very quaint (and amusing) recently deceased 'envelope' in which the purple-edged invitation was delivered ...

To be continued

2005-08-25T19:59:00.000+10:00

The Legend of le Tuff: (1) The Meeting

This month it is forty years since I met le Tuff. Forty long, long years. Thus it is that, to commemorate this important anniversary, over the next few days I shall recount some memories of just a few remarkable events in what scholars now call the notorious "le Tuff legend", to which I have been a grateful and unworthy spectator.

In 1965, most people I knew had one thing on their minds. Actually, two if you count trying to grow hair over the forehead. Little did I know, dear reader, that there was another, far greater than these, whose aspirations were formidably more advanced.

Baz le Tuff was already well established as a freelance acrobatic neuro-surgeon when I met him on that propitious grey day in the Oodnadatta Club. He had apparently just settled into his customary armchair with a raspberry gin following (as I only learned months later in the journal Nature) a successful afternoon discovering how to save fish from drowning. As you will know, the le Tuff Method is used now in countries all around the world and many a halibut is thankful. What you probably do not know is that he never accepted a penny for it. (He told me in 1994 when he declined the Nobel for this addition to human knowledge, as he so often has since the third prize, "It's what any man would have done, Wilson". No, le Tuff, not any man!)

His dresser had apparently eloped that morning with a Hutu prostituée and le Tuff was dishevelled, of course, but not in a crassly fashionable way. Rather, he had the air of a man long accustomed to the tousled vestments that are the lot of most, nay all, men of genius. He puffed on a Messerschmidt pipe and casually -- vacantly, one might say -- leafed through the Russian edition of a Dumas Classics Illustrated. It was some months before I knew that his reading of the magazine upside down, and in a language utterly unknown to him, was le Tuff's very own practised way of increasing the challenge of any literary masterpiece not his own. It is a method I have since emulated, recommended to many, but to this day not mastered.

It was Walsingham, I think, or Geoffrey St John who introduced me to the man. As he looked up from his comic Count of Monte Cristo I could not help but notice a fetching smile that transfigured his berry-stained, crooked lips and pink teeth into an even more wonderful feature (this was long before the craze for teeth of that colour), and Cyril Poxlough nudged me so that I might marvel with him at the slight residue of dried crimson saliva that still seemed to trickle elegantly from le Tuff's mouth to his asymmetric chin. Naturellement, I was won over immediately!

He fixed me with that intense, blue-veined eye which is well known to all who have seen him in the colour films, and who in the Western world has not? I thought he was about to deign to speak to me, and my companions tell me they were sure he would, but instead he pressed his charmingly pointed right elbow into the arm of the big leather chair, tilting his dandyish, statuesque physique in a manner that Poxlough and Miss Emberley later agreed was "smoulderingly erotic", drew back his paisley polyester smoking jacket and deftly took from his back pocket an immense jar of home-pickled Kandahari walnuts.

"Nuts?" he asked me with a cordiality that was completely disarming.

Of course, I knew instantly we would be firm friends ...

More tomorrow, deo volente.

2005-04-30T19:48:00.000+10:00

I don't think there'll be much action on this blog for a while.

2005-04-17T21:38:00.000+10:00

Unfortunately, I will have to stop 'Kill the President' in its current form. Thank you, nthmtnhoney for all your support, and members of Kalliope for entering into the spirit of the game. My thanks, too, to previous SoKs, madhatter and veebeep.

I hope to continue the poem, but in a different form. The form that I chose before was one that required interactivity with the reader, and unfortunately it's become obvious that I have failed to inspire a level of interactivity that would stimulate the addition of further 'bacterioids' ... clues and so on. That failure had a snowballing effect, as by the rules of engagement I was required to continue writing in a kind of void, forcing even more stanzas to be created without bacterioids and thus lessening the interest even further. It was an experiment, and I accept that it didn't succeed. Maybe there will be a better way to do it at some time in the future. The fishpond blog will remain as a place for things that I find in the fishpond outside my door. Thank you, friends, and all good wishes.

2005-04-04T13:30:00.000+10:00

"Does she have an aversion," asks Gene the waitperson
diplomatically, "because this stuff's new?"
"Darn tootin'. These are great," Lum looks up from his plate.
"It's just fear, it ain't hate. But tain't my nature to wait."
"Sir, you're President. Waiting's what guys like me do."

[Note from Pip: I have the offer of a free ride to Sydney tomorrow, so I'm going to grab the opportunity to go and see family and friends for a few days, between Tuesday, April 5 and Sunday, April 10. I haven't taken time off for more years than I care to admit, so I won't be online for the duration. See you when I get back.]

2005-04-03T10:26:00.000+10:00

"I don't dream about all things. Not tall things, mostly small things.
Dean, doesn't that hit you as curious?"
"Are you troubled?" asks the waiter. "Well, sure," says Lumwedder.
"I could feel a lot better. And Missus Lumweddder --
the First Lady. It makes her right furious."

2005-04-01T15:09:00.000+10:00

A few minutes later, Lum asks Gene the waiter,
"Tell me, why did your folks call you Gene?
Is it short for Eugene?" "No sir. Just plain Gene.
My mother, it seems, had a dream about genes."
"Why, her druthers is my ruthers! Know what she means.

2005-03-31T10:05:00.000+10:00

"So, what's the matter, Curtis?" asks Gene. "Nothing. Purvis.
Yeah Purvis. The Service. Damn snoops.
Why the hell do they come into the kitchen? Does Lum
send them in here? How come? "Settle down. Make me one
stack of hotcakes."  Asks Henson "No Loops?"

2005-03-30T12:04:00.000+10:00

"Could be, Mister Prez. Never noticed," Gene says,
as he heads straight away to the kitchen,
where he senses some tension between Curtis and Henson -- 
almost too little to mention, but a sense of dissension,
and he hears Henson whisper "Quitcha bitchin'!"

2005-03-29T10:01:00.000+10:00

"A cloud?" "Yeah, tell me Gene." "It's Dean, sir -- I mean Gene!
I don't know ... I see shapes. Maybe a sheep, or a face,
ice cream, or a tree. Sir, what do you see?"
"Well, it looks like to me, some kind of vehicle, maybe.
Made by microbes to get to some place."

2005-03-28T12:09:00.000+10:00

He puts the phone in his pocket. "Tell me, Dean, can you grok it?
Does nothing appear like it is?
I'm just thinking aloud -- but when you see a cloud --
what do you see? And how'd you see it? You're allowed
to tell me the truth. Pretend that it's President biz."

2005-03-26T21:39:00.000+11:00

Tim says "Mister Prez, that's just what Jade says.
Matter of fact, I was just about to text."
"OK, so it's 'cereal'." "Yup, and we thought it was 'serial'."
"Yeah, but it's so queer y'all." "This could be quite material ...
now we just need to know what comes next."

2005-03-26T15:01:00.000+11:00

He's been thinking about Jade and that thing that she said,
about the spelling and "listen to this serial".
"Well dang me!" he cries. "It's right before my eyes!"
He phones the other guys: "Team, I've got a surprise --
it ain't 'serial' -- it's 'listen to this cereal'."

2005-03-25T12:14:00.000+11:00

"I know what you mean, sir. By the way ... my name's Gene, sir."
"Oh dang me, you told me that, Gene.
Three, maybe four times. Trouble is, see, my mind's
kinda scattered at times, it's full of all kinds
of presidential kinda stuff. Sorry about that. Sorry Dean."

2005-03-24T14:34:00.000+11:00

It's a day or two later. "No," Lum says to the waiter,
"thanks Dean, I'll have hotcakes instead.
Think I'll change my routine." Then he looks up at Gene
(who he always calls Dean). "A change you know, Dean,
is as good as a holiday, it's said."

2005-03-23T16:13:00.000+11:00

Lum has heard rumblings of a few people grumbling
but he's more focused on the revelatory.
(No one could want some new epiphanies to come
more than I, except Lum, but until they do come
there are other aspects to our story.)

2005-03-18T12:46:00.000+11:00

Back home in DC a man laughs: "Yeah, we'll see.
It depends what you think is 'normality'."
In the capital, you see, it's not all who agree
with Lum's project. Indeed, it must be said that some see
some kind of threat from this new informality.

2005-03-16T15:22:00.000+11:00

They're printing stamps with Rev 2 in Nepal and Nauru,
and even minting a coin in Grenada.
From Khartoum to Kiev they're all quoting the rev --
it's been rumored they have in West Bank and Tel Aviv
'rev breaks' during lulls in the Intifada.

2005-03-15T16:12:00.000+11:00

Kill the President

Part 18

Scene: Brisbane, Australia. "Oh, my beautiful Thalia,"
says Dad. "You'll be belle of the school formal.
Drive her carefully, Jess. What's that button on your chest?"
"A new rev from the Prez." "Hey, I like what it says:
'*We gotta live like society is normal'."

2005-03-14T17:36:00.000+11:00

Hi and g'day, reader, y'all!

No new verse today because I've been busy as a one-armed paperhanger in a high wind, and busy plotting some future fun things, but I thought I should write a note. As you will know if you've been reading 'Kill the President', there are various clues and codes evolving within the poem. Collectively these are called 'bacterioids', and they comprise three different types of information: what we call revelations, clues and epiphanies. Details and how to play the game are at http://www.wilsonsalmanac.com/lumvitation.html.

A forum, called Kalliope, exists to give a space for people to discuss and hopefully work out what it is that the bacterioids are progressively revealing.

A little birdie has told me that I've been making it too hard -- I don't know if you agree with that view. I don't want it to be easy, of course, but I don't want to confuse you all up the wall!

Because under the game's rules I am not allowed into the Kalliope forum except by invitation, it's a bit hard for me to know in what ways people might be having trouble. I don't have any idea how you guys are doing, and would like to know, as this is a two-way process with greater potential if the energy flows both ways. Like you, I'm sure, I'm a great believer in human collaboration.

What I can do, however, is be open to feedback and I certainly want to do that. I invite you to stay in touch with each other in the forum, and also with me through the Secretary of Kalliope (SoK), whose name is nthmtnhoney. Your SoK is communicating extremely well with your humble tale-spinner and I'm sure that if there are any problems or questions, you can raise these in the forum and, if necessary, the SoK will keep me informed.

So far there are 179 verses, or stanzas I suppose they should be called, and I've been having a ball writing them. I have to be perfectly francis with you, though, and admit that it would be a lot easier (and thus better for the reader) with feedback, so please let SoK know ... how am I doing? Any probs? Need any help? Can we make it a better experience for you? Is the forum format working to allow people to discuss and even debate?

Remember, it's an interactive experience. It's also highly experimental to be writing this way, so like any experiment, the crazy scientist might need new ideas.

Lots more to come soon, so I hope you enjoy being an active clue-cracker and just general reader of KtP. I look forward to hearing from Kalliope, and you'll be hearing from me soon ... darn tootin' you will, dang me!

Abundance and gratitude,

Pip

2005-03-13T11:18:00.000+11:00

The agents and president head back to the residence,
John and Cletus sticking close to the Prez.
Says Tim, "Guess we'd better get back to work." Heather
agrees and together they all notice the feathers.
"Oops! Almost forgot the headdress!" Irving says.

End of Part 17

2005-03-12T12:00:00.000+11:00

"Dang gang," says the Prez, "gotta do President biz.
John, I forget this guy's name. Was it Oliver?"
"D'Oliveira." "Near enough. Team, it can be pretty tough
to remember this stuff. Well, see you soon, sure 'nough.
Better hurry, gotta see Oliver from Boliva."

2005-03-11T10:31:00.000+11:00

"Mr President! You're here!" Agent Graham appears.
"Did you forget your appointment -- the Bolivian
Ambassador?" "Oh dang! I forgot about that thing."
"Didn't your phone ring?" "Huh? Oh, maybe I didn't bring
it from home." (1600 Pennsylvania Ave, Oblivion.)

2005-03-10T17:25:00.000+11:00

"This shouldn't defeat us or beat us," repeats Cletus.
"I bet it's just flatus. I can smell it."
Tim laughs, "Great, then it's bacterial!" "Getting back to that word 'serial' ...
Lum are you sure it was 'serial'?" asks Jade, in a voice quite ethereal.
"I wonder some, as she thundered away, Lum ... did she spell it?"

2005-03-07T16:00:00.000+11:00

"Not yet. Tell us that!" "Gang, I heard from my hat ..."
They hold their breath as he sips his capuccino.
"Not the feathers. The head. The buffalo head,
sometimes wear that instead. Other mornin' it said,
'Listen, young Lum. Some call me C13H16ClNO.'"

"What else did she say?!" "She said 'But I spell with a K
my other name. But that's all you need
for today. Goodbye Lum.' And I asked 'Will you come
again soon?' She said 'Some time, Lum, yes I'll come.
When I'm called.' -- And she's gone, like a drummin' stampede."

2005-03-05T19:34:00.000+11:00

Cletus goes on: "See, son. See, what happens to Lum,
same thing happens to me, see, if I've ate one.
It's nothin', just onion. Just a bowl of Onion grunion.
Indigestion ain't fun, son. Ain't nothin' in Babe 'n' Bunyan --"
"Yes, but Cletus, this has beat us: 'CI581'."

"Hey Timmy, don't sweat it. You guys! Just ferget it.
Amanda used to get it. In Atlanta.
Amanda's my ex -- had some hex with Tex-Mex.
Didn't expect the effects. She ate onion: no sex.
I ain't perplexed. All due respects, Lum needs Tums. And Mylanta.

"Think about it. Perhaps ya will find it's dyspepsia."
Tiffany says, "Interesting suggestion. Indigestion.
Dad gets it real bad. My mom says that he's had
stomach trouble since she had me. It's really too sad."
"But does he get epiphanies?" asks Stephanie. "That's the question."

"Not exactly," says Tiffany. "Not exactly epiphanies.
Just gets him biffin' me, and tiffin' with my mother."
"Dang me! Hi Tiffany! Hey Carlos. Cletus. Stephanie.
Hey guys, that woman's given me a second dang epiphany!
At least, I think that I've just had another."

Tim says, "Lum, you're kidding me! Another epiphany?"
Says Lum, "Have you guys finished eating?"
"No. Pull up a chair," Jade says. Lum says, "Where?"
Carlos says, "Anywhere." Lum says, "OK. There.
Man, I love this cafeterial seating.

"Should eat here more often. The seats are so soft an' --"
"Excuse me," says Tim, a little nervous.
"Say what?" "Mister Prez," Tiffany diffidently says,
"You heard from that woman?" Lum says "How'd you know? Oh ... oh ... yes,
I just told you! Do they serve fries with their burgers?"

"You can fill your whole plate! And the salad is great,"
says Cletus. "Leastwise, I liked mine."
"Well that really sounds nice." "And a very good price."
"Great. Don't have to think twice! I'll be right back you guys."
So they wait while Lum stands in the line.

"Do you think it's historical?" asks Jade. "What?" "The oracle.
Or maybe it could be allegorical?"
Cletus says, "You mean gas?" (He seems nice, but no class.)
"That Amanda had gas. But a real piece of ass."
"No, Cletus!" laughs Jade. "Like ... metaphorical."

"Dang me! That woman on the checkout ain't human!"
laughs Lum. "She got biceps like Tyson!"
Still chuckling, he sits. "She didn't like me one bit
but I'll get over it. Anyways, who gives a shoot?
Hey, did I tell you about me and the bison?"

2005-03-04T20:14:00.000+11:00

"Yeah, but Cletus, it's mysterious." "Hey, fellas, I hear yez,
but tain't mysterious." (He's a little imperious.)
"Now don't shake your haid! It's just like I sayed.
Ain't no mystery, I'm afraid." Then Carlos whispers to Jade
"Is he serious?" "I think he's delirious."

2005-03-03T20:44:00.000+11:00

Tim smiles. "Oh, my, Cletus, I think you will eat us
out of White House and home. What I was saying
was, about the epiphany, it's eerie, and Tiffany
has her theories, and Stephanie --" Cletus says, "Hear me Tim, if'n he
listens up, he'll just find it dismayin'".

[Please note that Bloglet did not send the previous stanza (# 162). This happens from time to time with Bloglet subscriptions; unfortunately, neither I nor President Lumwedder have any control over it. I might not even notice and thus be able to inform you, so please don't rely 100% on Bloglet to be a perfect record of the narrative -- there might be clues missed. All the verses will be found at http://pipwilson.blogspot.com/ where there is also a sidebar link to the whole poem on my website. Thanks guys.]

2005-03-02T19:25:00.000+11:00

It's rumored the Service hired Cletus Merle Purvis
to have a Lum-alike there in the snoops.
That notion has traction. He's no man of action --
food gives more satisfaction. Lumwedder's reaction
was good: "Say, a snoop who likes Loops!".

2005-03-02T08:33:00.000+11:00

"Where they come from, I mean. The question, it seems,
isn't 'where?' but 'what?' and 'why?' -- that has me guessing.
I'm sure the team agrees that whatever Lum sees
and hears, they're mysteries. Cletus, got any ideas?"
Cletus does: "This is great Waldorf dressing!"

2005-02-28T19:18:00.000+11:00

Not the whole Secret Service, just Graham makes them nervous,
and they could feel a lot better about Hedda.
They're not trying to diss, but unless she insists,
she's not part of this. "So who'd really miss
nasty Hedda?" Win begins. "Not Lumwedder ..."

Tim plays with his salad. "I don't know if that's valid,
Winnie. Sure, Hedda's different, no contest.
But to say that she's nasty -- I think that's too hasty.
I think maybe she's spaced, she --" "Hey, Tim, that looks tasty!"
says Cletus. Says Tim, "Be my guest.

"There's some who say Hedda is one of the better
First Ladies this country has had."
"Like you said, no contest," (Geoff's idea of a jest).
"OK, Geoff, we're impressed, but it's no intelligence test
to marry a president. I'm not sure she's so bad.

"Why does everyone pillory her? She's no Hillary,
no Nancy." (Is there an echo in here?)
"So what if she's rich?" "Timmy! Tim!! She's a bitch!"
says Carlos. The pitch of the topic must switch,
so Cletus says "Ditch it!! She'll hear!"

"Whatever," says Heather, "I never think about Hedda.
But I think about 'Listen to this serial'.
And 'CI581' -- I don't know where they come
from, these oracles Lum is getting. Am I dumb?"
"You're not dumb," Tim replies. "But it's immaterial ...

"I feel an epiphany coming on."

2005-02-28T14:42:00.000+11:00

I got them sit down, cain't cry, oh Lord I wanna die, woman on the Next Blog blues

(Nothing whatsoever to do with 'Kill the President')

I tried on a brand new blog this morning,
        Cause that old Next Blog don't work no more
I tried on a brand new blog this morning,
        Cause that old Next Blog mama don't work no more
Gonna change my way of living,
        Ain't nothing like it was before

Where did that woman get to
        That Next Blog babe I seen
Where did that woman get to
        That Next Blog mama I seen
I shouldn't never have clicked her off
        That Next Blog button treat me soooo mean

2005-02-27T19:50:00.000+11:00

Cletus's age difference is met with indifference,
there's no preference or deference the kids feel.
He's a hoot, totally funny, his disposition is sunny,
totally cool, he's got a gun he's grown up so there's money,
and stuff like an automobile.

Though nobody's saying, they think that John Graham --
well, they don't do much playing when that guy is around.
Sure, Graham had a kid and, far as they knew, Cletus didn't,
and John isn't forbidden, they haven't overridden
him, it's more like the other way round.

2005-02-27T13:48:00.000+11:00

Kill the President

Part 17

The White House cafeteria. They're not talking bacteria
for a change, Winsome, Cletus, Tim, Stephanie
and a few more from the team. "What the hell does it mean?"
asks Carlos. "It seems," says Geoffrey, "a dream."
"Aw durrrr, Geoffrey!" sniffs Tiffany, "Try epiphany?!"

2005-02-22T19:41:00.000+11:00

Kill the President

Part 16

You might think that the poet is shallow. I know it.
I'll blow it unless I characterize better.
But are you sure there's a hurry? Like Lum says, "No worries,
no worries chicken curry". I promise, don't worry --
I won't forget Timmy or Hedda.

The clues can't be solved nor the conflicts resolved
in the time of a movie or show,
or the time that we read a novel. We need
much more time and less speed. Like, Lumwedder, he'd
understand -- it's about eons. You know?

Not that Hedda's a genius. In fact, just between us,
you might say she's thick as two planks.
You might say it. I wouldn't. As the author I shouldn't
tell, but show, but couldn't you picture her, wouldn't
she get the Oscar in Gump next to Hanks?

I beg patience, dear reader. For example, our Hedda
like you (and, I trust, me) is three dimensional.
Maybe more. Reports which say that those comprise 'rich',
secondly 'witch', thirdly 'bitch', ignore the levels in which
her soul revels -- too many levels to mention all.

Likewise Tim's no marshmallow, no creampuff. Not shallow.
'Cardboard' would be a hard word, not descriptive.
I do fully intend to draw him out, my dear friend,
long before this rhyme ends, though the timing depends
on the format, which is prescriptive (and restrictive).

Anyway, that's a digression. But an earnest expression
of my hope that, among matters bacterial
and eccentricities of rhyme, if you'll just give it time,
-- for we're unclocking time -- 'Kill the President' will climb
to some heights, plumb some depths, characterial.

"Hurry up!" is the wrong call; join me for the long haul.
"The medium is the message" being the inference.
So said Marshall McLuhan, and that's what we're doing,
though McLuhan would be rueing that phrase, for McLuhan
said "the medium is the massage", but same difference.

Message or massage, the rites of our passage
exalt time as our temple, our staple.
By the way, I can see no reason to hide that capuccino
is why today I'm so keen, so full of stanzas and beans, so
loquacious -- two strong ones, bacon and eggs (drowned in maple).

End of Part 16

2005-02-22T00:25:00.000+11:00

He was a mite bit disturbed, a little perturbed,
so he reached in the dark for a Lark.
(Unlike many folk, he never did smoke
till he quit using coke. There's a White House in-joke
how that all began with a casual remark:

it seems that Lumwedder had mentioned to Hedda
"Hun, I read that some research said smoking
can damage DNA and, if we'd had kids, then some day,
our grandchildren, let's say, could suffer some way.
We should quit children." She thought he was joking.)

End of Part 15

2005-02-21T12:29:00.000+11:00

Now here's a weird thing it was at that same minute
as Graham counted cattle in Chevy Chase, DC,
while those cows would not run one did run for our Lum, one
appeared with Paul Bunyan. If you ate Onion grunion
you might dream of Bunyan's Babe at 29 degrees!

2005-02-19T12:58:00.000+11:00

He could have made many other decisions. His brother
told him years ago "Come to Australia.
Johnny, leave all that prattle, come and work with my cattle,
why the hell should you battle in DC? John, that'll
just reduce you to ulcers, and failure."

2005-02-18T09:03:00.000+11:00

Those days of his youth: thoughts were words, words were truth
and a vow was a vow, made to keep,
and feelings were felt. "Man, she's clever, she's built ...
think she likes me!" The quilt cannot cover his guilt;
and her warmth can't thaw John Graham's sleep.

2005-02-16T21:44:00.000+11:00

By two in the morning he's finally yawning,
slips under the quilt with his lover.
All those nights he has tossed and turned in a frost,
accounting the cost of the things he has lost
from those coveted days under cover.

2005-02-15T21:09:00.000+11:00

Man, he's in pretty deep. "John, you really should sleep."
His wife, though she hasn't full knowledge,
can see something's troubling him, seething and bubbling --
in his sleep he's been mumbling -- but, let's face it, the doubling
of their pay will send Britney to college.

2005-02-14T08:25:00.000+11:00

Kill the President

Part 15

Agent Graham looks pensive. It's very expensive
to live in the national capital.
So his recent decision to embark on this mission
was a sin of commission, not omission, and contrition
requires admission his condition's no mishap at all.

2005-02-13T16:00:00.000+11:00

"'Ladder of evolution is not the solution'?"
Asks Professor of Politics Edwin
Reese-Darby at Durban University. "Urban
analysis? Too much bourbon?" While in burqa and turban
they're discussing Lum's burden, among the Bedouin.

2005-02-12T20:27:00.000+11:00

Twelve kilometres inland from Helsinki, Finland
elsa msgs oona, her gf:
"gsoh on ladr this prez get badr
he so gr8 he get madr evry day cu l8r
ttys how ur nu bf?" and then presses Send.

2005-02-12T12:20:00.000+11:00

Kill the President

Part 14

"'*The ladder of evolution is not the solution',"
says a diner on a stool in a diner.
"I read it last night on Lumwedder's website.
Know sumpin? He's right. Yeah, dang me, he's right!
Honey ... your ribs are the best in Carolina."

2005-02-10T14:19:00.000+11:00

The Bactorium team is well used to Lum's dreams,

but they do seem extremely concerned;

as an extreme prophylactic should some scheme get climactic

or some theme deemed galactic, Tim beams up a tactic.

"'K, team, the meeting's adjourned."

2005-02-09T16:07:00.000+11:00

"What else, what else, Lum?" the team asks as one.

"Nothin' much, she just added 'Elk oil, pa'.

And somethin' about flyin'. Wait a minute, I'm tryin'."

(You can hear his brain trying.) "Yeah, ain't no denyin',

she said 'You flew CI581'. So bizarre!"

2005-02-08T13:26:00.000+11:00

Tim shakes his head with a smile; "Lum you said

you had a vision we might call 'bacterial'?"

"I did? I forget. Oh, you bet, weirdest one yet!

Just lately seem to get these sounds through my hat.

Only happens when I eat other cereal."

The team kinda squirms. "Yeah, not about worms,

and not about germs, least, not very.

In my hat a voice says, 'Listen up, Mister Prez,

to this serial,' she says, and then disappears

loud as a buffalo herd on the prairie."

2005-02-01T15:49:00.000+11:00

Will you review Kill the President at Blogarama? Thank you. http://www.blogarama.com/index.php?show=review&SiteID=27343

2005-02-01T01:14:00.000+11:00

No verses for a few days, friends. I'm working on a new plan for an online group associated with Kill the President. If you're interested in learning more, please email me and put Reading and Writing in the Subject header. Thanks, and see you soon. Pip

2005-01-30T19:09:00.000+11:00

The Bactorium's impressed. Tim says "Let's not rest.

We can expect a huge increase in traffic. A

lot of organizing needs to be done," Timmy pleads,

"before it succeeds, before everyone reads

about bacteria." Lum mumbles, "Or is it Africa?"

2005-01-29T20:11:00.000+11:00

"And it ain't begun peakin'. My press team is freakin'.

Nine hundred calls just from Malaysia!

Elbania, Estania, Lithoania, Tamzania,

Patagania, Mauritania, some place called Tasmania,

which I think is down south. Maybe Asia?"

2005-01-28T19:14:00.000+11:00

Lum can't repress a big grin. "Tim," he says,

"Mr Chairman, didn't know you had it in ya.

From Rome, France to Algeria they're talkin' bacteria.

In some town called Liberia they hear ya, and Nigeria.

We got Canadian clubs in Canadia, and the same in Argentinia!

2005-01-27T19:56:00.000+11:00

"T-shirts, that's awesome!" says freckle-faced Winsome

(who finds Tim particularly handsome).

"How many will I order?" she asks the reporter.

Tim looks over toward her; gives her a panic disorder:

"Fifty million, winsome Winnie. And then some."

2005-01-26T21:33:00.000+11:00

"... if I rightly remember, a lot of the members

of the eight online forums are asking

for T-shirts and stickers. And our java applet ticker,

we must make it quicker and get rid of the flicker."

Lum grins. He loves Tim's multitasking.

2005-01-25T20:55:00.000+11:00

"Right. Meeting's in order," says Lum's young reporter.

"Looks like we're all here. It's a quorum."

The weekly staff-meet. Says Lum, "Tim's in the seat."

(He doesn't mean seat but the team is discreet.

Another job requirement.) Says Tim, "OK, about the forum ...

2005-01-24T22:40:00.000+11:00

but there are other criteria. Like a feel for bacteria.

If you've got this, the job's in your pocket.

Like Lum always says, "You don't need to be Prez,

or a genius," he says. "Don't need no headdress,

if you're bacterioid. Job's yours if you grok it.")

2005-01-23T22:40:00.000+11:00

"Should be 'terminatorious'." The team's now uproarious,

Tim and Irving and everyone laughing.

"So now Drudge's intellectual. But his judgement's ineffectual.

So Shakespearean! Just check, y'all, he mentions the team and henpecks you all."

(Sense of humor's a criterion in Lum's staffing,

2005-01-22T19:59:00.000+11:00

Kill the President



Part 13



"Listen up, this is magic!" Irving reads: "'It is tragic'

says this latest Matt Drudge editorial,

'that two weeks into this experiment, our disoriented President,

seems locked in his tenement. The Washington sentiment --

congressional and senatorial -- approaches terminatorial.'

2005-01-21T20:03:00.000+11:00

so she realised Lumwedder's libido was no better

nor his brain free of this damn delirium.

Satisfied that no cutie, no raven-haired beauty,

had overstepped her duties, she could rest up. The floozie

he loved was a stupid bacterium.

2005-01-20T19:34:00.000+11:00

in response to which, Hedda started tailing Lumwedder

who now had a bed at the Bactorium.

She thought he was running around with some young thing,

some cute little dumb thing, till she heard him say something

about a "World Peace Imaginatorium",

2005-01-19T19:18:00.000+11:00

An auxiliary crew of 150 or two-

hundred volunteer staff answered emails

that poured into 'Bacterial' with requests for material.

Lum's skills managerial proved quite magisterial,

a fact that was not lost on some females,

2005-01-18T20:18:00.000+11:00

putting Yahoo and Google, MSNBC, Froogle,

IMDB and such sites of high standing,

even Adult Friend Finder, in the shade, a reminder

that a gentler and kinder website can still find a

big readership (my sites notwithstanding).

2005-01-18T02:00:00.000+11:00

Message to 'Kill the Prez' subscribers

Are you a happy bacterium?

Are you enjoying Irving's tale? I hope you're having half as much fun as I am. At 116 verses, I ain't even started yet so hang onto your headdress!

I'm looking for a reader or readers who would like to pen a few sentences every week or two, a brief outline of what has transpired in the most recent posts of KtP, to keep the Lumwedder narrative fresh for newcomers. It's kinda necessary because it's so big.

The update I have in mind will be sent to the 2,770 subscribers of Wilson's Almanac. Naturally, I'm asking and offering this first to my highly valued KtP subscribers (Bacteria), but next weekend I will also ask the WA gang (Almaniacs). I just thought I should offer it to you first. You don't have to be a professor of literature to do it, just someone who can express themselves well in English and thinks it would be fun to do.

If you like to write, and this appeals to you, either alone, in a team, or taking turns with one or more others, please let me know this week. If you would like to have some publicity for a project you're in, I'll be more than happy to exchange ad space for your valued help. Thanxalot, dang me!

2005-01-17T20:53:00.000+11:00

So Tim got his bandwidth, much more than a handwidth

or asswidth, good for 500 million plus.

That's hits per day, not per month. Why, traffic per month

was a volume unth-inkable, uncountable, unf-

athomable, something like 62 billion plus,

2005-01-16T19:36:00.000+11:00

Anyway, Tim got the site up and a very good write-up --

cover story on TIME magazine.

Salon, which just loves to be cynical of

almost anything 'dove', called bacterial.gov

"the hottest cool site we have seen".

2005-01-16T07:20:00.000+11:00

"Bandwidth? No worries. No worries chicken curry,"

Lum had promised. "Make it wide for the masses.

How wide do you need? Like Oprah's ass if you need.

Some sites you can't read, slow as Dubya on speed.

Like NASA's. Loads like sorghum molasses."

2005-01-14T19:19:00.000+11:00

It took only days for the bacterial craze,

phrase and phase to blaze exponentially.

Kids magazine could have reached 17

(six of whom were Mundines) but its potential was seen

when the website was backed presidentially.

2005-01-13T23:14:00.000+11:00

"I mean, for our nation." "It'll be education,"

said Irving. "He'll be learning, why dang me."

"Mr President, we hear ya!" "And he'll still live quite near ya.

There's a pizzeria, cafeteria ... he'll learn 'bout bacteria ..."

"Err ... great," said the folks. "Shucks, don't thank me."

2005-01-12T20:12:00.000+11:00

Without hesitation Mom allowed Tim's vacation

when Lum asked if he may sequester

her son: "We are so very proud, he may go

a few days or so." Pete was even more so:

"Heck, let him have the semester!

2005-01-11T19:28:00.000+11:00

Kill the President



Part 12



We now zoom ahead from that scene by Tim's bed,

(once the HQ of Kids -- "Now with Irving"),

to the heart of DC, where Tim oversees

a staff of 23, a dedicated ISP,

his own server, with ten sites that it's serving.

2005-01-10T19:01:00.000+11:00

See, 'bacterial', like 'dang', soon entered the slang

that spread with Lumwedder's epistle.

This emergent vernacular with intimations oracular

was sudden, spectacular. And when you look back you'll a-

gree: intercontinental ballistic missal.

2005-01-09T19:28:00.000+11:00

Yikes! I'm ahead of my serial. As argot, 'bacterial'

means no more to you, reader, than 'germs',

if I may so presume. Unless you can zoom

fast forward from Tim's room. Allow me to assume

that role. Indeed, those are our terms.

2005-01-09T10:29:00.000+11:00

This scene's fully played out, so time for a fadeout.

Suffice to say, there at Tim's bedside

was born on that day at 30 Elm Way

what people will say many years from that day

was the world's first 'bacterial' website.

2005-01-07T23:53:00.000+11:00

"I'm sorry?" asks Pete. "Feet? I don't hear any feet.

Just the plumbing I guess, Mr President."

"Yeah, I guess," ponders Lum. "Got that trouble at home."

But Lum's acting dumb. "Sure, Pete, just the plumbin'.

White House plumbers. Got the same at my residence."

2005-01-07T10:06:00.000+11:00

"Mega-whoozie?? No worries. No worries chicken curry.

Tried to learn that stuff once. Nearly fainted.

And java -- holy sheet!" Then suddenly Pete

appears. "Listen, Pete. In the roof. Sound like feet?

Bit early for Santy Claus ain't it?"

2005-01-06T13:56:00.000+11:00

"I can upload tonight! I'll redo the site.

Lum, Kids will become one of the better mags!

Add a forum or two, and a picture of you

in your hat --" Tim's enthused. "And I'll make sure Yahoo

and Google can find us." "How?" "Metatags."

2005-01-05T09:15:00.000+11:00

Tim audibly sighs. Irving studies his eyes.

Tim gulps. Irving says "Son, you're hesitant."

"Well, Lum ... the expenses --" his amanuensis commences.

"The hell with expenses! Why, our so-called defenses

are a billion a day!" Then Lum grins: "Plus ... I'm President!"

2005-01-03T20:01:00.000+11:00

"We would get this out faster if you were my webmaster!

Huh, Tim? Can we post online now?"

"Sure ... except ... well, the bandwidth ..." [There's no rhyme 'for bandwidth',

I think. The word 'bandwidth' is like 'month'. Blah blah bandwidth.]

Says Lum "Can I help? Show me how."

[Pip says: Dang me! 102 verses. Are you lost yet? The whole rave is at http://www.wilsonsalmanac.com/kill_the_president.html.]

2005-01-03T10:25:00.000+11:00

"And we do have a site -- not much of a site --

I put up the headlines each month."

"Are you good on the Web?" "Not bad," Timmy says.

"Well, put this issue to bed, and then ..." Irving says.

[Poet's note: what the hell rhymes with 'month'?].

2005-01-01T20:36:00.000+11:00

"Sir --" "Please call me Irving." "Sir, I can't call you Irving!"

"OK. Call me Lum. I insist."

"I should call you Lum?" "It sounds a bit dumb?"

"No, but --" "Call me Lum, my Mom called me Lum."

"OK ... Lum ... well, I do have the story on disk.