The Whiff of Swiffer's Whiff

Today I saw a certain Swiffer commercial on t.v. for the first time. The good news: two young and pretty actresses, God bless their little careerist hearts, landed jobs with national exposure. They did not threaten or obviously harm anyone with their dialogue. Their characters were pleasant and through them they depicted a major aspect of the human condition: loneliness and its relation to libidinal as well as platonic companionship. Nothing wrong with such creations. The bad news? Though anthropomorphized, these characters were, you see, pieces of DIRT. No, I'm not railing against 21st century thespians, some of whom doubtlessly though, have drunk deeply from the well polluted by over 40 years of pornography leaching (and leeching) into our so-called mainstream culture. No, these actresses were decent, without any Lohan-ish/Madonna-ish/whore-ish attitudes or looks. They were however, one was asked to imagine, actual pieces of DIRT, debris, greasy matter, decaying food particles, shedded hair, bits of shredded wheat, dust, grime, insect excrement, lint, chewing gum, Scotch tape, sweat and whatever else remains stubbornly on one's kitchen floor because it has been deprived of the sweeping, swashbuckling, all enveloping embrace of a magnificent cleaner-upper such as the charismatic El Senor Swiffer: all-purpose mop! These gals were wearing regular, demure business attire: but dresses that were, I swear, the color of olive drab vomit that must have blended itself with mud, grease and pus somehow, to produce a vision of the most unwholesome mess this side of the Love Canal. These ladies, a.k.a. sleazies-make-ya-queasies, pondered their fate as they began to seem to despair that they would ever get "picked-up" (oh, inspired paronomasia!). At that very moment, Johnny Depp-Swiffer comes diving down from the sky and the chosen chunk of matted garbage blissfully leaves her fellow fragment of feculence just as the latter preliminarily and resignedly floats the notion of monastic friendship. Her lucky pal clings ecstatically (and statically?) to the underside of Mr. Big in one of those embraces one saw at some muscle beach back in high school or college days when the prom queen could no longer resist the charms of the Big Hunk on Campus and wrapped her legs around his torso with bacchanalian abandon. Who REALLY wonders why space aliens (think Organians, dear Star Trek fans) do NOT attempt to make contact with this earthling race of ultra ninnies? If our mesomorphic black ("colored" didn't cut it then or now and "African-American" had not yet made the scene as a term in '69) buddy of Ethereal Cereal fame and Watts, Calif. (loved the old wax quart carton of milk with the familiar white and red Queensboro brand label alongside his breakfast bowl) could be informed that such a commercial REALLY would be made and that it would be shown in 41 years, he would have ejaculated ("to utter suddenly and vehemently"--Webster's Seventh New Collegiate Dictionary {so leave me alone}) once more: "No shit!". Pal, sad to say: on the contrary, yes (much) shit! And we've an "endless stench" to quote the ol' Cement Lamenter.

Cement Lament

Rotten cotton
Sails away.
Hope's a dope
Fissure-men stay.
Old, too old
Soothers say.

Upchuck Chicky

Dense as clay.

Hurt, big hurt

Drops its drawers

Wicked she-dogs

Never paws.

Thimble symbol,
Thread of wife:

No help here

Nor garden's life.

Dust the rooms

Speak of care

Figure not

Nor deign to dare.

Spit up blood

Clot to scorn

Rip the lungs
Dung at dawn.

Stop the seed

Wind the sheet
Crush the heart
Not a peep.
Vince, the Man,

See him fade.

Place the dirt with the spade
On the site of his snooze,
Still a wish
Washed by booze.
Sober up: news again
Same as old...
Inkless pen.
Why, oh why?
Push away
Cup o'dregs
More to pay.
Leave me be or suck me dry.
In starry sky my only pie.
So long, Clem!
Clam it up.
Razor cuts,
Jaw's stubble juts.
Pigs and you: ruts and nuts.
Blast your smile,
Why schmooze the putz?
Soldier will
Stand stock still
And outlast last princess pill:
About face (when gaze she'd meet)
Sub-second 'fore...martial retreat.
Pride it comes
And pride it goes
Yet I shall stand on tippy toes.
And shoot the shit or third world scum,
Toss the bull or mongrel bum
When we see the unter-mensch
In numbers numbing,
Endless stench.
Then woe and sex, back burners keep
Thankful we, on our feet.
Drain each sewer-
Happy fight
Though we lose to the night.
No vulva's call to sap our strength,
No hopeless womb to charm our length.
Just one great "No!"
Until the fall:
Our gall is all...
Hail! Shopping Mall!
Yes, pavement crack of parking lot
With filtered sun through skylight slot
Lets weed wend'n poke through brave
As it greens an old Yank's grave.

Marquard Aardvard Farquard Was A Friend of Mine

Well, I managed to navigate my way back to the "Palace" and I thank you gents for your help, i.e.making me a co-honcho of this here Blogosity (Jim) or whatever the correct job title is and for the detailed e-mail of steps to take (John) to get to here from where I was. At some point the screen instructed me to contact "Rus" for an invitation so I knew that I was getting off square one in some strange way. Essentially, it was a matter of forming two accounts with the two e-mail addresses and tattooing the respective passwords upside down on my bay window (I just have to glance down). So, who the hell is M.A.F.? How should I know? He was a lot easier to name than he'll be to flesh out. Let's just say for now that he's a shadowy guy from old New York (he longs for OLD old New York, i.e. New Amsterdam) and he hides his sorrow with many a tankard of whatever was Heineken's "ancestor" from the 18th century. Also, he's haughty as all get-out, feeding off the pomposity of his moniker, unlike the Boy Named Sue who fought against the supposed daintiness and timidity of his handle. And he visits me in the wee hours of psychic twilight when reveries abound of Cholly Knickerbocker's past and future. Well, to be continued....but before I go, am reminded, since this is a kind of party and T.M.R. recommends a wingding at M. Twain's (complete with heaping helpings of L&O, or chocha...we are talkin' Yackson Heights, after all), that I am eager to brag about, and so shall: that I'd be glad to risk a jihadist as a fellow passenger on a 21st century version of Lucky Airlines' {maybe Kalula's?} idea of a Real Ball). Even if he showed up and beat me out for the winning ticket to the exclusive Original Mile High Bimbo Parlor in The Sky, I'd just solemnly warn him that the babes, one'n all, are previously owned models of indeterminate mileage. Recoiling in disgust, Mo'll drop his ducat which I'll grab and be off to the races in my tidy whities. Besides, internet lore assures us that just the sight of a nekked babe dictates suicide for Mr. Nowhere. I'll make sure his scimitar is handy and not any firearm to perforate, besides him, our cabin walls. GO LUCKY AIRLINES!

Who's that Lady?

Beautiful, yes she was. Lovely blue eyes, stunning blonde hair, delicious smile. Her statuesque figure attracted numerous wandering eyes. But it was her legs that turned heads, caused hesitation in conversation. Those shapely stems, those gorgeous gams.

They were artificial.

Margaret's Best Confession Ever II

by T.M.R.

The first snows of September were falling on How-Many-Syllables, Vermont, the day Fr. Dennis MacAuley -- crazy as a loon for months -- buried Margaret Roche. The 40 pushups he had assigned her for penance had proven too much for her frail old heart [see Putney's Palace, October 29].

Margaret didn't mind the 40 pushups that killed her. She had always felt that the heavier the penance, the better it would be for her soul. Now she was getting a chance to find out.

"Margaret died smiling," Fr. Dennis began his homily at her funeral mass. He lifted the lid of her coffin and peered inside. "And she's still smiling." He removed Margaret's jewelry and patted her down for loose change.

Margaret's eldest daughter, Mary Veronica Dolores-Veronica, broke down and wept.

"She was ninety-five years old, for chrissakes," said Fr. Dennis. "What were you expecting?"

"Now give 'em a Bible reading," whispered the voice of Shecky Greene, one of the many voices that gave Fr. Dennis advice. "Hurry up. I'm Jewish. I don't feel comfortable in here."

"Today's reading is from the Book of Putney," said Fr. Dennis. He cleared his throat. "And Putney sayeth unto Nathan, 'Nathan, you're corrupt.' And Nathan standeth erect and sayeth unto Putney with great pride, 'Thank you.' I forget the rest of the scene. The mass is over. Go in groups. Hold hands on the stairs. No peeking, boys."

"That's it?" said Mary Veronica Dolores-Veronica.

"That's it," said Fr. Dennis.

Shecky Greene whispered something to Fr. Dennis.

Fr. Dennis nodded. "And take the old stiff with you."
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