Thursday, August 25, 2011

BDG Origins: "How We'as Raised!"


by Ambrose Bierce,
from Beetles in Black Amber

I lay one happy night in bed
And dreamed that all the dogs were dead.
They'd all been taken out and shot--
Their bodies strewed each vacant lot.

O'er all the earth, from [Pinole] down
To San Leandro's ancient town,
And out in space as far as Niles--
I saw their mortal parts in piles.

One stack upreared its ridge so high
Against the azure of the sky
That some good soul, with pious views,
Put up a steeple and sold pews.

No wagging tail the scene relieved:
I never in my life conceived
(I swear it on the Decalogue!)
Such penury of living dog.

The barking and the howling stilled,
The snarling with the snarler killed,
All nature seemed to hold its breath:
The silence was as deep as death.

True, candidates were all in roar
On every platform, as before;
And villains, as before, felt free
To finger the calliope.

True, the Salvationist by night,
And milkman in the early light,
The lonely flutist and the mill
Performed their functions with a will.

True, church bells on a Sunday rang
The sick man's curtain down--the bang
Of trains, contesting for the track,
Out of the shadow called him back.

True, cocks, at all unheavenly hours,
Crew with excruciating powers,
Cats on the woodshed rang and roared,
Fat citizens and fog-horns snored.

But this was all too fine for ears
Accustomed, through the awful years,
To the nocturnal monologues
And day debates of Oakland dogs.

And so the world was silent. Now
What else befell--to whom and how?
Imprimis, then, there were no fleas,
And days of worth brought nights of ease.

Men walked about without the dread
Of being torn to many a shred,
Each fragment holding half a cruse
Of hydrophobia's quickening juice.

They had not to propitiate
Some curst kioodle at each gate,
But entered one another's grounds,
Unscared, and were not fed to hounds.

Women could drive and not a pup
Would lift the horse's tendons up
And let them go--to interject
A certain musical effect.

Even children's ponies went about,
All grave and sober-paced, without
A bulldog hanging to each nose--
Proud of his fragrance, I suppose.

Dog being dead, Man's lawless flame
Burned out: he granted Woman's claim,
Children's and those of country, art--
all took lodgings in his heart.

When memories of his former shame
Crimsoned his cheeks with sudden flame
He said; "I know my fault too well--
They fawned upon me and I fell."

Ah! 'twas a lovely world!--no more
I met that indisposing bore,
The unseraphic cynogogue--
The [hags] who's proud to love a dog.

Thus in my dream the golden reign
Of Reason filled the world again,
And all mankind confessed her sway,
From Walnut Creek to San Jose.

[...Because L/L and R/R - and all their dogs! - moved to Manteca.]


Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Seen One, Seen All Three

Some of The More Famous Tetons
How does a man respond to wickedness?
Some sulk, some fulminate, or pray, or curse.
My choice has always been to turn to verse
To neutralize the causes of my distress.

And this may be why my satire appears
So gentle, with spines and thorns that are intermixed
With flowers. I don't expect the world to be fixed,
And laughter serves my purpose better than tears.

The Regrets, Joachim Du Bellay (c. 1522 – d. 1560) (trans: David R. Slavitt, 2004)
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The thoughts and verses, above and below, are those of highly acclaimed French Renaissance poets, although the English words were supplied by scholarly and talented translators.

The stark contrast between the following two Clément Marot epigrammes illustrates that when a woman goes wrong, she goes horribly wrong. (Or, worse, when a threesome of them go wrong, they become Hell Incarnate.) Rather than fulfilling her call to heavenly grace, she becomes instead an instrument of torture and bondage; she fails to help lift the heavy burdens of life, contrarily adding only misery atop those burdens. The object - the breast - is merely a methphor for "The body whole of [the] possessor," and the mind and spirit besides. This dichotomy really has nothing to do with youth or age, physical tautness or sag; but, like beauty or ugliness, peace or hysteria, emanates from within.

Du beau Tetin (Of the Fair Breast)

.....Breast, whiter than an egg, and quite
As smooth as satin, fresh and white:
Breast that would shame the rose; plump Breast,
Of all things known, the lovliest;
Firm Breast, indeed, not Breast at all;
Rather, a small, round ivory ball,
And in the middle, a cherry placed,
Or berry, and with such beauty graced
That, though I neither touch nor see
It bare, I vow such must it be.
Breast red-tipped; Breast taut, and that never
Waggles about, whithersoever,
Coming or going, running, leaping;
Left Breast - coy, sweet - your distance keeping,
Properly, from your mate, discreet.
Breast that reflects, from top to teat,
The body whole of your possessor!
Ah! Were I but her breast-caresser!
Many's the man that, when he sees you,
Tingles with lust to hold and squeeze you;
But he must rein his appetite,
Never draw near lest soon he might
Burn with a fire quite otherwise!
.....O Breast of perfect shape and size,
Alluring Breast, who, night and day,
Cry: "Find me a husband, quick, I pray!"
Breast swelling full and comely; Breast
Quick to add inches to her chest;
Ah! Right the man who says that he
Is blest who fills you generously
With milk, to turn you, ma petite,
From virgin's Breast to Breast complete.

Lyrics of the French Renaissance, Clément Marot (1496-1544), Epigrammes, I, LXXIX (trans: Norman R. Shapiro, 2002)

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Source: Danny Henessey / Artdoxa
Du laid Tetin (Of the Ugly Breast)

.....Breast, nothing more than scraggy skin;
Breast with no solid flesh within;
Sagging and loose, like swaying flag,
Or - dare I say? - a saddlebag!
Black gross-tipped teat, long, ugly (very!),
Funnel-like, that an ordinary
Touch will set wagging in the breeze.
And should, perchance, one choose to seize
Your flaccid form, well may he crow:
"I lend a hand to knead sour dough!"
Breast dry as dust, breast drooping free;
Breast withered, limp, whence loathsomely
Not milk but muck comes oozing, spewing:
Vile Breast, the very devil's doing.
Breast foul as tripe; Breast I would not
Be much bemused to learn was got
From some old she-goat, lying dead;
Breast wrought in Hell, that might have fed
Lucifer's child; long, swagging sack
Fit to be slung athwart the back,
Over the shoulder, like a cape
Of yesteryear, round neck and nape.
Many's the hand that, when one sees you,
Quakes with disgust, forthwith, to squeeze you-
Well gloved, perforce!- and flail the face
Of her who hides you in disgrace.
Pendulous Breast, gaunt, misbegotten,
Ah, what a smell, abhorrent, rotten,
Wafts from the sweat that you secrete:
Civets and scents galore, replete
With stench, I warrant, that might choke
A hundred thousand gentlefolk.
.....Breast that makes nature blush with shame
To call you Breast; you who defame
The very name of Breast; the first
Among the foulest and the worst;
Breast with your nipple suppurating
Slime - putrid, noxious, nauseating...
By George! - the saint, that is - no more!
Shit, pen be still! Be silent, or,
If you keep writing so, no doubt
I'll retch and puke my innards out.

Marot (trans: Shapiro), ibid., Epigrammes, I, LXXX

- - - - - - - - - - -


Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Barefoot in Hell's Kitchens: Frequent Impalements


Barefoot in Hell's Kitchens:
Frequent Impalements

Reviewing the Animus, the Actively Scamming-Us,
Of Vile Neighbors- Lying, Horrendous;
The Blathering, Dawdling and Stupidly Twaddling
Of Corrupted Manteca's Officious;

Jack Courts, and Jill Judges, Stuft Lawyers (the Fudges),
F'd Up Beyond All Recognition (FUBAR).
If This Is to End, Please, God, Quickly Send
Fire and Brimstone or, At Least, a QWATUR.
= = = = = = = =

A morning to die for! Another clubbed gopher!
This daybreak is my cup of tea.
God, I wish the same for my southerly neighbor
And then I would truly be free.

The setting to tell this story 'bout Hell
Is Manteca, a small bad-ass town,
Where bullshit runs deep, slows things to a creep;
Its odor is hard to keep down.

Be warned at the fore there are arms, legs galore
And more shit to spread thickly around;
Fat cats, and their knobs, and wee Pinole cobs,
Contribute the loud brassey sound.

In her own words:

"Our company's called TLC."
[A falsehood from A clear through Z.]
"That grandfather bloke
Was dreamt up to cloak
Our bare-assed il-le-gal-i-ty."

So said, we now resume the narrative:

Despite the loud screeches of Three Rabid Beaches,
This business was simply not legal
To have in their yard– nor the mobile home, ‘tard!-
TLC? No! but pretensions were regal. (*1)

Their visages mousy and roach coaches lousy,
Where dogs, cats, and chickens all shat,
Round Red and Skin Green both kissed up the Queen,
Sold her dope to put coins in the hat.

Short, stumpy Red's dumpy, the picture of frumpy,
Blessed with half of a keen half a brain;
She cooks; she hooks; her dishwater looks
Mere bubbles as she swirls down the drain.

The smallest of packages, the biggest of lackages
And the shrillest of keening high vocals,
The prime BDG (*2), "Hear me, but don't see,"
L/L (Lyin' Lynda) scares all the piss out of locals.

The deliberate horrors of these ice-pimping whores
Caused the Stewarts an early demise;
The complete lack of sleep kept their depression deep.
All for chorros, burritos, and fries?

Another word?

"Aboon them a', thee skelpit twats!
Thegither we be thrivin';
They be nae pintles t' gar us loup,
But damn braw triple rivin'!"

Pardoning that unfathomable ejaculation...

Should you ever get stuck ‘hind a catering truck,
Please know that they simply are cooled
With buckets of ice, dog slobber and mice;
Beware the street drain! Don’t be fooled.

Midnights were nice... 'cept for crashing of ice
Into five-gallon white plastic buckets!
The icemaker hummed, then it squealed and it thrummed,
While "Lil Brother" did doggie snout dunk-its.

Deliveries at six- and at four in betwixt-
At eleven, the Darling grease monster;
Truck trips quite a few to Costco: "Yoo-Hoo!
We need sodas and that doggie food - Chompster."

Great barrels of grease; trash stacked to the trees;
The whole story strains one’s disbelief.
To ask it, to sigh it, to pine for some quiet
Became number one goal for relief.

One big piece of flotsam– the ancient, loud Scotsman
Lyin' Lynda's most precious sex toy;
'Til it lost its Freon... and juice wouldn’t stay on...
Her flaccid, deflated life joy.

The fridges, the freezers, all six canine sneezers,
Shared space with the vast fleet of trucks
Cramped onto the lot, where they really ought not;
A false catering front for the schmucks.

Back to droppings bovine, which are 'specially divine
‘Round that place which is called City Hall,
Where po-lice, and fire, and more thugs for hire
Each has his/her well-padded stall;

Just fork in the tax! The chiefs start to relax
And the milk lets down inside their udders.
But call and complain, and you’re met with disdain;
Per-spi-cu-i-ty (*3) brings on them full shudders.

Ambrose (*4) did confer (and I- hell, yes!- concur)
His tragically funny description
Of Planning's, Enforcement's, obstructive deportments
And their earned- well-deserved!- malediction.

To them: What’s the law? Just something to gnaw-
No reason to rush into action;
All that noise nuisance stuff is surely enough
To induce gross adverse stu-pe-fac-tion (*5).

For twenty-three years the icemaker jeers
And the spoutings of shrill Lyin’ Lynda
Made her protestation of true annexation
The big lie of a dried up, old spinsta’.

The resident _unts pulled some stupid-ass stunts,
Like growing Sierra High © weed,
And parking more toys, and making more noise
Than anyone ever should need.

Such was the case when brought to the place
Where councils, in all their great wisdom,
Are to hear out each side and– just maybe?!- decide
To enforce their own city’s provision.

Mister Oleander spoke goose and spoke gander,
Couldn’t seem to at all get a fix.
Among all the rest, if he is the best,
This parochial town’s run by hicks.

The Decibel Man kept harping old plan
Replaced by him just the year prior.
He got Rex-O-Saurus to join in his chorus;
They threw city law in the fire.

Just kicking the can, the verbose Milk Man
Spun great webs of airy, fine words.
Yet still, in the end, his will made a bend;
His vote plopped!… just like great milk cow turds.

Quite late, some attorney wheezed sounds from his gurney
And roiled the mud up right royal;
His fork’d, serpent tongue first flapped, then it stung.
Our tax money made sure he stayed loyal.

So on to the Mayor, who tried to use prayer
To usurp his namesake, Holy Willie (*6).
His odorous rants (through the seat of his pants)
Made his sucrose orations sound silly.

Assigning old blame is this council's game-
Not fixing the final solution.
With a genius motion (a fresh hemlock potion)
They washed their hands– causing pollution.

What low-down, lily-livered, yellow-bellied hounds!
There wasn’t e’en a woman among them
To stand for the right and remove the blight,
Their supposed modus operandum.

Ah, yes, ain’t it nice? They give free advice,
Which is sure to be worth every cent.
They smirk, fart, and snort, “Take L/L to court.
Our political mojo’s not spent.”

With research compiled and first papers filed,
A lawsuit was thus set in motion.
The evil return? An eighteen month burn-
A LOUD increase in backyard commotion!

We now meet two charmers, paid beagles from Farmers,
Who came on the drear reservation
Espousing a claim of righteous domain-
Held solely in imagination;

Blind shareholders must put way too much trust
In these goons who give no thought to rules.
If there is a buck these fools can muck,
Then there go our rights, lives, and tools.

Oh, retaliation! L/L’s new installation
Of radio, speaker and wire,
Was the bitch’s bright notion (her full term abortion)
Of which she seemed never to tire;

Every morning at seven, this musical maven,
Blear-eyed, slithered out to her shop;
Without fail the witch would toggle the switch
And fill each new day with her slop.

Tell me it warn’t so?! Yes, ma’am, I do trow
That fake rock and her head looked the same;
They both had a mouth that suffered no drought,
And the points on the tops very plain.

On Easter of ’10, this fart-for-brain hen
Turned her radio up, then departed.
The cops came at noon, heard the notes and the croon,
And ticketed the noise that she started.

With the city fast sinking in red ink- and stinking [bullshit]-
I stood for a council election;
But the voters all said, Pile more on our head,
And they made their olfactory selection.

So, four years of more what went on before.
The people have begun to falter
While Manteca brass gets office-chair ass;
The cows will fit horses to halter.

The summer was hot; the music was not;
Played constantly to beat the bands.
Yet Joaquin and Alex (*7), dogs Castor and Pollux,
Let the speaker slip right through their hands.

With cameras up high to blanket the sky,
The Dirty Girls spied on their neighbor.
A calendar quarter he suffered disorder
‘Til his own eyes returned their fell favor.

That got the old goats- they practically choked!-
Cranked their music up and started toking.
The returning cop said the music must stop
And informed them their rap sheet was smoking. (*8)

With impotent flailing, they tried to go sailing
With big tarps and some very tall timbers
To block direct view of the shit that they do.
Winter winds blew those masts into splinters!

What Lyin' Lynda really means to say:

“Our aim’s to provide some strange weed
To the sickly-- (and those in sore need.)
A big toke or two-
Flush brains down the loo.
No refunds on claims of bad seed.”

“Hey, we got drug business to run;
Kill you all without use of a gun–
Not body, but spirit-
And don’t you dare queer it!
(We do that with ourselves, just for fun. ;-) )”

Getting on with it...

Thought they had learned, but their baked weed-brains burned
And their cameras stayed still in place–
Until one went, "Crack!" ("We’re under attack!")
Taken out by a BB gun ace.

L/L screeched! Ear-split pishing! Off'cer "Herb" came a-fishing
With camos, guns, search warrants, O' me!
An hour they toss for gold, but get dross,
On the say-so of Ass-bay-yawwwn-ee.

The judge and DA met most of a day
To cipher if they had a clue.
Their final conclusion: gross mental contusion (*9).
So, what’s the infraction? Who knew?

On Easter ’11, the twits rooossse up to heaven
(At least, they’re not found on the earth!);
No more cackling voices; Mom Gaia rejoices,
But naught can repair their scorched turf.

A nephew called Bubba, and his hot hubba-hubba (*10),
Moved into the departed’s place.
Much traffic is showing the MJ’s still growing-
L/L's business still running apace.

Tick-Tock! Tick-Tock! The BDG’s clock
Musta’ rung, ‘cause they came back (!) on time
To stay HIGH... on top of their herbal cash crop,
Which the dopers all claim’s not a crime.

They came back, the old haunts, looking gray, looking gaunt,
With their hangers-on, tough red-necks all,
For Cork-Screwed’s old trailer, that neighborhood failure,
To set up for the next small town’s fall.

The lawyers all say that, real soon, some day,
This suit must slip out of its traces;
The Beaches skedaddled, with the queerest death rattle,
To save their Medusa-like faces.

Save face! Save face! The plague of the race,
A vile, insipid invention.
Man up to the sneers, the cat-calls, and jeers;
Be glad, at least *negative* attention...

Order established– and all five books published-
One illegal land use now ended.
But here we are, stuck, with stinky bad luck-
The "grow hydroponic" well tended.

There is nothing mystical about the logistical
Arrangements to move all that weed-
Simply alternate weeks- swap filled trucks with the freaks
Who sell dope for the BDG's greed.

A simple deception (that's L/L's perception),
Just like the fake property swap.
Real hard to pin down as she drives a new town
Still slinging her hash. ("Jus' cain't stop!")

So, what of that co-op, school mom, school pop,
With an AWOL Manteca narc squad?
The law is an ass when it comes to queer grass.
P’rhaps the school board will give it the nod?

Thus ends the foul war that I early had swore
Would wage red hot until I prevail;
Some storms, some clouds; at last, the death shrouds
'Cross her ugly, small life. Back to Hell!

Back To Hell With You!
The prime use of land and the particular brand
Of the BDG’s pot, I’m remanding.
It’s now between God and the Manteca sods;
They can flip for jurisdictional standing.

{God: Gimme a QWATUR.}
{Manteca: F’ you! We stole it fair and square.}

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

(*1) TLC Catering - what does it mean? The TLC could stand for many things, but the acronyms with perfect applicability are:
Three Lying __unts.
Thievin', Lyin', Cheatin' __unts.

See this post for a more full exploration of the subject.

(*2) Barefoot Dirty Girls (BDG’s): Name obtained from a customer complaint, recorded by Environmental Health Department catering truck inspectors in the field on 7/19/1999. (It is incredulous to imagine any - or all - of these bitchy broads being called “girls.”)
“Both girls are dirty, but one is very dirty–
does not wear shoes and feet are black with dirt.”
  • ALPHA bitch: Lynda Sue Allen, from Pinole, CA. Appropriately known as Lyin' Lynda; a.k.a. L/L; a.k.a. Auntie Lyn (self-styled.)
  • BETA bitch: Theresa Ann "Red" Brassey, a redhead from San Leandro, CA; a.k.a. Rotund Red, Roly-Poly Red, Resectioned Red, and all other appropriate descriptors that start with the letter "R."
  • GAMMA bitch: Cornelia Jane "Corky" Green, from the "southerly" side of some rock; a.k.a. Guts[y] Green (for her prominent muffin-top); a.k.a. Skin Green (for her compulsion to exhibit her belly-flab.)
(*3) Per'-spi-cu'-i-ty (n) Clearness or lucidity, as of a statement. Synonyms: 1. clarity, plainness, intelligibility. 2. transparency. 3. derived from a Latin word meaning “to see through,” i.e., clearness of style or exposition, freedom from obscurity. Antonyms: dimness, opacity.

(*4) Ambrose Bierce (1842-1914.) An American journalist and author; a contemporary of Mark Twain. Here is his Devil's Dictionary entry for Commonwealth, in describing a government entity:
COMMONWEALTH, n. An administrative entity operated by an incalculable multitude of political parasites.

This commonwealth's capitol's corridors view,
So thronged with a hungry and indolent crew
Of clerks, pages, porters and all attachés
Whom rascals appoint and the populace pays
That a cat cannot slip through the thicket of shins
Nor hear its own shriek for the noise of their chins.
On clerks and on pages, and porters, and all,
Misfortune attend and disaster befall!
May life be to them a succession of hurts;
May fleas by the bushel inhabit their shirts;
May aches and disease encamp in their bones,
Their lungs full of tubercles, bladders of stones;
May microbes, bacilli, their tissues infest,
And tapeworms securely their bowels digest;
May corn-cobs be snared without hope in their hair,
And frequent impalement their pleasure impair.
Disturbed be their dreams by the awful discourse
Of audible sofas sepulchrally hoarse,
By chairs acrobatic and wavering floors-
The mattress that kicks and the pillow that snores!
Sons of cupidity, cradled in sin!
Your criminal ranks may the death angel thin,
Avenging a friend whom I couldn't work in.
(*5) Stu'-pe-fac'-tion (n) 1. the state of being stupefied; stupor. 2. overwhelming amazement or astonishment.

(*6) Holy Willie's Prayer, by Robert Burns

[sixth stanza]
O Lord, Thou kens what zeal I bear,
When drinkers drink, an' swearers swear,
An' singing here, an' dancin there,
Wi' great and sma';
For I am keepit by Thy fear
Free frae them a'.

(*7) Foreign language speaking handymen; also doubled as radio-playing yard guards during the BDG's absences.

(*8) Black Beetles in Amber (A Celebrated Case), by Ambrose Bierce.
The Judge on the bench he looked awfully stern;
The District Attorney began to attorn;
The witnesses lied and the lawyers--O my!--
Sing too-ral, i-oo-ral, i-oo-ral, i-yi.

The chap that defended her said: "It's our claim
That he loved us no longer and told us the same.
What else than we did could we decently do?--
Sing too-ral, i-oo-ral, i-oo-ral, i-oo."
(*9) Con-tu'-sion (n) Injury (to tissue), usu. without laceration; bruise.

(*10) Purely literary license as to the "hot" part.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

Monday, August 1, 2011

The True Meaning of T.L.C. (Yes, Virginia, There Is A Grinch.)

T-Boz, Left Eye, and Chilli (TLC)
I hate to think of the last four years, wracking my brain, trying to think of the true meaning of TLC! All that wasted time! All that being Mr. Nice Guy, giving the benefit of the doubt to the three poor, miserable wretches ekeing out a living selling chips and sodas {and something weird wrapped in tortillas.} All that vain worry about the Barefoot Dirty Girls chilling their foodstuffs with ice flecked with doggie saliva, and upside down ice buckets used as step stools in the dirt.

Wherever did those hillbillies from the Contra Costa come up with this acronym?

  • Did it mean (as most people think) Tender Loving Care? Perish the thought! That is completely contradicted by the personalities, mannerisms and lives of the BDG's. It is not cosmically possible.
  • .
  • Maybe they named it after "T-Boz" (Tionne Watkins), "Left Eye" (Lisa Lopes), and "Chilli" (Rozonda Thomas), the BDG's alter egos in a girl band called TLC. Strong possibility here but, with such an horrible accident of naming, those girls do not deserve to be painted with the BDG's broad acid brush. The BDG's possessed absolutely NO musical abilities whatsoever and, besides, they fancied themselves more like these three:

  • Did it stand for (Rotund Red) Teresa Teressa Theresa Brassey, (Lyin') Lynda Allen and (Guts[y]) Corky Green? No, not if the name was chosen before T & L moved to Manteca, because flabby Guts[y] joined the ménage à trois later. Good try, though.
  • .
  • Could its intuitive etymology confirm Three Lying  _unts... uhn, Three Lying Culinaries? Getting warmer!
  • .
  • How about Three Little Pigs? (Aw, come on!) Colder.
Ok, Ok...
  • "L" is easy, it's a given - the embodiment and immortalization of L/L, or Lyin' Lynda.
  • .
  • "C" has a narrow array of possibilities, primarily Cxxt, Culinary, and Cod Liver Oil; or, in light of patterns being repeated recently with non-payment of taxes, the winner is Cheat. Now, something for:
  • .
  • "T"... Taxes? {No, too repetitious} Three? {No, too mundane for such goddesses} Hmm... Lie, Cheat,... Steal! Ahhh, ahhh... Thieving!

Three truly perfect descriptors for the Satan spawn downwind!

- The true meaning of TLC Catering -

Thievin', Lyin', Cheatin' Cxxts Culinaries

The Barefoot Dirty Girls have forever tainted the acronym, TLC. Whoever uses it in the future will suffer under its poisonous stigma. Never will I think of TLC the same way again.