Dirk Destroyer Part 42 Chapter Non-Twenty-Three

The following is an officially sanctioned digression included in the text of Dirk Destroyer’s Less Destructive Brother. Although digression sounds like a term referring to poor performance, or lack of progress, I was surprised (as I hear the word frequently,) to learn that it means something different. I’m not sure what it means except that this chapter is one.

If this, for some reason, is your initial installment of Dirk Destroyer, first – I’m sorry. Second, you may wish to know that the rest of the story largely has nothing to do with the digressive material below.

Wow, the red squiggly didn’t show when I made up the word, digressive. I must have invented a real word!

Chapter Non - Twenty-Three

FICAL

Headley here.

This is so embarrassing. No, I’m not talking about the fact that I wrote much of chapter 22 while sleeping; sleep-writing is not an impairment, it’s an art-form, and I’m no longer ashamed – especially since I started writing on computers, and don’t have to change the sheets…

That’s not what I’m embarrassed about. Let’s start again.

This is so embarrassing.

The writing profession, or in my case, the writing impoverishment, is not a matter of sitting idly at a table on the third floor garret of a fine Victorian home, gazing out the window, and periodically pecking at a laptop, type writer, ball point, fountain pen or quill. For one thing, by the time people started building third floor garrets to fine Victorian homes, very few writers used a quill anymore except to tickle little children, spouses, or reluctant acquisition editors.

But that’s not important here. What I’m interrupting this fine, reasonably priced narrative to tell you about is a growing problem, nay horror of the modern writer – the out-of-control imaginary character.

Any fair-minded person, such as a judge, or lawyer that specializes in defamation lawsuits, will realize that the Jonma Claim, who has unilaterally changed his name to Jo4n McLame, is not the man of similar intell – I mean similar sounding name who once ran for President.

It was never my intent that the reader would believe such things. I would swear to it, but as a lad, I was once forced to hold a bar of soap in my mouth for swearing, and I found it less refreshing than I hoped, so I am reluctant to swear to anything.

I would agree to one thing however, should the man with a similar sounding name care to seek me out among the detritus of Winston-Salem. I would give him a pinky handshake on the matter.

But this is just a recent example of a serious issue. Imaginary characters are out of control. This is the reason, I, along with so many other impoverished writers have come together to form, FICAL (Fill In Clever Acronym Later) to fight this problem.

Your generous (but sadly not deductible) contribution will allow the impoverished writers of FICAL to drink beer while we deliberate and complain about this issue, and the deplorable state of everything that exists.

Painful experience has shown that money sent to Headley Hauser c/o the detritus of Winston-Salem too often finds its way to the dead letter office where it’s later auctioned off or sent to a guy named S. Claus. Instead, please send your checks (if you must,) money orders (better,) cash (now we’re talking,) or gold coins (Jackpot!) to: Will Wright 5765 Hickory Knoll Dr. Apt 7, Winston-Salem, NC 27106. Though Will is not a member of FICAL, he has a job, and so he has an apartment and mailbox of his own. Though he’s not wealthy by state worker standards, and he really needs to get a better couch for his friends to crash on, he will probably forward the money to a FICAL member, or at least use it for beer.

By-the-way, Will, you’re out of Pop Tarts.

Super Bowl… Is About Food!

So I’m supposed to have this post off. Walter Bego is supposed to be writing this post! I’m supposed to be lying back on a friend’s couch, eating whatever I can find from his cupboards, and wishing he’d get satellite, or cable, or something that gets more than 2 channels on his TV.

But Walter tells me he doesn’t want to write this post. 

 He says that he’s a Patriot’s fan and he feels deflated – then he laughs. I ask him what that’s supposed to mean, and he tells me a sports fan would get it.

So now I’m supposed to pick the Super Bowl?

“No,” he says, “a deal is a deal - 

Patriots 37

Sea Hawks 25

Well that was anti-climatic. I guess I could end the post here.

Can’t do it. So I asked Nick, my co-worker at Amalgamated Monster what he liked best about the Super Bowl.

“The food,” he answered.

“Oh,” I said with relief. I would have been completely lost if he talked about the half-back toggle post wiggle with a twist,

 but food I could relate to.

“My grandmother goes to town,” he said. “She makes all kinds of stuff – chicken wings, cheese cubes, salsa, cheese cake brownies, little funny things with pretzels and M&Ms.”

“Doesn’t she do that other times as well?”

Nick scratched his head and then stopped. It looked too much like he was thinking. Frederick the Bloody and the management of Amalgamated Monster fine all employees caught thinking on the job.

“There is one thing,” said Nick with as thoughtless an expression on his face as he could manage, “that she makes only during the Super Bowl.”

“What’s that?”

“Little smokies.”

My mouth started watering at the utterance of those two magic words. Little smokies were the ying and yang of snack food – a treat that tastes the ultimate good while looking the ultimate disgusting.

“Yeah,” I said to Nick, looking stupid without even having to make an effort. “You’re right – I never see little smokies unless I get invited to a Super Bowl party.”

“And they’re always gone before kick-off,” Nick added.

“So why don’t they show up the rest of the year?” I asked.

“Because they’re always gone before kick-off.” Nick repeated. “It doesn’t matter how many packages of little smokies my grandmother buys – everybody always eats them first while she’s busy putting everything out. I don’t think Grandma’s ever eaten a little smokie.”

I wanted to make some erudite reference to Dante’s Inferno, but my mind went blank – which was a good thing because Frederick the Bloody was staring right at me.

“That’s not fair,” I said as stupidly as possible.

“Uh-huh,” Nick agreed sounding a bit like Billy Bob Thornton in Sling Blade.

We must have passed the stupid test because Frederick the Bloody moved on to lower the IQ in another part of the plant.

“Little smokies,” I mused. “I have to get myself invited to a Super Bowl party.”

Nick was conspicuously silent the rest of the day.

So, how do you keep people from eating all the little smokies before kickoff? I asked that question of a select panel of readers. Sally Q. Broqenbuttom of Hackensack New Jersey responded:

“I just put my plate of little smokies in my cat, Oscar’s litter box.”

Thank you for the visual, Sally.

Maybe I won’t miss being invited to a party so much this year - as long a Walter Bego doesn't get invited either.

I guess there are more disgusting eating themes.  Squeamish Alert!

The Grinch

He’s so much a part of our holiday that we forget that the Grinch is a relatively modern addition to Christmas – barely fifty years old. He was crafted by two geniuses – Dr. Seuss, and Boris Karloff, who supplied the voice. Is it because tart makes the sweet sweeter that characters like the Grinch and his much older colleague, Scrooge stand unabashedly among the much jollier Santa, Rudolf, Frosty, and Clarence the angel.

There must be something more to it.

I think we can pretty much forget the Jim Carey version. 

 Most children under 10 have never heard of it. The Grinch was meant to be in rough animation with the voice of Frankenstein’s monster giving it life.

The Grinch sells a lot of Tequila, as the story is the subject of a very popular drinking game. Odd – that thievery and drunkenness would be forgiven as the Grinch is celebrated in these politically correct times.

Of course It’s a Wonderful Life is similarly celebrated, and nobody mentions Jimmy Stewart’s brawling or the verbal abuse of his wife, his kids, Bert the cop, and a school teacher.

But the Grinch was also an abuser of animals. Something that was accepted and considered funny in cartoons of the 60s, surely can’t be tolerated in an age of PETA.

Where do these Christmas icons get their teflon? Do we forgive the Grinch because adorable Cindy Lou Who does? Maybe it’s because he did kindly heroic things at the end.

But what did he do? He stopped a sled of stolen loot (and the pet he had abused constantly,) from falling off a cliff. That’s certainly a feat of strength, but any unrepentant thief would wish to do the same. He blew a trumpet as he rushed into Whoville, returning most of what he had taken,  (remember, items fell off his sled.) But he still had all that he had at the beginning of the tale, and he and his minion got a great meal out of the deal. What was so kindly or heroic about that?

So – we have a crafty, avaricious, spiteful man. He steals everything he can from his neighbors. He then gives some of it back, but his victimization cycle leaves him in the black. Not only does he gain materially, but he’s haled as a hero and a great guy. He gets to sit at the head of the table and decide (through carving,) exactly how much roast beast goes to each citizen of Whoville.

Oh – I get it!

We revere the Grinch because he is the patron saint of politicians.

Here's more from Carlin on politics - Warning, Carlin was not exactly delicate in his presentation