Dirk Destroyer Part 19 Chapter 10 Part 1

The Fellowship of the Bring has gone underground to escape a large number of unsheep-like sheep. There they meet someone.

Chapter 10

All Bore

So Jonma Carry ran into someone while he was digging deep into the earth and slinging mud on everyone. That was curious. I hoped it was someone alive. I repelled the dirt from my person, and easily caught up with the waddling Jonma Claim. The man I caught up to wasn’t Uriculous – at least not at that moment.

“Probably a rich widow,” muttered Jonma Claim, “or maybe a big money campaign contributor. He’d think that’s important. Too much money and dirt in politics! We need straight talk, and no temptation.”

I didn’t think Jonma Claim was talking to me so I didn’t respond. Maybe he wasn’t even aware I was there.

“Look at this big hole in the ground,” he muttered. “Cap and trade will fix it! Cap and trade will fix it all! I heard that once and it’s straight talk. That’s what I’m known for – straight talk.”

By this point we encountered Jonma Carry, who grumbled something back at Jonma Claim, I kept my distance from the two Jonmas, as much to avoid the tedium of their discussion as anything else. Little wonder that both the Jonmas had been politicians. Most politicians seemed to believe that if they talked to you long enough, that you had to agree with them.

Dirk told me once that there was a place where politicians could speak into the air and be heard by millions, all at once. I wondered if these millions of hearers had any choice in the matter. Dirk didn’t say, and I suspect – as Dirk spent most of his time in oblivion – that he was just making the whole thing up.

Imagine a place where you had no choice but to listen to politicians. What kind of crimes would you have to commit to be condemned to such a place?

“It’s called, Boogle,” said a droning voice at the end of the excavation. “Just try it.”

“But doesn’t it cost money?” asked Lip Ton Tease.

“Not initially,” said the voice, which emanated from a rotund man, as bland looking as his voice sounded. “We make our money with repeat customers.” Then he looked at Tease. “Say Boogle.”

“Boogle,” said Tease, and a magical red arrow appeared over Tease’s head, though as we were in a cave, it was hard to determine what it was pointing at, other than the cave wall.

“It’s true,” said Tease. “The arrow is pointing to the legendary showers of Wa-Wa World. I have always desired to experience them.”

“Who’s next,” the voice said with a slight elevation in its drone.

“Boogle,” said Lustavious. A red arrow appeared, pointing directly at Ono’s butt. Having seen what his arrow was pointing at, I knew that this was not a good time for me to say, Boogle.

The voice laughed humorlessly. “It’s very useful magic, to show you what you desire. I didn’t invent this particular application, but as I am the inventor of magic, I receive a royalty every time someone uses it.”

“You invented magic?” said Mage-e-not.

“By the legal definition, yes,” said the dull voice, “and you, Sir, owe me quite a tidy sum for all the times your head has disappeared.”

“But no one told me…”

“Ignorance of the law is no excuse. What a handy phrase that is when suing people.”

“Milk the cows,” said Swampy for no reason I could think of.

“Say,” said the bland man, “is this the destroyer?”

“That’s his brother,” said Jonma Claim behind me, who was apparently back to being Uriculous.

“All Bore,” said the man, holding out a limp hand for some reason.

“Elmer McFarland,” I responded, guessing that All Bore was the man’s name, and not some command that I begin to speak like he did.

“McFarland,” said All Bore. “I have no copyright on that name, or on Elmer. I guess you go free.”

That didn’t make any sense to me, so I ignored it. “Did I hear you say you invented magic?”

“For all legal purposes, yes,” he said.

“How old are you?”

“I am sixty-five years old.”

“But magic has been around much longer than that.”

“That may be,” said All Bore, “but no-one claimed the rights to it until I did.”

“So even though you did nothing, you claim the credit?”

“I did something,” said All Bore.

“What’s that?”

“I filed the proper paperwork.”

“But then what’s to stop you from charging people for running, or whistling, or even breathing.”

“Keep your voice down,” said All Bore. “Those patents are still pending.”

Will the Fellowship get out of their underground predicament? Will they be assaulted by the unsheep-like sheep? Will they be bored to death by All Bore? Will the Chicago Cubs ever win a World Series? Some of the answers to these questions can be found in future installments of Dirk Destroyer’s Less Destructive Brother!

   Here's a song from Tom Lehrer that All Bore might like - assuming he shut up long enough to listen to it.

Dirk Destroyer Part 9 Chapters Four and 4

I think this is the ninth installment of Dirk Destroyer’s Less Destructive Brother. When we last left our intrepid crew (I’ve always want to write that,) Ono, has just encountered Lustavious Brachenhun, the libidinous, importunate (two more words I’ve always want to use,) Lightbringer, who has pegged her for one of his longer-termed relationships – perhaps an entire hour.

Chapter Four

Stuff You Learn

There are several tricks you learn if you live long enough. I have lived long enough to learn a few of them, and to identify several more that I have yet to learn. Some tricks come to you naturally, though the only way to learn others is to go to the right school.

Characters learn to fly in books from the childhood tales of Ffefferfoph the Bblupbblsuph (who hasn’t read that one?) to Jonathan Edwards Seagull Looks for Chicks. What does this mean? There is a trick to flying, and humans can learn that trick if they live long enough – or find where it’s taught.

The same is true for trans-dimensional transport, a common skill in many stories – so common that anyone who’s lived long enough would surely learn how to do it. It is a skill that Ono, at this point in the story would find very useful.

And also a skill I never learned.

Chapter 4

Lustavious Brachenhun

“You,” sang Lustavious Brachenhun with a catchy pop tune with a syncopated beat, “you may be the next one! You maybe the one-and-only of this hour! (or maybe one of two.)”

I disliked Lustavious Brachenhun on sight, but I admired his ability to make up a song extemporaneously like that. Dirk could do that – even when we weren’t unusually old. As a matter of fact, Dirk was doing that when we were children.

“You’re the Babe for my bed,” sang Lustavious, “and it better be soon or I will SWOOOON to the moon!”

All right, that section wasn’t so good.

Lustavious was tall. He was the tallest Light Bringer I’d ever met, and his hair was pretty amazing. His blonde coif was the equal of Luxcurious Bidden, and it wasn’t even stapled to his head.

As he got closer I stood up. Why do men always stand up when they are approached by tall men? Maybe it is to see if the other man is taller.

Lustavious was taller. I still stood. So did Ono with Swampy firmly rooted to her shoulder. She nudged me out a step and slipped behind me so I blocked Lustavious from her.

“Oh, hi,” said Lustavious. “You must be the brother of that conniving bastard we are going to blast into oblivion for all time!” He thrust out his hand. “I hope there’re no hard feelings.”

I found myself taking his hand, and even more incredibly, saying the words, “of course not; think nothing of it.”

“Jerrrrrrk!” said Swampy, sounding more bird-like than I’ve ever heard him before.

“We are all happy,” said Akwar in a disturbingly seductive tone, “to do anything you want, Lustavious. ANYTHING.”

I didn’t remember Akwar being in the room. She did what may have been intended as a bump and grind routine with a chair, which had it any free will, might have ended it’s chair existence right there and opted for cremation.

I put selective amnesia on my list of skills I needed to acquire.

“Noted,” said Lustavious, who had been fortunate to miss the more disgusting thrusts of Akwar’s routine because he was focusing on getting past me and into close proximity with Ono. He reached across my body and fastened his manicured fingers onto Ono’s arm.

Ono said something that might have been yelp, or help. I couldn’t be sure. Mage-e-not’s head was missing, though there wasn’t any food floating above his collar. I remembered my boast about just drawing the line and felt shame.

“Just a moment,” I said, and felt conflicted saying even that much.

“Yes?” said Lustavious, staring down his perfectly straight nose and over his strong chin to meet my gaze.

I trembled. I really trembled. Not even Lenny Bruise had made me tremble and that guy was pretty powerful when he wanted you to feel small.

“I don’t…”

“You don’t what?” asked Lustavious.

“I don’t know…”

“What don’t you know?” he sang in a suspended minor chord that sent shivers up my spine.

What didn’t I know? I didn’t know! I couldn’t think. My mind was blank, my knees were shaking. Something was important, but I had no idea what!

“I know,” said Swampy, and sunk his rat-muzzle beak right into Lustavious’ arm.

Lustavious bellowed, and within moments, seven Showr Rinn monks skipped lightly across tables, chairs, and people’s heads, surrounding Lustavious, Ono, Swampy, and me.

“A problem?” asked a slightly damp but glistening Lip Ton Tease.

For a moment we all stood there frozen. It reminded me of the day Grandpa McFarland caught Dirk and me smoking one of his cigars behind the potting shed. It turned out that Grandpa had no trouble with his ten and eight-year-old grandsons smoking, but he gave us each a whipping for not buying our own.

Grandpa loved his cigars more than his children or grandchildren, an attitude I’ve come to understand over the years.

Tease stood there watching us with patient intensity. Monks live for the moments when they can display patient intensity. Everybody else on the planet experiences either patient boredom, or anxious intensity. Monks hum for years to acquire this skill, then display it whenever they can.

Yes, monks love to show off.

Ono was the first to come to her wits. She ignored Lustavious’ bleeding forearm, and the bits of gore hanging from Swampy’s beak.

“You glitter and bubble, Lip Ton Tease,” she said. “Did you splish and swoosh?”

Tease turned his head in the pose that monks make when they don’t know what to say, but want to look wise. “Loofa brings wholeness to a shower,” he said.

“Ding dong,” said Ono. “You monks vroom.”

Tease straightened in a non-monk-like, but very guy-like way. For all his training, Tease was a guy, and Ono was a pretty female. Guys, be they 2-years-old, or about to fall in the grave, always like to impress pretty girls.

“Poop and boo-hoo,” Ono continued, “we can’t peep as you roar and rumble – to see you whoosh and jangle.”

A female novice, who though a female, may have been among that percentage of females who, like males, live for impressing pretty girls, said, “but you can watch us! I mean, it is permissible if you wish to observe and so find peace.”

“Ker-ching?” asked Ono. Her eyes, which I noted were a rather pleasant shade of green, fastened on Tease, like he was the great hero, and the bleeding Light Bringer was nothing more than a face – a face turning rapidly red – in the crowd.

“Yes,” said Tease, “Lap Er Gud, speaks truthfully – though training exercises here might disturb the peace of brunch. We would not harm anyone, but those who have not attained cleansed emotions might fear the fear that disturbs digestion.”

“Wham zing!” said Ono, accepting an invitation that was not strictly given. “May Swampy swoop and peep as well?” She gently slipped her free hand under Tease’s arm. Lustavious still held her other arm in his large hand connected to his large, albeit savaged arm.

Tease looked on Lustavious’ wound and produced a loofa from his robe. “You should clean that before you have it bandaged,” he said.

Lustavious let go of Ono’s arm who strolled out of the cafeteria between Lip Ton Tease and Lap Er Gud.

Maybe Akwar was right; she was a wizard.

A perfect drop of blood released its hold on Lustavious’ arm and hurtled out into space. Its shape elongated as it fell, whether stretching for the floor, or reaching back for its erstwhile home. Though it accelerated as it dropped, time slowed and tiny fragments of the drop refracted in the cafeteria’s sterile and unappetizing light. As the drop found oneness with the puddle below, twin crowns formed at the top of the drop, and at the point of joining. The first crown dissolved into harmony with the puddle while the second rapidly expanded its corona before rippling through the many droplets that had lost themselves in a completeness which was…

Yech. That’s what it was, a puddle of blood. I never much liked blood. I looked up at Lustavious whom I still detested.

“You need some help with that arm?”

Lustavious looked around sheepishly. Sheepish was not an expression his face knew well, and it didn’t suit him.

“I suppose,” he said, putting down the loofa as if it were a dangerous snake.

Mage-e-not’s head did not reappear until after we left.

Come back next week to see the doings in the broom closet! That came out wrong. I mean there is a broom closet involved, and stuff happens, but I don’t write “doings” very well. So come back next week to read the non-salacious events that occur in the broom closet.

(Way to go, Headley. Now nobody’s coming back next week.)

And now this message from one of my favorite sick song writers, Tom Lehrer

Gandhi Song - Multiple Rip-Off Blog Post

The song below is absolutely my work. It’s true that the facts in the post were inspired (researched… stolen) from the life of Mahatma Gandhi. It’s true that the tune of the song is inspired (borrowed… stolen) from the Disney (evil amalgamation of bloodsucking lawyers without a hint of the creativity of its founder) Corp movie, Mary Poppins. It’s true the concept of the lyric is inspired (taken… stolen) from a joke that made the rounds in the early days of the internet.

But this song is all mine!

The Gandhi Song

by Headley Hauser (except the tune, concept or details)

Now I will walk without my shoes on dirt or rock or sand

And I have walked so many miles across this Indian land

Now you may think I'm 5'4" but I'm not quite 5'3"

For and inch of callus underfoot just makes a taller me.

Chorus

I'm a super calloused fragile mystic plagued with halitosis

You may think my feet are bad, but my breath, it is the grossest

Some people, they may say I'm great, I really hate to boastest

I'm just, super callused fragile mystic plagued with halitosis.

Hum diddle iddle dum diddle eye

You eat a little bit more than I

Last night I had a spoon of mush and in it was a gnat

My heart was filled with such distress that out that gnat I spat

Don’t know what people see in food, it makes me really blue

I think I'll go without it for at least a week or two

Repeat Chorus

The party gave a rally and it's me they want to hear

I just had some onion juice cause I won't drink the beer

Still no one heard a word I said, cause when it came my turn

From out my mouth there came a blast to make Nehru’s jacket burn

Repeat Chorus (followed by)

I'm a super callused fragile mystic plagued with halitosis

Sikhs and Muslims are OK but to Buddha I'm am closest

More peaceful than that Mao Tse Tung,

less fiery than Moses

I'm that super callused fragile mystic plagued with halitosis

Last post I had Tom Lehrer's Elements Song.  Here's more from him. 

Poetry Playhouse

Poets to the Rescue

a play by Headley Hauser

Scene One

(Knock on door)

Woman: Is it the plumber?

Poet 1: No

Woman: The electrician?

Poet 1: No

Woman: Martha Stewart?

Poet 1: No Ma’am, it’s the poets. Let us in please.

(Woman opens door and three poets in work clothes and tool belts enter. The room is trashed. Bad art hangs on the wall. Three Children stare off into space.)

Narrator: When disaster strikes - call the poets!

Poet 1: Two roads diverged in a yellow wood. And being one traveler, long I…

Poet 2: I think that I will never see, a billboard lovely as…

Poet 3: There once was a man from Nantucket…

Narrator: Our competent staff of experienced professionals is ready for any emergency be it personal -

Poet 1: I rise…

Narrator: Family-related -

Poet 2: (to the children) Not in a box, not with a fox, not in a house, not with a mouse. I would not like them here or there…

Narrator: Or commercial -

Poet 3: If you think it’s butter, but it’s not…

Narrator: For a limited time only, with every poet visit, get free cliché-guard.

Child 1: Sticks and stones may gaaaachhhk!

Man 1: A man’s home is his bllluuuubghhhh

Woman 2: You know what Mom always said, yulieicht!

Man 2: (woman 1 is on phone and hears:) The check is in heiyayuriap!

Narrator: The poets will stay with you until the problem is solved - or you’re out of munchies.

Scene Two

(The place is neater and more tasteful. The children look awake and alert, though the youngest is smoking a pipe.)

Poet 1: Sorry about the pipe, that happens sometimes.

Woman 1: I don’t mind at all! Doesn’t little Nestor look distinguished!

Narrator: You’ll be very pleased with the results.

Woman 1: Thank you poets!

The End

Thanks to Facebook Friend, JA, for this song by one of my favorite musical poets: Tom Lehrer.

The Popefying of Francis

Welcome Pope Frank!

I guess Pope Benedict was too pooped to continue popeing.

Like so many things, religious, the choosing of a pope is shrouded in mystery, requiring mental imagery, rather than broadcast-ready action and drama.

At the same time, it’s an ancient spectator sport – a bit sedate, but far less deadly than most of the games from the late Roman Empire. We join together and focus on a port-a-chimney placed atop the Sistine Chapel, and wait to see what 100 guys in red hats are smoking. We cheer for the white smoke (usually Jamaican, but maybe this time, Argentinean.) I’m never disappointed by the black smoke though. It means OVERTIME, and the secondary high keeps on going.

Of course, I’m not in Rome, and as my buddy didn’t order the hi-def smell feature on his new flat-screen, all my hopes of rockin’ with the Vatican went up without smoke.

(Children – Headley Hauser in no way endorses the use of illegal substances for recreational purposes, be it marijuana, papal ballots, or shiitake mushrooms, diced fine, dried with chive, oregano, and a light vinaigrette.)

(First time I’ve ever written ‘shiitake’ in anything – pretty disgusting mental imagery)

Forty-odd (or even) years ago, Tom Lehrer wrote a song, The Vatican Rag.

 

Make a cross on your abdomen

When in Rome, do like a Roman

Ave Maria

Gee it’s good to see ya.

Doin’ the Vatican Rag

 

(copyright Vatican Rag by Tom Lehrer MCML something-something)

Professor Lehrer offered his paean to Catholic propagation in a time of significant change for the Holy Roman Catholic Church. His thinking (as he said on his album,) was that if the church really wanted to sell the product, it needed to appeal to the people in the modern vernacular. He then presented a song in a musical style that was a generation and a half out-of-date.

These are different times for the Rome team. People aren’t talking Vatican 2 anymore (so good – you’ll forget all about Vatican 1.)

They’re pissed.

They’re pissed about discrimination, gay rights, birth control, abortion, the price of gas (which I’m told has nothing to do with Church, but it’s bugging me, so I’m including it.)

They’ve also just about had enough of ‘celibate’ priests instructing the youth in ways not found in the catechism. Of course priests have been doing this as long as Cardinals have been smoking papal ballots, and reformers have repeatedly discussed putting an end to it. Maybe we’ve reached the two millennia procrastination limit.

Recent popes have been firm, but apologetic in their response to this growing dissatisfaction. Pope John Paul 2 (who hung out nearly thirty years in the funny hat to make up for the first John Paul, who skipped the mortal coil before the lacquer on his ruby slippers was dry,) was so sweet and endearing that people almost forgot why they’d been genuflecting with middle finger extended.

That was not going to work long-term. How many guys in Cardinal University (or is it still just a college?) remind you of your favorite childhood teddy-bear?

I think the blessed Tom Lehrer – may he rest on his couch (‘cause I think he’s still alive – though freaky old. If he’s dead, the couch might not be the best place for him.) had the right idea in bringing out-dated musical forms to the church issues of the day. Using his of out-of-date algorithm (he did teach math,) our generation and a half interval leaves us with a wonderful selection of music from the late 60s through the early 80s.

But the tone has to change as well as the form. The Vatican Rag was upbeat, optimistic – you could almost see the dancing altar boys, glad-hands flashing (careful with those mental images, Friar.) The firm but apologetic approach won’t work either, not only is it unworkable, it severely limits the music available.

Remember the classic Ali-Forman fight years before George started selling hamburger makers?

Well, it looks like the Cardinals decided they’ve been riding the ropes long enough – no more pope-a-dope. They picked a Jesuit. Time to kick some acolytes!

So what theme can we create for our new Pope Frank?

I’d eliminate Barry Manilow off the top – his music doesn’t fit, and everybody out there secretly wants to eliminate Barry Manilow.

(Mental image of B.M. being eliminated – is he gone? Don’t forget to flush.)

Even without Barry’s one hundred and sixty-seven identical chants, we still have a number of potential anthems for our pleasantly pugilistic Pope.

What about (Every) Mother’s Son Bites the Dust?

(Bit of a stretch? What was I going to change it to – Another Nun Bites the Dust? No, I don’t like hate mail unless it’s from people giving me money.) All you need is to add a few smells and bells, and it sounds aggressively liturgical.

Play That Funky Music, Padre would have the dual effect of intimidation, and getting congregants groovin’ on those kneelers instead of scooting to the front of their seats and faking it.

There has to be a way to adapt Everybody Was Kung-Fu Fighting. You like that one Papa Frank? I’ll work on it for you.

Maybe you could even turn around that back-room altar-boy problem with a little James Brown - Get Up (I Feel Like Being A) Sex Monsignor.

?

Maybe not? Just throwing it out there.