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Thursday, March 22, 2018

All the Aals (A Nonsense ABJ)

A is for all of the aals Al allows in Al's Salsa.

B is for bountiful bowels (burp!) betrayed by the aals Al allows in Al's Salsa.

C is for charming Czech chars cleaning crappers in bars badly fouled by brown’d bowels ("Bounty Toweled? Bloody aals!) Al allows in Al’s Salsa.

D's for some drei dozen dowels used deploying dry towels, towels consumed by Czech charwomen chary of bowels, bowels betrayed by the aals ("...BHA'd by the aals?") Al
allows in Al's Salsa.

E's for the erudite e-mails each evening sent females detained dragging dowels, drilling cores, dressed in cowls, all consumed by chic charwomen cautious 'round bowels,
bowels betrayed by the aals ("...ballonet'd by the aals?") Al allows in Al’s Salsa.

F's for flat files flaunting feminine wiles sent (in error) in e-mails to educate females who drill down through dowels, dandy cores for crimped t*w*ls (spelt employing
orthography using no vowels), towels consumed by Czech chars cleaning bathrooms in bars -- biker bars (bars called "Bubba's" or "Jolly Jack Tar's") whose bartenders and bouncers? Best kept behind bars -- big bars badgered and bothered and browbeat by bowels, bowels betrayed by the aals ("...Beaujolais'd by the aals?) Al allows in Al's Salsa.

G is, by golly, for gum gaily gnoshed by twin dumb femme fatalettes whose wiles fill pornography files sent in error by e-mail, enjoining each female, "Keep drilling those dowels, darn ya’ll!" -- [Deftly drilled dowels provide cores for the towels, and the ladies who drill, christened "Whores de la Towels," Al calls "borers of dowels"] -- mosty dowels for the towels, cloths consumed by chic chars (who arrive in fine cars) chary -- very! -- of bowels, bowels betrayed by the aals ("...buerre manie'd by the aals?") Al allows in
Al's Salsa.

H is for haberdashed hats hiding hundreds of cats whose guts ghouls grind for gum gaily gnoshed by some dumb femme fatalettes whose wiles found (unfiltered!) in files sent in error in e-mails to estrogen’d females who drill all those dowels -- done as cores for the towels, cloths consumed by chained chars forced to check any bowels badly trod on by aals ("...blah-blah-blah'd by the aals?") Al allows in Al's Salsa.

I is for indigo isles -- drained by Indigo Niles running through 'em like aisles -- I've inhabited, miles from the hundreds of hats hiding hundreds more cats from whose guts gals get gum gnoshed...again, clumsy dumb femme fatalettes whose wiles are finessed in fat files sent in error in e-mails to employees – females! – who drill all those dowels (disregard, please, their scowls) dowels consumed by chic chars, cool as cuc- ( * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ) bowels been betrayed by the aals ("...Beau Marche'd by those aals?") Al allows in Al's Salsa.   
           * Lines indicated by asterisks represent a lacuna of eight beats occurring in the original.

J’s for…why, J's just the jails justly jammed by the males now indicted for stealing (plea's in; they're appealing) those hoards of fedoras 'neath which hide Angoras grim goons change to gum...and again, here's those dumb femme fatalettes whose wiles folks find featured in files sent (correctly!) by e-mails to three males -- all key males -- who drill all those dowels, at day's end, cores for towels, towels consumed by crazed chars...chars still chary of bowels, bowels betrayed by the aals ("...Ballantrae'd by those aals?") Al allows in Al's Salsa.

K's for… ("Hey! Pis aller!")

All aboard my autogyro..."

All aboard my autogyro,
park'd between row X and Y row.
Pilots...? Guys from Gyra (Spyro).
Join 'em not if you're a tyro.
Now departing Cairo! 

Boarding now's my bumper car.
It's slow, but ranges wide. And far.
Your stewardess, Pat Benatar,
brews coffee, tea and Kristallklar.
Next stop? Zanzibar!

Cabs uncopious...? Catch my currach.
Neither's cake, but, nowt to worrach.
Share with me (and Ace Venturach),
s'long as you're in no great hurrach.
Now departing Thurrock!

"Dammit, Dog, don't drive dat dogsled
down dem dork-deep drifts," Snoop Dog said,
hoisting (how...?) one whole half-hogshead.
"Now dig what you did: dat dog's dead!"
Let's revisit Brideshead!

Entering my escalator,
guests encounter "SmorgasSeder."
"Matzo first," rants Reb Ralph Nader.
"Have your afikoman later...
once we've crossed th'equator."

Fairer...? Nothing than my ferry.
Friends float free, but Fie! Don't tarry!
Challah-bearing Halle Berry
serves loaves warm (and "buerre-y"...very!)
Lunch at Brundonderry!

Guidebooks call guests "gondolees," a-
gondola'd by Gondoleezza
Rice, my gondoliere-cum-visa-
mater here in Greater Pisa.
Next stop: San Theresa!

Heading hellward...? Hire my handcar;
booking agent's Ralph V. Shandkar.
Best for guests who ramble and car-
een. (In Greenland, it's a bann'd car.)
We don’t stop at Kand'har!

Board my Mitsubishi "I" Car! 
Dwight D. Eisenhower ("Ike") ar-
ranges for his look-alike car
to be mine when he drives my car."
Next stop: Isle of "Rikar"!

Join me in my jade jinrickshaw,
though its pilot, Rob ("The Mick") Shaw
(under "M" in Webster's Dicshaw-
nary) often phones in sick. Psh-a-a-aw!
Skip The Res: too Chick'shaw.

Killer rapids...? Book my kayak.
Back-up fry cook Stephen Fry, back
from Mae West's suggests guests lie back,
chill and try his Brie on Zweibach...
named "Best 'Nosh in Nayak."

Loop-the-looping in my luge...? Herr
Larry Lege,'* illustr'ous luger.
Beggarlike, I hire this Hoosier
'cuz I cannot wax more choosier.
Next stop: Newport News...hear...?

     * Pronounced 'ledge,' the reference is to Larry Legend
aka Larry Byrd, NBA Hall-of-Famer from the Hoosier State. 

Mot'ring in my Morris Mini,
maitre d'auto Albert Finney
brandishes a mandolin he
made with aid from Laura Linney.
Next stop: Olde New Guinea!

Now let's "nav" my Nucl'ar sub. Ya'
heard its "nom-de-vro-o-o-oom"* by Dubya
mispronounc'd for years. Oh, Shrub! Ya'
stunk as Pres, yet lunkheads "lub" ya.
Next stop: Suburbubya!

     * Ala the "nom-de-plume," the so-called
"nom-de-v'ro-o-o-oom" is an alternate name
for a power source. Of course, W was notorious
for, among his many creative uses of the language,
a chronic metathesistic mispronunciation of
'nuclear,' regularly rendering it as 'nucular.'

Outings in my Oldsmobile,
once cater'd by Shaquille O'Neal,
are catered now by Howard Keel.
(Imagine how that makes Shaq feel:
like losing at Deauville.)

Plant your pants seat in my punt.
A poling pair, recalcitrant,
provides the paddling. Frank's* up front.
(In back, I've posted Allan Funt,
past-polester from Ft. Hunt.

      * Francis Albert Sinatra

Quiet, kids! Don't quit my quint.
It's old, but in condition mint.
Shout "'hoy" to helpmate Captain Flint,
My water-worthy wunderkind.
The next stop: New Orli'nt!

Fixates does William Butler Yeats,
who fits guests' feet for roller skates
and elevates the going rates
down at my Rink (A-12's he hates):
"We fit all fifty states!"

Stop! Occupancy max'mum's three
aboard my solitary ski.
There's (1) you; (2) man Friday Lee
van Cleef; plus one more...hey! It's me-e-e-e!
Next stop: Menomonee!

Try my tourist-class toboggan! 
Travel blogger Uta Hagen
damns with faint praise on her blog in 
comments like, "This "bogg'' beats joggin'!"
Next stop: West Sheboggan!

Unrival'd artiste Lena Horne
waits tables on my unicorn,
shares tips with all the foreign-born
garcons. She shouts, "What's mine be your'n!"
Next stop is Californ.'

"V'ro-o-o-o-oom" goes my velocipede.
That's why my chauffeur, Hari Reede,
warns, cautions, pleads, "Be sure to heed
all traffic signs...plus, ple-e-ease don't speed!"
Next stop: East Runnymede!

Welcome 'board my welcome wagon.
Welcoming you? O. J. Dragon.
Sometimes fun; sometimes an agon-
y: Best pack your flask…or flagon!
Next stop: Bilbo's Bag En'!
   
     * Oliver J., noted Kuklapolitan and good friend – 
but just a friend! -- of Fran Allison, and no relation
to the isoinitialed scofflaw Simpson. 

Xebeceers who crew my xebec
(one's call'd Beckham; t'other's Glenn Beck)
urge all guests, "Avoid the poop deck!"
And...stop asking, "Are we there yeck?"
Third-to-last stop: Tea Neck!

You're invited 'board my yacht. 
Invite a guest; invite one not!
I'm bringing Phnom Penh pal Pol Pot.
As to the fare...? How much you got...?

Next stop: Connecticott!

Z-z-z-z-z-z-zs guests grab in my Zamboni
follow snacks of Rice-a-Roni,
b'loney stew and roux'd spumoni
served by Mitchells (Chad and Joni).
Last stop: Isle of Coney! 

Attention, please! Passengers must exeunt.
Every last vehicle is now out of service.

Wednesday, March 21, 2018

Hot & Not Potatoes (from AmalgaMates)

Grow fingerlings!
Add swept-back wings!
Fly Aeroflot Potatoes!

With Knipps* serve Russets!
('Tain't no fuss; it's 
simply Brat Potatoes.).

     * Types of sausages featuring
a mix of meat and grain.

A mash too thick
won't do the trick. 
Steer clear of Clot Potatoes!

Does fungi grow
in Idaho?
Why not! Dry Rot Potatoes!

Without 'em, salad* 
just ain't valid:
Eisenstadt Potatoes!

     * German potato salad, i.e.

Electric sparks
derived from arcs
take Forty Watt Potatoes!

"Got Milk?" Passe!
T-shirts today
are asking, "Got Potatoes?"

Saartjie's* got 'em
on her bottom:
Hottentot Potatoes!

    * Saartjie Baartman aka
the Hottentot Venus.

Which 'tater skins
forgive your sins? 
Im Himmel Gott! Potatoes!

From Matthew, 5*
these spuds derive.
They're Tytl'n' Jott Potatoes.

     * Specifically, Matt., 5:18 of
the 1526 Tindale translation of the NT.
(The spelling is different, of course,
in the later King James version.)

Some sides of fries 
come paired with ties.
They're Windsor Knot Potatoes!

Not sold in pails
but holy grails.*
They're Lancelot Potatoes!

     * And, just as often, holey grails,
allowing the spuds to drain.

Draw fractal plots
with Tater Tots!
Use Mandelbrot Potatoes!

Am I a yam? 
Why, yes: I am!
Are you, too, Not Potatoes...?

Heinrich Ott:
one's Swiss; one's not.*
Together: Ott Potatoes.

     * The younger Heinrich O
was a Swiss bobsledder;
the elder, a German physicist. 

The last's Rebirth
(for what it's worth).
They're Seven Plot Potatoes!*

      * The first six are Overcoming
the Monster, Rags to Riches, the Quest,
Voyage and Return, Comedy and Tragedy --
at least according to Christopher Brook.

"'As many as' 
Augustus* has,"
respond the "Quot?" Potatoes.

     * Caesar Augustus was the founder
of the Roman Empire and a fluent
Latin speaker. "Quot?" asks 'how many?'

Your cottage fries
have Mother's eyes?
They're Rorschach Blot Potatoes!

Come mealtime, Jews
and blacks refuse
their Marge C. Schott Potatoes!

Who runs 5K
Thanksgiving Day? Why,
Turkey Trot Potatoes! 

Of robot tubers
they're the 'uber's: 
Uberbot Potatoes!

With loving labors,
feed your neighbors!
Vacant Lot Potatoes!

It's not their fault
they need more salt:
they're Wife of Lot* Potatoes!

     * Genesis, 19 tells how this poor
woman was turned into a pillar of salt. 

They'll flip for chips 
and chili dips!
Use -ic (EXot-) Potatoes! 

Remove the rudder;
serve with butter!
Yummy Yacht Potatoes! 

Veg'tarian
Sumerians
eat Ziggurat Potatoes!

Ade's Ken of Economy and Eight Other Smidges Too Far (Nonsense Rhymes)

Ade's* ken of economy...? Groundless; astounding:

Ade sins for a penny. (Ade’s in for a pounding.)

     * Ade when he's at home is grand grandson AZB.

How ever shall "done deals" or faits accomplis grow

if Congress be led by the Knights Who Say "Negro!"?

Islamicist cinemen, Shi'ite or Sunni,

shall garner no Oscars: they haven't a Clooney.

John's* Trask family dwelt on the outskirts of Eden:

both Trask twins were "-ists": Aron, "pur-"; Caleb, "hedon-"

     * Author Steinbeck 

Ms Sawyer's* brew notes grew: she waxed iambic

once arid Mary'd had a little lambic.

      * Mary Sawyer, later Mrs. Mary Tyler, she of "Mary's Lamb" fame.

Mitt's Humvee's chauffeur'd by a dormant Sir Dwight Streeme...?

Inquire, when Ike wakes, "What was Mitt's Hummer's Knight's dream...?"

I'd aid your recall of the Legion of Decency

calling "Nude Pledge of Allegiance" indecent. See...!?!

Unable to pen a penultimate line post

failed Alzheimer's tests...? That's one sure Auld Lang Signpost!  

Xiu -- chef at Panda Baroque on Quemoy --

serves a sig dish called Johann Sebastian Bach Choy.

Beyond the Laughing Buddha (from AmalgaMates)

Herein array'd be Buddhas, laid
in alphabetic chain.
They'll errors quell. (They'll dare, as well,
through zen, to entertain.)
Neglect them not! Connect each dot,*
your dharma to obtain.


     * If you speak Hindi, dots are bindis,
never marks of Cain. And if you don't speak Hindi, 
they're just dots. (Does that explain?)


ApPeale, the Asking Buddha,
proposes queries three:
[1] "How d'ya do?" [2] '' Cool! An' you...?""
[3] "What in hell's a 'Sri'...?"
(Non sequiturs, these, it occurs.
Feel free to:  [  ] dis  [  ] agree.)


BelChantz, the Burping Buddha,
eructs "As Time Goes By,"
accompanied on treble reed
by me -- don't dare ask why.
(Pair'd, formerly, with Kenny G.,
whose fing'ring's fa-a-ar from fly.)


CaTarrh, the Coughing Buddha,
whose throat conceals a frog,
sounds so-o-o-o like Satch. But here's the catch:
CaT's bill'd "The Well-vet Fog."
(Not on your life will "Mack the Knife"
CaT caterwaul en blog.)


DohSupp, the Doping Buddha,
your limner* limns as lean:
a shade, a ghost, "DohS" overdos'd
on metamphetamine.


     * Me: Sgt. N. ("Jim") Smithe-Magee
(the N's for 'Nicotine').


EnGrave, the Etching Buddha --
here tann'd a Van Dyke brown,
declares, "My dear, why not wait here...?
I'll bring my etchings down" --
EnG's poach'd lampoon of Thurber's 'toon.
(EnGrave's a knave, a clown.)


FiNesse, the Frailing Buddha,
picks six-string licks galore.
FiN's added string? It's "just the thing":
FiN's motto's "More is more."*
Like mentor Seeger, FiN's "de reegueur" --
railing 'gainst the war.


     * FiN's new octet's The Buddhaettes:
none like 'em heretofore.


GroTesk, the Grinning Buddha
apes Carroll's Cheshire Cat.
Long tail...? Long gone! Claw'd paws...? Withdrawn!
Such traits show great "eclat."
GroTe's jaw's in view because ('tis true)
GroTe's face won't fade. ('S'too fat!)


HarRumph, the Huffing Buddha,
employs a gas mask bong
to toke his Rhino. (Like your wino,
'Rumph well knows it's wrong.
This only shows how 'Rumphy goes
along to get along.)


IgGnatz, the Itching Buddha,
hosts gnats like Drumpf boasts dough --
thought lacks, withal, The Donald's gall,
lies, braggadocio,
pathologies, cabalas...Jeez!
Though Ig stays, Drumpf must go!


Jean-Joque, The Joshing Buddha,
does stand-up in his youth;
a spell, as well, at SNL.
(He kill'd at House of Ruth.)
Still...Hope he's not, because he's got
Gil Gottfried's lack of couth.


KhaRote, the Kvetshing Buddha:
complaints, complaints, complaints!
(But, after all, I must recall:
bodh'sattvas make poor saints.
"No Mother T. be me," warns he.
"An even temper taints.")


LeTharge, the Lolling Buddha,
looms large down Sarge's Tap.*
LeTh lacks Lot's pep; well-earn'd's his rep:
he's call'd "Nocturnal Pap."


     * That's Sgt. N. ("Jim") Smithe-Magee
(the N here stands for 'Nap.')


MoTette, the Moulting Buddha:
skin-slough-'n'-shed his thing.
MoTe's strips all while he's strumming viol
and humming "Moultin' Swing."
Finessing that -- faith's "tit-for-tat" --
The Christ scats "Ring-a-ding..."


NouVelle, the Noshing Buddha:
His ma
's Subbotnik Jew.
Says Mom: "NouVelle, mein zun: zup well!
Nor nein neglect to chew!"
(She adds as well: "You're pale like hell."
Replys NouVelle: "Says you!")


OyVey, the Oozing Buddha:
from eyes 'n' ears, from nose,
from butt 'n' lips slick syrup drips.
Quick! Fetch a pail 'n' hose!
(Of newsy ooze and such-like goos,
sick Sarah Palin knows.)


ParPhor, the Putting Buddha,
is slow to break a sweat.
But once "Puttz" does, he's sunk -- because
a bogie's worst when wet.
(I call him "Puttz" and "Gutz" and "Buttz"
and "Clutz." But "Nutz"...? Not yet.)


QuiQuid,* the Quarr'ling Buddha.
"QuiQ" lives to fight. "F**k flight!:
I argue pro and con; I blow
hot/cold; I row left/right."


     * 'Quidquid' is Latin for 'whate'er.'
(I trust that sheds some light.)


RapPunz, the Rapping Buddha,
won't shout in Saxon tongue.
Nor seek do freaks to speak the Greek
from which RapP's raps be wrung.
Still...RapP be boss: check out that cross
which 'round RapP's neck be hung.


SaShay, the Sleuthing Buddha,
inveighs his days away:
"I'd dare -- today! -- Poirot portray...
if Pinter'd penn'd the play."
Al Finney's cry...? "Just let him try."
(No comment from Suchet.)


TouChé, the Toddlin' Buddha.
On "Toush" Chi* chose to dote.
Is up Chi's thumb
? You bet! (In sum:
TouChé's still hip...hot...haut!)

     * To learn that 'Chi''s 'Chicago,' I
suggest you read this note!


UreOwtt, the Umping Buddha.
Team's fate...? Check, mate, his name!
How well we'll do is subject to
the way he calls the game.
But, safe or out, he's still a lout.
His calls are always lame.


VaMooze, the Voting Buddha,
vents, "Vote the varmints out!"
'Tis understood VaM's motive's good.
Wields VaM the ample clout...?
('Tis moot: PAC Suit's are resolute;
our future's much in doubt.)


WahrRoom, the Warring Buddha.
In genocides he's starr'd.
If peace broke out, there's little doubt
WahrR's record would be marr'd.
(My view's here voiced: that WahrR be hoist
upon his own petard.)


XingXiao, the Xysting Buddha,
sits 'sconced in his arcade.
Its rostrum spins: so, for his sins,
Xing swivels in the shade.
"If 'tweren't for me," whines Xing, "I'd be
lieutanant senior grade."

YoLande, the Yachting Buddha,
sits watch on Empress decks.
YoL sports a cap -- though for his nap
defers to turtlenecks.
(When naptime's done, he'll join the fun
exploring sunken wrecks.)


ZoneOwtt, the Zzzzz-zing Buddha?
Tres fab at grabbing Zs.
Those shades of his permit this wiz
to "rest his eyes." (Oh, plee-e-e-eease!)
His wife agrees: since Xmas, he's
depleted her chablis.


Thus ends this Book of Buddhas.
I've exhausted six and twenty.
Yessir! Ev'ry letter -- plus, what's better,
proffer'd puns aplenty:
a reprimand for skeptics...and
a jog for cognoscenti.


Buddha Codha


AtChoo, the Arctic Buddha:
his agony's untold.
His raiment -- rime -- some see as slime.
AtCh calls it 'Eskimould.'
(Result...? AtChoo's well troll'd.)


StooLoose, the Soiling Buddha,
dreads dirty-di'per days.
No puerile pup, "StooL" messes up
in 'adultlescent" ways. 

Litany Chanted Over Schrödinger's Box

Is he dead yet...? 'Yes' or 'No'...?  All'd 'God Bless!' if 'Yes,' you know.  Is he dead yet...? Don...