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Friday, July 16, 2021

Trinomially Breaking News (Unpub)

In what can only be described as over-kill, several operatives from the Artificial Intelligence Applications Institute today resorted to the use of heavy artillery in bringing under control a solitary dog-eared paperback edition of the Thor Heyerdahl 1958 best-seller long suspected of operating as a kind of stargate terminal for an advance party of inter-galactic "travellers"...or,                             
     AIAI Ak-aks “Aku-Aku
 
The talented but morbidly messy Swedish-born thespian Andersson once again has managed to spread the gooey contents occupying both layers of a gift box of Whitman’s chocolate crèmes across her face, her fingers and her by now, frankly, fairly full figure...or,
     Bibi’s Bonbon Booboos
 
“I will dance…do ask me!” counters designer Chanel in her witty rephrasing of hoofer Astaire’s iconic musical refusal. And it’s none of your banal box steps or bag-lady beguines for the elderly fashionista either… or,                                       
     Coco Can-cans, Cha-chas
 
 Eschewing the expected concert venue format for their most recent art project, the legendary rockers create in acrylics a sequence of small canvases whose imagery features graphic representations of various Morse code elements in a style reminiscent of early Dali...or,
     Duran Duran’s Dada'd ‘Dit-dit's

     In Other News: 

Gigi's Gogo's Gaga

Koko's Kicky Kaka

Mau-Mau Mama’s Muumuus
 
Nana “No-no!”s Nanu-Nanus
 
Odo's Ovo...? Oh-oh!
 
Papa Pooh-poohs Pago-Pago!
 
Tintin’s Tsetses' Tete-a-tetes!
 

A Book of...(blah-blah)...Commonplaces (Unpub)

Ancients had an adage,
the gist of which ran thus:
“Who scorns the Emp’ror’s dishabille(blah-
blah-blah)…’neath the bus.”
 
Have Balinese banalities…?
They do. One goes like this:
“Who fails to see the forest…(something,
something)…trees he’ll miss.”
 
One stale cliché (I’m sad to say
convey’d by Che Guevara)
says, “Don’t put off, remove or doff……
(lad-dee-dah)…’til tomarra’!”
 
Herr Drumpf (“Dictatohead,” i.e.)
ordained this ludicrous decree:
“I hereby order…(dah, lah-dee)...
to me, of me, by me, for me!”
 
Ev’ry evangelical
employs an ecphonesis
beginning, “Born again…(blah-blah)…”
and ending, “…(blah-blah)…Je-e-e-e-sus!”
 
The halves of formulae are pair’d,
for instance, “E…(blah-blah-blah)…squar’d.”
They’re unlike this gregueria:
“You…(blah-blah)…scrophularia!”
 
Sad sacks who back the hackney’d phrase
are chary to attack clichés,
preferring the semantic haze
of “…(yadda-yadda)…shades of greys.”
 
To eskimos in Saskatoon,
to stop ‘em do’n’ the stuff they’re do’n,’
this brief injunction comes by mail:
“…(blah-blah-blah, something)…land in jail.”
 
Some tell jokes well, some tell ‘em ill,
while some don’t even know the drill.
Here’s one: “A priest, a rabbi…(har-
de-har-de-har)…into a bar…”
 
This kindergarten katchphrase I
employ’d so kids would think me wry:
“He who smelt…(blah-blah-blah)…dealt it.”
(Just ignore how I’ve misspelt it.)

     Commonplaces awaiting doggerel development:

Line
Maxim, motto, mantra
Nonce word
Obiter dictum
Pensee, platitude proverb, precept
Quip
Raconteur
Saying, saw, slogan
Tag, truism
Upshot
Versicle
Witticism
(a)xiom
Yarn
Zinger


The Book of Kills (Unpub)

     How might the Butterfly Effect set in motion by an ABCs-worth 
of victims of assassination being slaughtered by a set of murderers
different from those who actually did the blood letting impact events
in one pop star's history? (Caveat: these verses play somewhat fast 
and loose with the accents used in the pronunciations of several of 
the following proper names.)
  
     Were
Abe apache'd
by Michele' Angiolillo
nor never by Johnny Wilkes
Booth...
     would Cher's
claques ordain raves,
one-eyed jacks remain knaves
and would Fox schlock jocks [shock!] stock Drumpf’s
“truth”…?
 
     Or were
Bhutto bid "bye-bye!"
by "By'" De La Beckwith
nor not by Baitullah Meh-
sud...
     would Cher's
tikka taste great,
and that dal that doll ate
allow bowels to behave as they
should…?
 
     Were
Cermak croak'd, "chasten’d"
by Carlos the Jackal
instead of Giuseppe Zan-
gara...
     then would
Cher be a boy,
and Ros'clare, Illinois
reappear south of Guadala-
jara…?
 
     Or had
 Namba Daisuke
deliver’d the deathblow
to "Dimebag" -- and not Nathan
Gale...
     would Cher's
star cease to shine,
and their Great Wall of China fall,
breach’d by our Santa Fe
Trail…?
 
     Lived
Evers by "By" De La
Beckwith uncheck’d
Dead, instead, at the hands of Ted
Eike...
     then would
Cher's raven tresses
be rank, tangl’d messes
hanks yank’d thanks to Bono's bal'-
laika…?
 
     If
Fossey's found flay’d
by Lynette "Squeaky" Fromme
as some surrogate Zig'ranyi-
razo...
     would Cher
find herself wed
"goin' out of her head"
not to Sonny but Teddy Ran-
dazzo…?
 
     Were [gasp!]
Ghandi garroted
by Violet Gibson
and not gruesome Nathuram
Godse...
     would Cher's
esse get grounded,
her ens grow less rounded,
her glamour seem not so "fa-
cadesy"…?
 
     Were those
two U. ‘n’ Q. Hussein
hung out to dry
by John Hinkley and not Task Force
20...
     would Cher's
dreadful duets –
i.e., "Benn' ‘n’ the Jets"
cease...outpaced by (say) "Pastures A-
plenty"…?
 
     Had
Izamo been iced
by Kalid Islambouli
instead of Jean-Bedel
Bokassa...
     would there
live, on this ball,
simply no Cher at all…?
Like is, Cher-wise, earth tabula
rasa…?
 
     Or were
JFK's jugular
jabb’d by Jovanovic,
not "pinko" Lee Harvey
Oswald...
     would
conditions take place
leaving luncheon plans -- based
on Cher's plot to serve hot vichys-
soise stall’d…?
 
     If King's
karma (be kill’d by Khalid Sheik Mohammed
and not by that kaffirphobe
Ray)...
     would end
up ringing true,
then who'd channel Nehru…?
(Good bet: Cher'd channel Morgan Le
Fay.)
 
     Lies that
Huey ("The Kingfish") Long
laid low, led lamb-like
to slaughter by Lawrence of
Britain
    let
loom over Weiss
a new broom. (Hold the rice!
A new groom!...? One with whom Cher’s more
smitten…?)
 
     Had both
Milk and Moscone
been murdered by Mountbatten's
murd'rer McMahon, not
White...
     perhaps
Chastity's Mum'd
be a big bunch less bumm’d
and poor Chaz'd be less jazz'd, more forth-
right!
 
     Or if
Gabri'l Narutowicz
(nail'd by E. Niewia-
domski) were nixed
by Nidal,
     would Cher's
navel -- informal
look more paranormal
and rate such success de scan-
dale…?
 
    Had
Orlando been off'd
by one Lee Harvey Oswald
nor not by Contreras and
Townley...
     would Cher
sound less like Callas --  
at bes’ like George Halas…?
Then would the world turn "upside-
downly"…?
 
     Had
Francisco Pizarro been
put down by Richard Paul
Pavlik, not D'ego Al-
magro...
    would fans
roar, "Cher's a whore!"
(Crude Columbians!) Or, would her
fan base within Bogo-
ta grow…?
 
     Had S'if
ad-Din Qutuz
had his quintessence quash’d
by Pham Phu Quoc, not Baibars the
Mamluk,
     betcha
Bono, E. Presley,
G. Allman -- or ('speshly) Tom
Cruise never'd give Cher one
damn look!
 
     Or if
George Lincoln Rockwell'd
been really rubb’d out by
Jack Ruby nor not by John
Patler...
     would Cher's
final "farewells"
be, well, final? Hell's bells!
Could our lass be less tot'lly a
tattler…?
 
     What if
Anwar Sadat
had got slaughtered
by Sirhan Sirhan, not Khalid
Islambouli...
     would dys-
lexia (Cher's)
prompt the Gilbert LaPierres
to treat Cherilyn any less
cru'lly…?
 
     Or if
Doctor George Tiller'd
been took out by Henning
von Tresckow nor not no Scott
Roeder...
     would Cher's
Bono've not died…?
Plus, would Paul Revere's ride
turn out badly…? (Bet that would have
show’d her!)
 
     Or were
A. Uwilingiyimana undone
by unknowns,
not Bernard Ntuya-
haga...
     would Cher's
stage name be Tori,
and would her life story
seem less like some Icelandic
saga…?
    
     Or were
Hendrik Verwoerd
victimized by Vittor'o
Vidali, not D'mitri Tsa-
fendas...
     maybe
Cher or her sister,
both bumm’d by a blister,
might unearth their Valtrex to
lend us!
 
     Or were
John H. Wood, Jr.,
wiped out by Dan White,
not Chas Harrelson (Woody's be-
getter)...
     would a
different Chaz Bono
(she’d "Yes!" -- though she don' know)
dig life as a "Chuck" so much
better…?
 
     Or if
Malcolm X hadn't been
x'd out by Heyer
and Bradley but X-twenty
three...
     would Cher
cease selling off
all her memorabilia,
willing her best stuff to
me…?
 
     Or were
Tohir Yo'ldosh
yadda-yadda'd by Felix
Yusupov, not drones (you know
who!)...
     would Cher
trample no gypsy,
nor thieve near Poughkeepsie…?
P'raps not: But, chaps -- what would Cher
do…?
 
     Had Giu-
seppe Zangara
zapp’d Yasuda Zenjiro,
not some uyoku dan-
tai...
     then would
nobody care
about anything "Cher"…?
Ergo: there, but for Cher, might go...
I…?

Body Parts in Pairs

A’s for the arm (mile-long!) some tossers take
when you give ‘em a hand to amicably shake.
B’s for the brow. It’s the forehead you furrow
while badgeless bandidos brave burgling your burro.
 
C’s for the chin on which chumps are seen takin’ it.
Guilty as charged…? Yep! ‘Tain’t no use opaquein’ it.
D’s for the derma – what plain folk call skin.
White or black, it’s, in fact, the original sin.
 
E’s for the elbow, a part none save fools
choose to stick in their ears. I know few sharper tools.
F’s for the finger – precisely, the third –
which one gives unto others – or so I have heard.
 
G’s for the genitals – clipp’d when you’re Jewish.
(Or, maybe, for gentiles: I’m, sadly, sans clueish.)
H…? For the hip. It’s the place whereat pals
seem so frequently join’d. (Pals are “lezzies” when gals.)
 
I’s for intestines. To view them brings chills.
(Or, perhaps, for intestates who die lacking wills.)
J’s for the jugular. That’s where they start
when their final objective’s to cut out your heart.
 
K’s for the kneecap – what repo men break
when your juice loan repayments you’re failing to make.
L’s for the lips. They’re the pair you’re to read
when you dad doubles down on what first he decreed.
 
M’s for the mammaries, known to become
overblown as your girlfriend’s becoming a mum.
N’s for the nails, parts of fingers and toes
to which polish adheres. (N is also for nose.)
 
O’s for the ovaries – right after ‘nails.’
They’re so call’d ‘cuz they’re “’over re-‘ mark’d on” by males.
P’s for the palms which are found on your hands.
(P is also for trees found in cyclone-prone lands.)
 
Q’s for the quadriceps – sections of thighs
which are over-develop’d in iron-pumping guys.
R’s for the rib, from which God fashion’d Eve –
just one tale among many I’m loath to believe.
 
S…? For the shin. It’s the part you will bark
if your bare leg encounters my shin in the dark.
T’s for the tongue. White ones, shaped like a fork,
Coughed up twenty-four dollars to purchase New York.
 
U: for umbilical cord…? Nope! For uterus.
(Either or both, though, prove utile to tutor us.)
V’s for the veins. They’re cerulean blue –
and, if vericose, horribly hideous, too.
 
W’s wisdom teeth. Powder or paste
fails to save them. (It’s also for wrinkles and waist.)
X is for xiphoid – more process than part
and but rarely mistaken for kidney or heart.
 
Y’s for the yolk sac – in people, not eggs.
In a fetus, it’s larger than lobes, lungs or legs.
Z’s for the zonule of Zinn (would I lie…?),
but this Zinn isn’t Howard, it’s some other guy,
His real name’s Johann Gottfried. He, Howard and I
here bid you – and all parts of your body – “goodbye!”

666 And All That

     Pioneered by Uncle Dan, the list slouches on
under the auspices of Uly Poe, who insists that
the be(a)st is yet to come.

Zero to 666 mph* in 6.66 seconds:
the UAR (Ungodliness Acceleration Rate)
of the Beast.
     * 1743 minus 666 km/h
 
"Six-sixty-six skidoo!":
the BeelzeBum's Rush
of the Beast.

666 miles per gallon:
the Fuel Economy Rating on the Road to Hell
of the Beast.
 
Skik-shik-shiksa:
the Goy Goyl 
of the Beast.
 
66.6% abv:
the Brewmeister Beerelzebub's Beer Boast
of the Beast.
 
N+666:
the Oulipoetical Transliteration Technique 
Whereby Each Noun in the Biblical Book 
of the Apocalypse Is Replaced with the 
666th Noun Following It in Webster's New 
International Dictionary (666th Edition)
of the Beast
 
"666 bottles of beer on the wall, 666 
bottles of beer...":
the "Binge-Till-Yer-BeelzeBlotto" 
Satanic Stein Song
of the Beast 
 
"Sykes Sics Sheiks":
the “Stix Nix Hix Pix”-Type Tabloid Headline 
Featuring Story Concerning a Rabid Wanda 
Sinking Bared Canines into Deserving 
Members of the Saudi Royal Family
of the Beast
 
The 0.666%*:
the Percentage of U.S. population 
claiming membership in “Billionaires 
For The Beast”
of the Beast 
     * They control 66.6% of US wealth.  
 
"Sixty-six days hath September":
the Calendrical Mnemonic
of the Beast.*
      * "Sixty-six days hath September. 
         Six times six: March through November.
         Jan and Feb…? One less than seven.
         Dec…? Six plus five. (Eleven)
         Leap year starts from scratch, by heaven: 
         then, Sept's days run sixty-seven!" 
 
Snick-snick-snickers:
the Brimstone-Coated BeelzeBar
of the Beast
 
"Six hundred sixty-six men on a sick man's chest..." 
the Prince of Darkness Pirate Sea Shanty
of the Beast
 
Fahrenheit 666:
the Combustion Temperature of Brimstone
of the Beast.
 
"Leaflets six-six-six: touch 'em not with 
ten-foot sticks!":
the Cautionary Mnemonic Identifying 
Devilishly Toxic Ivies
of the Beast.
 
"Sucks! Sucks! Sucks!":
every Sean Hannity Broadcast
of the Beast
 
666 Dalmatians:
the Diabolical Disney Derivative Devil-Dog Dramedy
of the Beast.
 
Spooks! Spooks! Spooks!:
the Ghostbusters Cinematic Homage
of the Beast. 
 
"Spicks! Spicks! Spicks!":
the Illegal Immigrant Insult Voiced by Drumpf
of the Beast.
 
"...ten...nine...eight...seven...six...six...six...":
the Aborted NASA Shuttle-Launch Liftoff 
Countdown Sequence
of the Beast.
 
"Shake! Shake! Shake!":
the Jerry Lee Lewcifer Look-Alike Contest Lyric
of the Beast.
 
"The 666 Horsemen of the Apocalypse":
the Military-Industrial Complex
of the Beast.

"Sing a song of 66 pence, pockets full of rye;
6 and 60 blackbirds baked (still breathing!) 
in a pie...":
the Rhyming Recitation Recipe for Satan's 
Souffle Surprise
of the Beast.

696:
the Menage a Trois Diabolical Deprav-o-glyph
of the Beast.

Christmas Day: A Mare Egg...

     "A Mare Egg, Her Wrist, "Miss Two 'U'"