Berkeley Breathed Knows All About It!
There are a lot of ways at looking at America’s seemingly insoluble split down the middle between the Trumpites/Tea Partiers and the Liberals. Probably the healthiest approach is to take Opus’s point of view. It was that split that brought Berkeley Breathed, the creator of Bloom County, out of retirement. Today, his Facebook page is one of the sanest places on the Internet.
Does anyone knew where I can yet yellow and green briefs with smiley faces printed on them?
Specially Targeted to Trumpf Supporters
Our president wants jobs for Americans. It suddenly hit me that he could kill two birds with one stone: Send his most vociferous supporters deep into coal mines. (And none of that sissy strip mining stuff, either!) That coal dust does things to those who are most vociferous: It gives them black lung disease. That might also be a good solution for those members of his staff that the president is forced to remove for disloyalty or, worse yet, getting caught.
Perhaps we could direct our economy into those jobs which were more typical of centuries past. It’s a way of looking forward by looking back, and paying homage to our economic heritage. Say, what about harvesting cotton and sugar cane?
In Trumplandia, Maybe We’d Better Get Used to Long Lines
The other day, I saw a great Futility Closet post on Soviet humor. What with Trumpf’s close ties to ex-KGB-head Vladimir Putin, we had better get used to Soviet style humor . So, here goes:
A man is walking along the road wearing only one boot. “Did you lose a boot?” a passerby asks sympathetically. “No, I found one,” the man answers happily.
What is it that doesn’t knock, growl or scratch the floor?
A machine made in the USSR for knocking, growling, and scratching the floor.
It is the middle of the night. There is a knock at the door. Everyone leaps out of bed. Papa goes shakily to the door. “It’s all right,” he says, coming back. “The building’s on fire.”
A shopper asks a food store clerk, “Are you all out of meat again?” “No, they’re out of meat in the store across the way. Here we’re out of fish.”
Why doesn’t the Soviet Union send people to the Moon?
They are afraid they won’t come back.
A man fell asleep on a bus. When someone stepped on his foot, he woke with a start and applauded. “What are you doing, citizen?” “I was dreaming I was at a meeting.”
“What is the difference between Pravda [Truth] and Izvestia [The News]?”
“There is no truth in The News, and no news in the Truth.”
Why Isn’t There Any Bird Crap on This Man’s Shoulder?
The following are fake Donald Trumpf tweets from the New Yorker of January 27, 2017:
Weak Hamlet should stop moaning about past and get on with his life. All talk, no action! King Claudius has my full support.
Tremendously fat honey thief Winnie-the-Pooh deserves to get stuck in Rabbit’s hole. Not crying for him, believe me, OR low-energy Eeyore.
Successful businessmen should be left alone by boring ghosts and sad employees. Bob Cratchit is a loser. No enthusiasm!
Little Miss Muffet doesn’t deserve curds OR whey if she can’t deal with a bug. No strength or stamina and her tuffet is a disgrace.
Anyone who thinks a good relationship with Mordor is a bad thing is stupid. And crooked Frodo should return ring to rightful owner.
Wolf well within rights to evict disgusting pigs from below-code structures.
Overrated king’s horses and men are failed élites. Humpty Dumpty deserves better and will get it after Obamacare repeal.
Very Little Jack Horner’s biggest accomplishment: putting in thumb, pulling out plum. Sad!
Stepsisters deserve compensation for loss of employee. Shame on you, prince!
Better British schools and Hogwarts would fail on its own. Instead, England has disastrous witch problem. I WON’T LET IT HAPPEN HERE!!!
Some of the Homiest and Homeliest Place Names in Existence
I love these English place names which I found at the Futility Closet website:
- Bishop’s Itchington
- Great Snoring
- Turners Puddle
- Pett Bottom (I think Trump’s family is from here)
- Nether Wallop
Some Untranslatable French Expressions
I think we tend to seriously underestimate the French. (Oh, drat, I split another infinitive!) Here are a few expressions that you might find interesting.
Faire avancer le Schmilblick
That strange word means nothing more or less than “thing.” When having a conversation, comments not deemed to be helpful are described as not advancing the Schmilblick along. If you speak excellent French, here is a YouTube video describing the origin of the term.
C’est le petit Jésus en culotte de velours
You’ve just had an incredibly smooth wine. It was, in other words, “as smooth as Baby Jesus in velvet knickerbockers.” (You can’t say that about an American beer.)
Avoir le cul bordé de nouilles
You are incredibly lucky—such that your ass is surrounded by noodles.
Il pète plus haut que son cul (ou tête)
There are two variants to this one, both describing someone who is incredibly pretentious. The way Martine and her mother described it, “He tries to fart higher than his own head.” Others say “higher than his own ass.” Perhaps Martine’s version is the way they say it in Normandy.
Another Discovery of Great Material from the Futility Closet
I am always amazed by what I find on the Futility Closet website. The following are light verses with a somber subject by Jocelyn Henry Clive “Harry” Graham (1874-1936)—journalist, military hero, lyricist for light operas, and humorous verses employing the darkest of humor. Here are a few selections taken from Futility Closet’s posting of June 9, 2011:
Little Willie, in the best of sashes,
Fell in the fire and was burned to ashes.
By and by the room grew chilly,
But no one liked to poke up Willie.
In the drinking-well
(Which the plumber built her)
Aunt Eliza fell–
We must buy a filter.
I had written to Aunt Maud,
Who was on a trip abroad,
When I heard she’d died of cramp
Just too late to save the stamp.
Weep not for little Léonie,
Abducted by a French Marquis!
Though loss of honour was a wrench,
Just think how it’s improved her French.
“There’s been an accident,” they said,
“Your servant’s cut in half; he’s dead!”
“Indeed!” said Mr. Jones, “and please
Send me the half that’s got my keys.”
He wrote in one preface:
Fond parent, you whose children are
Of tender age (from two to eight),
Pray keep this little volume far
From reach of such, and relegate
My verses to an upper shelf,–
Where you may study them yourself.