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 December 12, 2005 |
Baltimore, MD Junior Bacon An undated file photo of amateur philosopher Phillip Flaggart, who at the time of the taking had never been out on a date.
"A picture's worth a thousand words," repeated sayings fan Dennis Tudd, shaking his head in wonderment. "That kind of says it all, though a picture would say it all even better. You know."
Even within the sayings-geek community, Flaggart remained the enduring subject of controversy, with factions split between those who believed the man a humble genius, and those convinced Flaggart was a lucky moron. Flaggart himself fanned the flames in a 1987 interview, explaining that he was dr...
illions of Americans failed to mourn this week at the death of Baltimore-area rug salesman and unknown modern American philosopher Phillip Flaggart, originator of numerous lite-philosophical sayings such as "A picture's worth a thousand words," and "Why buy milk when you have a cow at home?" "A picture's worth a thousand words," repeated sayings fan Dennis Tudd, shaking his head in wonderment. "That kind of says it all, though a picture would say it all even better. You know." Even within the sayings-geek community, Flaggart remained the enduring subject of controversy, with factions split between those who believed the man a humble genius, and those convinced Flaggart was a lucky moron. Flaggart himself fanned the flames in a 1987 interview, explaining that he was drunk at the time he first said "A picture's worth a thousand words" and didn't know what he was talking about. "Phil had a real talent for being misunderstood as more profound than he really was," explained Flaggart's late wife, Lucious. "I remember that night, and what Phil said was 'That picture's worth a thousand bucks,' referring to a blurry Polaroid he carried around that was supposedly a picture of Farrah Fawcet's left tit." Flaggart fans remain undeterred, however. "Don't even talk to his wife," sneered Tudd. "She's never been a pro-Flaggart." Lucious Flaggart retells a similar story about another famous saying attributed to her late husband, "In the future, everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes." "He was standing in line for a movie in New York, and Andy Warhol overheard him say what he thought was 'In the future, everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes,' a line which Warhol then stole for himself. Luckily for Andy, he didn't hear what Phil actually said: that in about fifteen years, miniature furniture was going to be really popular. Phil never knew what he was talking about. He was drinking a lot back then, too." Whether Flaggart was a genius or a boob, he's definitely dead now, a fact upon which even the pro-Flaggarts and the Flaggart-doubters can agree. "Dead, misunderstood genius," summarized Tudd. "Dead moron," disagreed a solemn Eugene Frits, a leading Flaggart-doubter and roommate to Dennis Tudd. "Maybe he was autistic, you ever think of that?" retorted Tudd, just before the interview grew ugly. "Maybe you should kiss my ass and do your own dishes for once, buttfuzz," explained an agitated Frits, moments before this reporter ducked out the fire escape to the sound of breaking dishes, heeding the Flaggartism about getting the fuck out while the getting the fuck out is good. the commune news doesn't know what the fuck that last story was about either, so don't you dare come around asking us. Ramon Nootles is not unaccustomed to turning in stories revolving around things that happened to him while in strange apartments, but this is the first time there weren't any half-drunk cocktail waitresses or foxy surprise transvestites involved.
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Turkey to Block Offensive Websites; commune Offers Pre-Emptive “Fuck You” Obama to Change Spelling of Name to oBAMa for Maximum Impact Oasis, Killers Combine Forces to Ruin Sgt. Pepper’s for Everyone Global Warming Poses Threat to National Parks, Says WWF’s “Machoman” Savage |
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 August 5, 2002
I Say It Needs More SaltSeems like everybody's got something against salt these days. You can't dip your French fry into the saltshaker in a restaurant any more without getting dirty looks from every overzealous health nut in the joint, like you just sluiced the skin off an newborn baby and stuffed it with StoveTop and onions. You'd think it was strychnine or pure Bolivian blow the way these shitbirds put on a sour puss. Well I hate to be the only pooper at the party, and I don't want to give any of you politically correct folks an anal hernia, but I've just got to say it anyway:
Fuck you all, I love salt.
Don't look at me like I just crawled out from under a rock on planet Neanderthal. I've read all the screaming headlines printed in vivid blood red about what doctors of today have to say about salt. That it'll boost your blood pressure higher than Tim Leary in a hot air balloon and make your arteries hard like a fifteen year-old at the Playboy mansion. Doctors of today cross the street to avoid salt spilled on the sidewalk and wear full-body condoms when they swim in the ocean, I know. But you know what the thing is? The doctors of today are for shit.
I'm not kidding, they're worthless. Remember a few years back when they decided that flying a kite was good for arthritis? Then all those old suckers were killed by lighting? Then the doctors decided that wine is good for your heart, so everybody ran out and stocked up on the vino, but then a week later...
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Seems like everybody's got something against salt these days. You can't dip your French fry into the saltshaker in a restaurant any more without getting dirty looks from every overzealous health nut in the joint, like you just sluiced the skin off an newborn baby and stuffed it with StoveTop and onions. You'd think it was strychnine or pure Bolivian blow the way these shitbirds put on a sour puss. Well I hate to be the only pooper at the party, and I don't want to give any of you politically correct folks an anal hernia, but I've just got to say it anyway:
Fuck you all, I love salt.
Don't look at me like I just crawled out from under a rock on planet Neanderthal. I've read all the screaming headlines printed in vivid blood red about what doctors of today have to say about salt. That it'll boost your blood pressure higher than Tim Leary in a hot air balloon and make your arteries hard like a fifteen year-old at the Playboy mansion. Doctors of today cross the street to avoid salt spilled on the sidewalk and wear full-body condoms when they swim in the ocean, I know. But you know what the thing is? The doctors of today are for shit.
I'm not kidding, they're worthless. Remember a few years back when they decided that flying a kite was good for arthritis? Then all those old suckers were killed by lighting? Then the doctors decided that wine is good for your heart, so everybody ran out and stocked up on the vino, but then a week later doctors "discovered" that drinking too much wine will make you shit out your ovaries. What, do these guys own a chain of liquor stores or something? Every other day they're pulling some startling revelation out of their collective ass, like eggs give you glaucoma or milk makes your feet stink. I swear to God these guys are filling out some kind of Medical Mad Libs they got in med school and are laughing their asses off as they fill them out at their posh doctor parties and make drunken prank calls to the press. I trust those guys about as far as I can throw a herniated disk.
So I'm not about to let these slappy sons of bitches ruin the great fun I have eating salt. And I do mean fun. I don't care what it is, salt makes it better: steak, burgers, potatoes, salad. Even ice water. And don't forget to salt your butter. Have you ever had unsalted butter? Sweet bland-assed Moses, I had some of that stuff on a roll once accidentally and I thought I'd had a stroke that paralyzed my taste buds. The mere memory of it gives me the shivers.
I don't think people today realize how lucky we are in this day and age, to have salt available in the quantities that we do. Just the other day I enjoyed a salt-encrusted fudge roll at one of my favorite breakfast haunts, the Gravestone Mill. A simple pleasure, true, but just try and order yourself up one of those about 6,000 years ago. You just couldn't do it. And not just because you weren't born yet. Back in the day salt was rarer than a celibate high school girl and in many cultures was worth more than its weight in gold. This may sound crazy to your modern ears, but just imagine trying to choke down a doughy, overcooked baked potato with just some gold flakes on the top. Not too appealing, eh?
After that, when salt became more readily available, it predated refrigeration as a way to preserve food. Now that's what I'm talking about. If I should ever stumble upon a time machine, you know precisely where I'm setting the dial. That had to be some kind of heaven on earth. All the salt you could eat, and nary a dirty look for your trouble.
Sure, folks only lived to about 30 back then, but when you died, I bet it was with a salty smile on your dry, crackled lips. Amen. º Last Column: Back in My Day, Business Wasn't For Crybabiesº more columns
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|  January 21, 2002
Call of the Bugle BoyWell, bless this mess, Shorty! You ever see a toe done swole up 'at big? It's durn the size of Fran Hufnagel's bosom now. No, the left one, Shorty. Shyeeoot, ain't you never seen a infection of this cal'ber, Shorty? Well, sure 'nuff, look who I'm talking at.
There's a buddy of mine, you know 'im, Shorty, Jeff T. Silobottom, he says the only way to sure-fire cure a infection of gangrenous p'portions is to get on that thing and suck it full force 'n' get all the sick outta there. Jeff T. Silobottom, you remember 'im? He died a few years back now. Some mysterious mouth ailment, I do believe. Kind soul, but his advice is less useful than a Democrat at a gun club picnic.
All this talk of suckin' reminds me of a awful urge I gotten lately, Shorty. You know what I'm talkin' 'bout. Yessir, every once in a cycle I get me the hankerin' to lissen up to some bugle music. Which reminds me here of a story I do believe you ain't heard none yet. It's about a ol' army boy, bugle player, Donny Calhoun.
Donny was a good ol' boy, one o' the better of the good ol' boys. He went and signed up to fight in the double-double-U two, can't get more r'spectful of the country than to sign up for the service, you know. Sure 'nuff I would have were it not for my trick knee and flat foot on the right side, you know to which I'm referring, Shorty. And you needn't explain again about your fear of gettin' killed, I perfectly unnerstand. But despite our failin's, Donny...
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Well, bless this mess, Shorty! You ever see a toe done swole up 'at big? It's durn the size of Fran Hufnagel's bosom now. No, the left one, Shorty. Shyeeoot, ain't you never seen a infection of this cal'ber, Shorty? Well, sure 'nuff, look who I'm talking at.
There's a buddy of mine, you know 'im, Shorty, Jeff T. Silobottom, he says the only way to sure-fire cure a infection of gangrenous p'portions is to get on that thing and suck it full force 'n' get all the sick outta there. Jeff T. Silobottom, you remember 'im? He died a few years back now. Some mysterious mouth ailment, I do believe. Kind soul, but his advice is less useful than a Democrat at a gun club picnic.
All this talk of suckin' reminds me of a awful urge I gotten lately, Shorty. You know what I'm talkin' 'bout. Yessir, every once in a cycle I get me the hankerin' to lissen up to some bugle music. Which reminds me here of a story I do believe you ain't heard none yet. It's about a ol' army boy, bugle player, Donny Calhoun.
Donny was a good ol' boy, one o' the better of the good ol' boys. He went and signed up to fight in the double-double-U two, can't get more r'spectful of the country than to sign up for the service, you know. Sure 'nuff I would have were it not for my trick knee and flat foot on the right side, you know to which I'm referring, Shorty. And you needn't explain again about your fear of gettin' killed, I perfectly unnerstand. But despite our failin's, Donny Calhoun got in the service fine and was defending our right to avoid painful humiliation on the battlefield over in that far away German place, I forget the name of it now.
Donny's job was to blow on the bugle when this fancy red light come flashin'. The red light warned of air raids an' business comin', and the bugle horn sound was demanded to warn the sleepin' army men of a air raid, in which case they could get up and get to the bombin' shelter to keep from getting' bombed up by the enemy. You're right, Shorty, a more important job there'n never was in the army, at least for the purposes of this here story.
Well, Donny settled in and got all soft and easy-goin' what with the enemy on the run. Last thing anyone expected was a attack at this point. The Nazis was runnin' for the hills, and the good guys were in hot pursuit. So nobody was more'n surprised but poor Donny when a attack did come. To beat all, Donny had been dippin' into a mess o' radishes since no one else in camp wanted 'em, and he also dug deep into some bean pudding mailed from home. This here combination was not a wise idea, as you can 'magine.
So Donny's in camp holdin' his achin' belly when the red light starts flashin'. He's done panicked right, he ain't seen a red light in months and almost plum forgot what to do. But he sucks it up in good fashion and darts out the tent and up the highest tower in the camp.
As you know, Shorty, climbin' high ladders and sick stomachs don't rightly mix, and Donny's only human. He gets to the top o' the tower and he can't summon the breath to blow the bugle. And his belly's about to blow out from the inside with all the vittles fightin' up a storm in there. Donny's so upset he's about cryin', he can even see Hitler's planes comin' in low in the weak sunlight o' the mornin'. This is the time for heroes, Shorty.
Well, what Donny Calhoun did won't be in any learnin' books, Shorty. Ol' boy Donny won't be getting' any purple hearts or green clovers for his effort in the great war. But he saved lives and that's all 'at matters. The men scrambled out of the beds to the sound of the most awful chokin' horn and the flattest note in history, but it woke 'em up. Kinda sounded like a dead beagle's last howl of pain 'fore he meets his maker, spoken into a high quality micr'phone.
Them boys rush out of the tent and see the red light flashin', the German horseflies closin' in, and Donny Calhoun in the highest tower with a bugle stickin' out his backside. That tol' them all they needed to know. They got to the shelter and avoided a awful German decapitatin'.
Poor ol' Donny didn't make it. He missed gettin' all bombed, but died later o' complications from removin' of a bugle from one's personals. His s'periors listed his death as unnatural causes. Now all that's left o' Donny is the stories, passed down from one good ol' boy to the next.
And his horn, which I happen to have right here. You can play a bugle, can't ya, Shorty? º Last Column: Chicken in a Bisketº more columns
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Quote of the Day“I'd like to give the world a Coke, but they'd have to share it. Actually, all anyone can do is smell it, since most of the Coke will likely have evaporated by the time it gets all the way around the world. So here you go, world: Smell my Coke.”
-Dennis FreebasenFortune 500 CookieYou're a real asshole when you're tired. Or rested. This is the week you're finally going to get pantsed for your sins. Try brushing your teeth with the other end of the brush this week: that fuzzy part's not the handle. This week's lucky things the dog wouldn't even eat: your hat on a bet, Tofutti Cuties, dog barf, Sam's Club Brand Dog Food, your homemade rhubarb pie.
Try again later.Least Popular Baby
Names, 2005| 1. | Katrina | | 2. | Gigli | | 3. | Scott Peterson | | 4. | The King of Pop | | 5. | Skullfuck | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Stefan Myer-Wiener 1/27/2012 TweenightIt had been the world's most boring flight to Big, Oregon and I hated every minute of it. The old lady sitting next to me wouldn't even listen to me telling her about my stamp collection, all she wanted to do was watch gay porn on her laptop. It would be another super-dull summer in Sporks. I've been coming to Sporks ever since I was the world's most naĂŻve five-year-old. My dad and my mom split up when I was just a baby, and unlike most kids, I have a lot of sadness over it.
Dad picked me up at the airport, after bringing back the hot chick he thought was me and apologizing several times. Lawsuits are the worst. We talked about stupid stuff on the way to drive out to Sporks, the weather, how I liked school, how he lost both arms and his nose when a bomb went off in his...
It had been the world's most boring flight to Big, Oregon and I hated every minute of it. The old lady sitting next to me wouldn't even listen to me telling her about my stamp collection, all she wanted to do was watch gay porn on her laptop. It would be another super-dull summer in Sporks. I've been coming to Sporks ever since I was the world's most naĂŻve five-year-old. My dad and my mom split up when I was just a baby, and unlike most kids, I have a lot of sadness over it.
Dad picked me up at the airport, after bringing back the hot chick he thought was me and apologizing several times. Lawsuits are the worst. We talked about stupid stuff on the way to drive out to Sporks, the weather, how I liked school, how he lost both arms and his nose when a bomb went off in his face. I kept trying to tell him about the things that were bothering me, like the tag on inside of my shirt that keeps scratching that soft skin around my neck. Same old dad. He just didn't show any interest in anything I said.
When school started, it was even worse. All of the girls didn't want anything to do with me. I guess they all have money, all of them carry designer Trapper Keepers and wear the newest clogs. Mine are from last year. Mom makes a lot of money but she makes me wear second-hand clothes and get my hair done at the Dollar Salon because she says girls without money are much easier to relate to. Dad told me I can't go to the Dollar Salon anymore, unless my rich mother wants to pay for it, I'll have to cut my own hair in the car mirror.
So I was all alone, without a friend in the world, a virtual outcast in a brand new high school. I tried to tell mom I didn't like it here in Sporks, that I wanted to come home, and she just kept asking why school was in session during the summer. I can't talk to her. I'm all alone.
Or I was alone—until I met the new boy, Tedwin.
From the first time we saw each other in the cafeteria I was drawn to him. None of the other kids want anything to do with him. It's like he's an outcast, just like me. Everyone is turned off by the fact that he's so quiet, and that he looks like a male supermodel. Between that strange pale color and the fact all the girls and a lot of the guys want to have sex with him, he's got to be the most enigmatic outsider in all of this school, and this school is about 95% outsiders, you know. Oh, I forgot about Bleedin' Tits Pete. That guys like a super-outsider, but no one is drawn to him.
My dad forgot to pick me up at school one afternoon, sometimes I slip his mind when he finished having sex with my art teacher. So I was stuck walking home. I was heading down Puberty Road and most of the cars were passing me, but to my surprise, Tedwin pulled up on a sleek motorcycle, the kind all the cool mysterious outsiders drive.
"You're Bona… aren't you?" he said enigmatically. I nodded shyly, because I really got nothing else in my arsenal. He looked into the sky, in the distance, where they keep it, and noticed the sun was going down. It seemed to kind of worry him. "Are you… going home?"
I told him about my dad's forgetting to pick me up, and how my fish sometimes eats the whole leaf of lettuce but yesterday she didn't, and he gave me a smile. He asked where I lived, and I told him, and then I told him most people like Miracle Whip, but I think mayonnaise is actually better. He agreed—I've never had someone who listened to me before. And he was oddly beautiful, for a male supermodel outsider.
"I'll give you a ride, Bona." I got on the back of his motorcycle, hugging extra close to him for sexiness. It felt good to have another heart beating so close to mine. Other hearts feel best when they're inside finely carved pecs.
When we got to my house, we stayed up for hours, sitting on the porch. His family seemed just as screwed up as mind, all they ever did was nitpick and bite on each other. Both of his parents were dead, he told me, but he said they still tried to make time to see him now and then. I told him about my talent for counting words in sentences that are spoken to me (we used six-hundred and forty-two!) and my entire set of Suddenly Susan on DVD. He eventually looked outside and saw it was night, then got up to leave in a hurry. I noticed he was kind of… glowing.
"Bona… you're the most fascinating person I've ever met," he said, and I noticed he was nibbling at something in his hand. "I want to see you again… but I can't."
"You can't leave me without telling me why, Tedwin," I told him. "Even though we've only known each other for two hours, I've fallen in love with you. I think you love me, too. Tedwin— listen to me! Stop eating while I'm talking to you…!"
I smacked his hand and his food fell to the floor. It looked like… but I wasn't completely sure… brains?
"Tedwin," I said with a little gasp. "Are you… a zombie?"   |
