Tales of nonsense and items of little interest, sometimes true, always poorly thought through. Less sophisticated than most newspapers and magazines.

Thursday, June 21, 2007

100 Not Out

Local man Elbert Dickyleg turns 100 on June 25th. His family in the hope of cashing in on the old geezer, is planning a secret celebration in his honour at the nursing home where he has lived for the past 40 years. Well, it was a secret. Hopefully he won’t be reading this until after the event. His eyesight isn’t so good so maybe if they just hide his glasses until the 26th he will be none the wiser. They have ordered a Dora The Explorer bouncy castle and an up and coming young mc/rapper/comedian by the name of F. YoMomma from the local art collective to be the compere. The day promises to full of surprises for Elbert and his friends in the Chateau Requiem Home for Unwanted Relatives and the day will end with a mud wrestling competition between the male care nurses who work there.

I first met Elbert on Monday when I stopped by the home with a donation of old Hustler magazines that I no longer needed. I had torn out many of the better pictures and at some point, probably while very drunk, had drawn crude images of genitalia and written disjointed sentences like "Cunt fuck ice cream...." in felt tip pen over many of the pages that remained. As I’m always thinking of those less fortunate than myself, I had decided to give them to people who needed them more than I.

As I passed a high backed wing chair in the TV lounge (which strangely did not appear to have a TV in it) my arm was grabbed by gnarled bony fingers and I was pulled down into the chair opposite. It was Elbert and he immediately began to regale me with tales of his youth. I didn't want to appear rude and the old lad seemed like he needed someone to talk to so I listened. I was amazed by the story he told and I feel it only deserving of a man of his years that someone should document his story for posterity, after all, if I don’t do it, who will?

Here it is, to the best of my recollection. I may have added some bits here and there to spice it up a bit because he was quite hard to understand at times and would whisper softly to himself now and again. Hopefully it is an accurate account of days gone by.

“We used to ride the box cars on the trains into Dodge City, me and my brother Sarah. He would be in one box car with the cows and I would be in the next with the horses and the elephants, big buggers they were, shat turds like big, giant round things. It used to get real lonely on those box cars and I used to watch my brother Emily having his way with the dairy cows through the cracks in the side of the car. The hours used to fly by and before we knew it we would be in Alasky digging for clams in the frozen dirt. People said we were crazy to be digging for clams in Alasky as everybody and their three legged mule knew that all the best clam digging was to be had in South Dakota but we had been there and never saw a clam not never. Sometimes we would get off the train in the outskirts of a big city like Chicagy and find us a hobo jungle where we could have a good time and my brother Sissy would sell his mouth for a few cents so’s we could by us some vittles. I never did it cause I didn’t care for the taste of other men’s manfat, just my own or my brother Hannah’s if I was hungry enough. Sometimes we couldn’t afford any food so we would have to steal a turnip from the onion vendor outside the moving picture house. A rare treat was a raw parsnip and if we made it back to the hobo jungle without eating it we would throw it into the big pot of hobo soup that the other hobo’s would be cooking up. If we didn’t have a cabbage we would throw in a boot for flavour or one of the elephant turds we had been saving for a rainy day, the worst thing about them was the bits of grass that would get stuck ‘twixt my wooden teeth. I had to have wooden teeth cause all my real ‘uns were stolen by Injuns when the box car was hijacked one time by the suckacoq tribe outside of Dreadlock City. Anyways I took good care of my wooden teeth I did, I would polish them twice a day, sometimes three or four times if I got tired of watching my brother Zsa Zsa having coyeetus with them darn dairy cows. I can still hear his screams of pleasure, mostly at night when the lights go out, he has the room next door to me see y’see. I bang on the wall to tell him to stop but he’s deafer than a deaf matchstick salesman so he is. I’m going to outlive him, we joke about it sometimes. We laugh and laugh until the big nurse comes and punches us and then we stop, or I do, my brother Agnes just keeps laughing. He’s madder than a toasted banana he is. Anyways after the war, we joined the navy as a ships female impersonators cause women weren’t allowed on ships in them days. Bad luck y’see. So they would take hobo’s off the street, men of little morals they called us and would use for the cooking and all the womanly duties like cleaning and sexual acts. We were sailing round the Cape of Halibut one time when we passed the wreckage of a ship and in the wreckage was a young lad with a violin that had no strings. We rescued him and learned from his sign language that he had been raised by sea otters and couldn’t talk although he could play air violin like a riot. When we got back to shore we sold him to a circus man for $20 which was a kings ransom back then. Soon after we deserted and went back to a life of riding the box cars and having our way with animals. It was a different time back then sonny, but we were…….”

Elbert had drifted off and I spied my chance to escape, leaving the box of Hustlers at his feet. I can think of no one more deserving. Happy 100th Birthday Elbert, you old roisterdoister you. Keep on rockin’ my man!

Elbert "Weather Ear" Dickyleg
Man of The World

Monday, June 18, 2007

Fashion Victims

Fashion is a funny thing. What seems super cool and trendy to one person or group is fuckin' maddening to another. I don't really have a problem with most of today's fashions. I'm quite tolerant and respectful of people's right to dress how the hell they want to as I know what it is like to be laughed at in public, pointed at by small children as they tug at their mothers sleeve and say things like "Mummy, that man scares me."

I don't think that my personal choice of attire is particularly offensive. Day-glo orange lycra cycling shorts go just fine with a chiffon shirt and sheepskin waistcoat, knee length argyle socks and rubber wellies. It's a statement that I am making that says "I am my own man so fuck off or I will hurt you." It seems to work as most people cross the street to avoid me and rarely make eye contact.

One of today's fashions that mystifies me is the saggy pants worn around the thighs exposing the boxer shorts underneath. Mostly worn by, lets call them African Americans, and people who wish they were African Americans, talk like they are African Americans but are definitely too pale to be African Americans, the fashion is to say the least, irritating. Just like me, they would probably argue that they are just making a statement and I would agree. I hear it loud and clear and it is telling me that they are twats.

I have questions. Burning questions that I need answers to and would be happy to ask one of the subscribers to said fashion if they would not keep crossing the street to avoid me:

  1. How do you keep the pants half way down your thighs without them constantly falling down? I tried to recreate the experience in my bedroom while the wife was out yesterday but they wouldn't stay there. Are you using braces or is that considered cheating and if so doesn't that make you unfashionable?
  2. Given that you can mysteriously make your pants stay put half way down your thighs, how do you manage to walk more than 3 steps without falling over. It is like running a three legged race with a one legged man as your partner, impossible.
  3. I say you are a twat. What are you going to do about it, twat?

"Oi......Pull yer pants up you twat!"

In Jamaica, there is a movement afoot to outlaw the wearing of saggy pants in public. Similar attempts in the Worlds 2nd greatest country, the USA, fell flat last year when officials in Dallas proposed a $50 on the spot fine for wearers of low riding pants. The American people were once again defeated by their own constitution amid concerns about civil rights and personal freedom.
Luckily, in Jamaica, these things are less of a concern and the movement is gathering steam.

Public opinion seems to be swayed against saggy pants, many people believe it to be a sign of homosexuality and they may have a point. 43 year old street vendor Robert Stuart told The Jamaica Observer "That is a sodomite principle, because your pants supposed to be up at your waist."

Shaneek Sewell, a 19 year old student doesn't find it attractive and said "I think the persons who do these things are mostly like the uneducated people in society."

"It's not appropriate, it doesn't look right, it's not gentleman-like. It's definitely unacceptable for most of the population," said Deanroy Edwards, a 23 year old technician.

Fining people may be a little extreme and difficult to enforce, especially when it comes to collecting the fines as most of these fuckers do not appear to have jobs and any spare cash they do have seems to be spent on clothing that is too big for them (a pet peeve of mine.) I would like to suggest Brazilian style government sponsored death squads cruising the streets in a Ford Transit van with blacked out windows and loaded to the gills with M-16 wielding federal agents. This would create jobs while at the same time alleviating some of the pressure on the welfare system. Although frowned upon by liberals and do-gooders, this is actually the answer to many of today's social ills and I think that pretty soon, these namby pamby, limp handshaking types would be benefiting from the very thing they seek to prevent. Besides, surely it would only take the discovery of a handful of saggy pant clad corpses before the rest of them got the message and pulled their fuckin pants up. I also contend that if you were to ask enough of them you would definitely find more than a handful who would claim to be willing to die for their right to wear their pants any way they choose so all you would have to do is find them and everyone would be happy. Well, mostly everyone. I'd be happy, that is all that matters.