Friday, July 31, 2009

Home Cookin'

My grandma made preserves so sweet they sparkled on your tongue.

Her pickles were so tart and crisp they made my mouth feel young.

Tomatoes in brine vinegar she crafted with delight;

They lifted up a mundane meal upon a winter's night.

Nobody cans like Grandma canned – nobody has the time;

As if work in the kitchen now were such a hateful crime.

The patience for a stew or sauce she's taken to the grave;

"Home-cooking" is a fraud today – it comes from microwave.

 



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The Expat's Lament

Protect me from my government, oh Lord, I daily pray.

From immigration Nazis who might send me far away.

From IRS officials who suspect my every move

Conceals a priceless treasure I have stolen from the Louvre.

From defenders of the Homeland who will beat me with a stick

If they hear me speaking just a tad of Arabic.

From wiretapping dim bulbs that record my every sigh

And child support vampires that have almost drained me dry.

From bellicose behavior by the paunchy Pentagon

That puts my kids in danger for a State Department con.

From red tape and corruption and the rule of bureaucrats

Who pout and sulk and pinch and nap like snotty little brats.

The only patriots I know have lined their pockets well.

They love their country's money and I hope they go to hell.

Protect me from my government, oh Lord, I daily plead

And grant me a firm lawyer who can all their plots impede.



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Thursday, July 30, 2009

Gimme

For a group of ninnies who but rarely legislate,
congress has it easy and their benefits are great.
They're never on commission and performance doesn't count;
they cannot be arrested though their debts just mount & mount.
The salary is pleasant and not subject to decline.
They can nap the live-long day in leather chairs divine.
They traipse about on junkets,while the public foots the bill.
With lobbyists they eat for free -- and always get their fill.
Making accusations, they need never offer proof.
They live the life of Riley underneath palatial roof.
Now I don't mind these goldbricks on the public gravy train.
In fact I wish to join them, not to cause them any pain.
Give me healthcare just like theirs and job security
and pension plan and how about a fool-proof salary?
Don't tell me they deserve it any better than we do;
they can vote it all for me and citizens like you.
Let them keep their cruises and their backroom deals galore;
the ghost of Huey Long has said they cannot keep us poor.
Share the wealth, my brother,or like Jackie Gleason's goon --
POW! Right in the kisser -- we'll elect you to the moon.


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Wednesday, July 29, 2009

The Guest Clown

       The guest clown was a perennial nuisance for clown alley.  The Ringling Publicity Department – known in clown alley as "those schmucks" – combed the local media in each town for the most obnoxious, dimwitted, journalist to drop in prior to the first show for a stint in greasepaint; the idea being that said guest clown would write a glowing encomium about those gosh-darn cute clowns and the crowds would stampede the box office.  What got our goat was the fact that the publicity geniuses never tried guest lion tamers or guest trapeze artists or guest show girls.  Only guest clowns – as if our stock in trade could be learnt in ten minutes by any apple-knocker who came down the pike.

     They just got in the way.  Think of Jimmy Stewart as Buttons the Clown in The Greatest Show on Earth; remember how he stands around like a mooncalf making ghastly noises and pointing while Lou Jacobs does his beloved midget car routine?  He sticks out like a toadstool in a bed of flowers.

    We made short shrift of them.  They were given an old yama-yama suit – a one-piece polka-dot monstrosity that was never washed and smelled of musty elephant and burned cotton candy.  We slapped on the clown white good and thick.  Clown white clogs your skin pores and, to the uninitiated, creates a powerful itching sensation.  We gave 'em the old killer kangaroo to ride around the track – it was fondly hoped that this bouncy ball inside a foam rubber kangaroo would precipitate heart failure.  And we pied them, but good.

     The recipe for clown alley pie goo was as follows:  you grate six bars of shaving soap into a galvanized trash can; add six gallons of cold tap water and a small bottle of glycerin; then beat with an electric paint stirrer for fifteen minutes.  Colored dye is optional.  When it's good and stiff it will peak like meringue and stay that way for about an hour.  Then you fill up your instruments of goo-flinging, such as pie tins, icing bags, turkey basters, buckets, old felt hats with a hole in the top (when you shove the hat onto a clown's head it makes a lovely geyser), and so on.

      

          At the end of the show we made sure the guest clown was posed, gaping smugly at the newspaper photographer that was assigned to the story, before we unloaded the artillery.  The shaving cream/glycerin mixture, while ultimately harmless, does sting the eyes and is not as pleasant tasting as, say, chocolate truffles.  Momentarily blinded and sputtering in rage, the guest clown would be led away, stripped, toweled down, and sent on their merry way to write whatever the hell they wanted.  We clowns didn't care.

   Surprisingly, there were very few negative stories in next day's newspaper.  Our malice was seen as good, old-fashioned, merry Andrew hi-jinks.  It just goes to show that reporters never could get to the bottom of anything.



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the snake


 



When Adam and the lovely Eve
from blessed Garden had to leave
they both were given coats of skin
to cover up their mortal sin.
Their children never seem to learn
the fruit of evil they must spurn,
and so today there's much to mourn
whenever a new child is born.
If I were God I think I'd take
another chance upon the snake.
 


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Tuesday, July 28, 2009

On the Take

The Lord helps those who help themselves,

I've often heard it said.

But what so many help themselves

To is my daily bread.

The hotels add gratuities

They surely don't deserve.

The entertainment tax downtown

Keeps hitting on a nerve.

They clip you at the airport

Every time you take a flight,

And banks have got so many fees

I've lost my appetite.

Free parking is an urban myth;

The parking meter rules.

Your waitress gets a hefty tip,

Although she's slow and drools.

Everyone is on the take,

From maid to Maitre D'.

And undertakers demonstrate

That even death ain't free.

A service charge for everything.

A tax at every stroke . . .

While companies go belly-up

And government is broke.



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This is Dull, Ain't it?

Men are strong and must be brave

When they apply an aftershave.

The cost of blades is razor sharp;

I use mine 'til they're dull as carp.

The scrapping leaves behind a trail

On skin that's like a rusty nail.

The situation is no-win,

Especially with double-chin.

Now Old Spice, too, has prices feared.

It's cheaper just to grow a beard

 



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Monday, July 27, 2009

The Playtypus

With humor firmly kept in mind

The platypus was sure designed.

So even Disney cannot see

A way to give it dignity.

If I were born with bill and fur

I think I would feel insecure

'til plastic surgeon gave his word

He'd make me either dog or bird –

And then, on leash or on the wing,

I'd interview with Larry King.

 



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Sunday, July 26, 2009

from the real tim torkildson


When I was young and quick to judge,

My black and white would never budge.

Today I do not judge at all.

Since I am part of Adam's Fall

I pick up stones, though not to toss,

But smooth the way for someone's cross.

One less stumble on this earth

Gives to Heaven ample mirth.

 

 

The longer I am in the car the more snacks I'm consuming,

Until the floor with chips and bags is practically blooming.

A sip of pop, the cup tips o'er; fat ice cubes go a-sliding.

Mixed with candy wrappers, too – on compost I am riding!

Honey-roasted almonds skitter all around my feet;

I think I smell a Slim Jim underneath the driver's seat.

Is that the hotdog I forgot last Tuesday at the drive-in?

That mustard packet has grown legs – oh, what's the use of strivin'?

I'll never get this buggy clean—last night my own mechanic

Said this would be the first car he could certify organic!


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Wednesday, July 22, 2009

from the real tim torkildson

I love a spooky story on a dark and dismal night,

When H.P. Lovecraft's goblins make me shiver in delight.

Robert Bloch and werewolves are a lovely combination.

Bram Stoker and his sullen Count are always a sensation.

Stephen King is welcome, though his novels do seem long.

Algernon H. Blackwood's tales are only for the strong.

Saki had some good ones and Ray Bradbury excels

In evil things that stay for lunch and have alarming smells.

Anne Rice can sink her teeth into a vampire buffet

And no one beats old H.G. Wells on vivisection day.

Of course if you want terror of the kind that just might kill you,

Wait until your taxes come and see what they will bill you!



--
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Sunday, July 19, 2009

from the real tim torkildson


What can you say about Cronkite

That hasn't been said long before?

The voice of a nation is muted,

Drowned out by the tawdry tin roar.

He's gone where the news isn't slanted

Or chanted or yelled in your face.

They might let him in the Front Office,

Where he can ask God 'what is grace?'

What can you say about Walter?

Avuncular to Nth degree.

It's hard to remember which came first –

Was it Cronkite or was it TV?


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Friday, July 17, 2009

More Big Top Piffle



--
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Wednesday, July 15, 2009

The Spider


The spider is a ghastly beast;

On insect fluids it does feast.

It spins a web of silken sheen

That hangs upon the air unseen

Until an unsuspecting bug

Flies into it and gives a tug.

The end result, with fangs and hooks,

Portrayed in vivid science books,

Proves that the spider's ghoulish thirst

Is Mother Nature at her worst.

Fie on thee, oh foul arachnid –

Keep thy lousy sucking knack hid!


--
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"The world is your classroom."

Need your help...From Tim

         How are you doing,I hope all is well with you and family. I'm sorry for not informing you earlier about my trip to England for a Seminar,unfortunately,i misplaced my wallet on my way back to the Airport.
 
 I need a favor from you because I'm completely stranded and i need you to assist me with a soft loan of $1,650 to sort myself out of this mess and help myself return back home.
 
 I will appreciate whatever you can help me with and i promise to refund the money back to you as soon as i return. Kindly let me know if you can be of help so that i can send you my full details when sending it through moneygram or western union(since that is what works here)
 
Thanks
 
Timothy


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Monday, July 13, 2009

Where to, McNamara, Rob?

Here lies McNamara, Rob.

He played God and also hob

With the red and white and blue,

Shading lies to make them true.

Disillusioned, he turned banker –

Wanting memory the blanker.

No memorial will rise

Under Vietnam's red skies

To the conflict in his soul

From the dead dumped in a hole.

Where to, McNamara, Rob?

Grazing worms or raging mob?



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Sunday, July 12, 2009

Soda Pop

I drink soda pop because

I like fizz – or was it fuzz?

Then I burp – or is it bip? –

After every eager sip.

Yet I know I soon must start

Holding in a flirt – or flart.

After several bottles I

Am afloat – or am afly.

Anyway, you must excuse

Such a craze – or is it cruise?



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Friday, July 3, 2009

Next Stop, Broadway!

(CNN) -- A Turkish television show is offering contestants what it claims is the "biggest prize ever" -- the chance for atheists to convert to one of the world's major religions.

The TV show offers converts to Islam the chance to visit Mecca.

The TV show offers converts to Islam the chance to visit Mecca.

http://i.cdn.turner.com/cnn/.element/img/2.0/mosaic/base_skins/baseplate/corner_wire_BL.gif

The show, called "Tovbekarlar Yarisiyor," or "Penitents Compete," features a Muslim imam, a Catholic priest, a Jewish rabbi and a Buddhist monk attempting to persuade 10 atheists of the merits of their religion, according to CNN Turk.

If they succeed, the contestants are rewarded with a pilgrimage to one of their chosen faith's most sacred sites -- Mecca for Muslims, Jerusalem for converts to Judaism, a trip to Tibet for Buddhists and the chance to visit Ephesus and the Vatican for Christians.

Ahmet Ozdemir, deputy director of Turkish channel Kanal T, which will air the show from September, said the program aimed to "turn disbelievers on to God."

"People are free to believe anything they want. Our program does not have a say," he said, according to Turkish newspaper Hurriyet.

Contestants will be judged by a panel of eight theologians and religious experts prior to going on the show to make sure their lack of faith is genuine.

 

 

                                   THE NEW CRUCIBLE

                                    A Play by Tim Torkildson, aka Arthur Miller

 

Cast of Characters:

8 Various Theologians

1 Prospective Atheist

1 Surprise Guest Star

 

(The scene is a bleak courtroom, where eight solemn theologians are seated high up behind a massive lectern.  The prospective atheist is beneath them on a simple wooden stool, paring his nails with a spatula.)

 

Theologian #1:  So, you would like us to believe that you have absolutely no concept of, no interest in, no love or respect or even hatred for a Supreme Being?

Atheist:  Right you are, buddy boy.  I believe nothing I can't see with my own eyes, hear with my own ears, or taste with my own mouth.

 

Theologian#2:  Would you swear to that?

 

Atheist:  On a stack of pancakes!

 

Theologian #3:  But considering the boodle you stand to gain if you convert, we'll need more than just your word for it, my fine feathered foundling!

 

Atheist (finishing his nails and now going to work on his teeth with a lemon zester):  You guys can't prove that I worship anything or anybody, so nyah nyah nyah!

 

Theologian #4:  Such impertinence!  Have you anyone else that can vouch for your lack of moral conscience and utter disregard of faith, hope and charity?

 

Atheist:  I'm an orphan and have stopped socializing with the human race; I only commune with the more intelligent species on this planet – such as chipmunks and  pollywogs.  No man or woman knows what I think or feel or know.  But I'm telling you that I am a fervent, dead-again, atheist!  I'll prove it, don't worry!

      (He begins tap-dancing on copies of the Bible, the Torah and the Koran – finishing with a buck and wing that'll lay 'em in the aisles.)

 

Theologian #5:  Are we ordering out for lunch?

 

Theologian #6:  I am almost convinced that you are an atheist . . . but how do you feel about predestination?

 

Atheist:  Predestination doesn't matter; it's postdestination that counts.

 

Theologian #5:  Make mine ham on rye.

 

Theologian #7:  You seem to have an answer for everything, except this . . .

(flourishes a heavy piece of foolscap)

How do you explain this fan letter, with your signature, that you once sent to Red Skelton, which ends with "God bless you"?

 

Atheist (pulling out a red banana and wiping his brow):  I . . . I . . . I was young and foolish back then; I was on steroids and didn't know what I was doing!

 

Theologian #8:  Bosh!  If you're not a stinking agnostic I'll eat my hat.

 

Theologian #5:  Do you want pickles with that?

 

Atheist (sobbing into a pewter candle snuffer):  I keep a prayer in my heart, if you must know, for the Minnesota Twins . . .

 

     (Accompanied by a harp arpeggio, an angel drifts down from above, bearing olive branches and reuben sandwiches.  But since there is no horse radish in the room everyone begins reciting Shakespeare until Steven Spielberg buys the whole mess, puts in a dog, and films it under the title Wonder Beans)



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A Wet Blanket for Your Holiday Picnic

Traffic on the holidays is deadly, but carefree,

As we rush a couple thou into eternity.

Driving to a picnic or a ball game or the lake,

we will pass a crash without so much as a headshake.

Our minds are on the hotdog and the coming fireworks,

Not upon the injured with their blood and feeble jerks.

The dance of death increases and goes into overdrive

As we speed on down the road, so heedless and alive.

Until that fatal moment when reactions go awry

And we are in the ditch while other motorists whiz by.

Strange, how no one ever thinks of staying put at all,

Unless they are a prisoner behind a thick stone wall.

Talk about your Hitler or your Stalin with a sword –

Seems to me the biggest killer is old Henry Ford.



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Buyer Beware

Everything you buy today from pretzels to a boat

Includes a book or novel or a pamphlet done by rote

Explaining every aspect of your purchase in detail,

From country of origin to the date when it goes stale.

It tells you how to operate or savor or enhance,

It even tells you how to clean the lint right off your pants.

With diagrams and spread sheets and a lot of illustrations

It offers fine suggestions and a host of inclinations.

 A step-by-step procession of instructions, they will guide you,

and  guarantee that woe will not forever more betide you.

A warrantee's included, or implied, or can be bought,

And testimony's given that your product's really hot.

So sit back and relax and let all worries quickly vanish –

The only problem being the instructions are in Spanish.

 



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Thursday, July 2, 2009

Lost and Found

The airlines lost my luggage

Though it was tagged with care.

If only they tagged passengers

And lost 'em in midair.

I'd send my in-laws flying

To distant Yokohama,

Then sit back in my lounger

Without a shred of trauma.

 



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Wednesday, July 1, 2009

The Canoe

Canoes are very handy if your balance is assured.

Otherwise, you're paddling – and then you're water-cured.

On the weekend everyone, canoes upon their rack,

Heads for open water and their little fishing shack.

The trouble with canoes is that they haven't any brake

When you're crossing over some big motorboat's loud wake.

In the drink you go, my friend; you've lost your lunch & tackle –

As you curse the moron in the Chris Craft as a jackal.

I could go on longer with this subject-- but then, why yak?

Just be thankful you weren't in a dainty little kayak.



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