Must-See for the Working Class
It is with effusive sprightliness that Davey H announces the
presence of film director and protagonist Patrick Lovell's excellent
documentary entitled, “Forward 13: Waking up the American Dream”.
It comprises 1.8 gigs, and is available on Amazon in SD or HD, $ 10.00 and
$20.00 respectively as a download to be viewed in their virtually un-hackable ‘Unbox’
player. But since most of us are not equipped to make optimal use of HD format,
SD will do just fine.
Thankfully, though Lovell lost his ass in the 2008 crash, his chutzpah could
not be squelched.
Going further, to wax a bit more specific, the
aforementioned Lovell became a consummate force to be reckoned with in his
indomitable quest to shine a blazing, unblinking spotlight of scrutiny upon the
abominable Banksters, Big Oil, Big Government and all ancillary spokes on the
wheel of which that triad is comprised.
Davey H highly recommends picking up a copy of this fast-paced Hunter S.
Thompson-esque travelogue replete with its inspiring stops to pick the brains
of the fed-up, the disenfranchised, and the lost-ass-in-the-2008-crashers.
Moreover, his Everyman SuperPac offers this observable inspiration:
“The system is broken. Let’s fix it together.”
A Day In The Life Of Two Murphy’s Law Dupes
Being flustered more than slightly
we scramble, fumble and bask
whilst contemplating here each rightly
damn near finished task.
Each evening, though, to be quite frank,
we feel so venerated;
those catbirds and song sparrows to thank
with song we’re titillated!
They chirp us through each arduous chore
until the sun has expired;
their repertoire to not ignore,
in fact, we’re rather inspired!
One of these days we’ll finish the coop
as the work pace steadily quickens,
then scuttle to clean up all the poop
produced by those six chickens!
More Working Class Diatribes
If something isn’t fixed, of course
that means it’s friggin’ broken;
and so it is with little remorse
these fixin’ words are spoken.
Davey waxes superciliousin proffering the following working
What is needed right now is ‘Quick and Easy’.
Where’s the time for anything other than that?
Hark! How the robin’s song will please me!
Wait a sec – I dropped my hat.
The bird feeders were filled
as little birds trilled
then were sated with us befriended;
They peck at the seeds
as per their needs,
and would do so until winter ended.
The morning Joe: got the usual dash
of cinnamon, lo – hey, the flavor’s a SMASH!
Perhaps it was whilst going through recycled papers – which, as you may surmise,
is one of any given country bumpkins’ many annoyingly perpetual and ongoing
capers – that Davey H might have come across the following hard-hitting
“SNOWPLOWS OWN THE ROAD”
This year, was it accurate?
Yes, dear, you better freakin’ bet.
Their fuel-gulping diesels
indeed own the road
and like f**in’ weasels
your mailbox they’ll goad
and bash and trash and wallop and gore
such a guffawing smash
as they laid down some more.
THE POET’S BLEAT
Tom, he was a frumpy guy
but was kind of neat;
when he confided on the sly
he’d won the Poet’s Seat.
Full well you know,
and it would seem,
to this wood they go
to let off steam.
It is a place atop a hill
the saving grace to hide from ill
and sit a while and brood or think
then flit, beguile your splotch of ink.
From a long-dead poet
it got its name,
and while he didn’t know it
he had fame
although like Emily Dickinson’s story
he never lived to see his glory.
last time Davey embarked on one of those so-called 'vacations', he
forgot to take his passwords along, hence no communications were
possible with those whose access required passwords.But that
turned out okay; it was actually a big relief not being completely
tied to an electronic device for the purpose of communicating. That
meant time for being glued to said electronic device for other
recreational pastimes and troubleshooting – a feature that
presented itself in abundance.He waxed a bit of a smartass and
took self-pix of his pink-nosed Yankee mug while he posed next to a
gaudy Boston Whaler.
stack at the branch,an attendant diligently worked,obligations
fulfilling,at Don't Laugh It's Paid For Farm,where the rooster
still crowed free from harm,with none to hear his fine trilling.
checked the SPAM folder regularly, being regularly appalled at the
volume of it.Equally nauseating was the very nature of that
unfortunately ubiquitous paradigm: everyday people sending unwanted
trash every day to other everyday people who had to spend large
blocks of otherwise productive time every day eliminating such
detritus from their Inboxes. The sheer quantities of time,
electricity and so-called 'talent'
allotted to creating SPAM is in and of itself a testimonial to the
wasteful side of human nature, and vast
are spent mindlessly
Next, it was a Eureka!
moment as Davey finally figured out how Tupak Shakur got his
name.Spinning his first name on its head, 'kaput' appears as if
by magic. Perhaps Shakur had been prompted by a bit of prescience, as
his kaput-ness indeed arrived later on the coattails of a bullet or
twoThis bit of trivia is not required for essential mental
functioning in any regard, but instead included for dramatic
effect.It was one of those infiltrating trains of thought that
percolate now and then, keeping one's mind off of their own ultimate
decay, disease and death.
Then, once Davey
realized he omitted the FIRST Shakur testicular shooting, without
hooting, it was back to eliminating SPAM, which is unfortunately all
too often, nay, shall we say nearly ALWAYS an essential first step in
beginning either a sensless surfing session or moribund office-bound
day, and a function which, like sleep or taking of nutriment, is
performed without undue exercise of the tempers or complaining.Let's
keep in mind that this unwanted layer of redundant complexity has
been a millstone, a pesky addendum to our already cluttered lives for
almost 20 years now. So its seniority lends it privileges.
Back to being thrown to
the dogs:Take a right at poop spot #2,lift left leg on
the proper mailbox posts;as this befits the likes of you,while
appalling your pauper hosts..Here, oh dear, is, to the
dogs,the meaning so clear of words like “logs”.Meaning, yes,
no need be vexed:those logs are not composed of text!Moreover,
more distinction is hadas we ponder what is meant by 'pad'.So
hasten those leg lifts, 1,2,3;they are not for your absbut
rather to pee!Thus concludes this compulsive installmentof
think that you could write a book?If so, what would you feed
it?Check out the news and take a lookif your views would
impede it.Chide that fellow 'oer books he wrote,but he's
still mellow, that we note.In the swing, as a boxing ring,sans
cerebral fettering.Oh, he could pen a sad, sad songwhat,
it's only 100 words long?Davey couldn't, his mind did
flit;he thought his book not worth a sh**.Hanging on, 'twas
so absurd;banging, wan by the hundredth word.And so he
decided to hang it up.
Next up: a pervasive,
mildly disturbing, near-total dearth of coaxal focus. This far too
common occurrence should not in itself be particular cause for
consternation, being, after all, a snippet from this vast pastiche of
ever-changing circumstances.Oh, Davey had seen books, articles and
glossy magazines brimming with tips and tricks on how to hone one's
ailing memory and nanosecond attention span, but he had rarely gotten
one or two paragraphs into such text.Thus, no benefit was
derived.Besides, once any given so-called knowledge was instilled
into his marginally functional gray matter, it would become obsolete
in short order.
As any reader –
casual or otherwise – of 100 Words posts could surmise, Davey was
one of the laggard non-hosts who seldom finished batches on time,
possibly due to his silly propensity to attempt making everything
rhyme.Having a bevy of word processing tools at his disposal
meant he, like any other electronically dependent typist, had little
excuse for not completing writing projects in a timely manner.Therefore, it had to be chalked up to mere laxity in concert with a
dearth of meaningful cranial musings.So what if today is actually
June 1st?Since nobody reads, it makes no difference.
Davey marveled at the greats, such as Ernest Hemingway, who
had created such immensely popular 2 inch thick tomes by pecking them out on
old mechanical typewriters.
Even if only assessed in just that respect, he put most modern writers – who
are equipped with all manner of snazzy, easy to use word processing tablets,
laptops and desktops – to severe shame.
Have you ever tried going back and typing on an old mechanical? Noisy as hell,
Well, if you did, you could surely hone finger and wrist muscles.
Oh, by the way – don’t forget to hit the return lever!
Some prep was done
before this gigand we had fun aboard this rig.Miles were
gulped and time was lost;good thing we didn't lose
exhaust.Coming up the InterstateSlow as hell, it wasn't
great.No GPS, our path not tracked,full road, I guess, with
cars 'twas packed!The PA turnpike was a GAS;we had to
spike and let them pass.Stopping for tea and rummage through
bags,have a look-see at all those tags.Hi-ho, the
dairy-o,Some from Jo-juh, some from Ontario.I’m not sayin’
where ours is from;It might attract SPAM scum.
What if word problems
shared some of the silliness of mathematical ones? Like, say, what if
you were queried the following:“add this verb, take away
six,sine and cosine just for kicks.Subtract, abstract, as you
laugh and hootbut don't forget that you're the square
root.”Davey was, to nobody’s surprise, a math flunky. As
he noted: “My seventh grade Algebra teacher was an egotistical
puff-headed tennis buff who didn’t give a flip about much else, and
as far as the work went, once they started adding letters and
parentheses into the equation (pun distended), I was LOST.