Monthly Archives: January 2015

Notes from the Whine Cellar

Try this wretched Chardonnay
I regret I bought today!
There’s an overture of shaving cream that’s fleeting-
It’s obstreperous and brusque,
And so redolent of musk
That I fear that it will bring the moose stampeding.

Or this horrible Merlot
From the corner liquor sto’
It has good legs, and I wish that it would use them
It’s insulting to my tongue,
And, I think, collapsed my lung,
I pray, vintner, with such grapes, you shouldn’t bruise them.

Ah this treacherous rosé,
On any table it would pose a
conundrum equal to the sphynx’s riddle:
Should you pair it with a shoe?
Or a razorblade or two?
Or pour it over Nero’s burning fiddle?

Oh, this awful Pinot Noir
Was exhumed from pits of tar
With a nose that is a subtle as Durante’s.
Notes of anchovy and dirt,
It will burn away your skirt
and leave you weeping, clad in just your panties.

Ay, this monstrous Chablis
Left me screaming in a tree
It is turpentine and raisins in a blender
For this vino, veci, vini
Finishes like Passolini
With a bang, and then a whimper, and a fender.

Mm, this dreadful Cabernet
It’s unusually grey,
And it tastes of platypus and armadillo.
Oleaginous and vile,
It’s like licking a turnstile
For your palate should be cleansed, then, with a Brillo.

Have some abhorrent Chianti!
It’s as supple as my Auntie,
And she hasn’t left the davenport in years,
It will summon up the bile
From the toughest oenophile
As they crawl across your parquet floor in tears.



Omigod, all I wanted was my medication. I take these huge blue pills for a mild case of Kuru I picked up in New Guinea- I shouldn’t have had the brain fritters, evidently- So I go the local PHARMAHAUS, because that’s what we have to do ever since the PHARMAHAUS goons took old Doc Phelps out into that cornfield and beat him to death with baseball bats, then burned Ye Apothecary Shoppe down and salted the ground upon which it stood.

I called first, and spoke to a very pleasant robot. The robot asked me for the refill number on my prescription, and I typed it in, 97845547987540N9849347493603240943074.

The robot said my prescription would be ready at 6PM. I arrived at the PHARMAHAUS at 6:34PM, and proceeded to the back of the store where the Pharmacists peer out from behind a high counter, with only the tops of their heads and suspicious eyes visible.

There was quite a long line at the counter. I was thirty years younger than any of the other people waiting, which at my advanced age is remarkable. The Old Lady at the front of the line was complaining as the Pharmacist wrestled her wedding ring over her arthritic knuckle for payment, but she pretty much had to stop once he shoved his hand in her mouth to extract the gold fillings from her teeth.

After the Pharmacist was done with her, he had a brief squabble with a fedora-wearing gentleman who kept saying something about how his heart would stop if he didn’t get his pills within 20 minutes…eventually he was given a number and told to go sit down in a chair by the door that was closest to the dumpster out back, just in case.

Then there were about four more geezers who had to be taken care of. Whine, whine whine. Don’t these people know how lucky they are not to be chopped up and made into Soylent Green? Have they never seen Logan’s Run? DON’T THEY REALISE HOW TRULY INCONSEQUENTIAL THEIR PROBLEMS ARE TO A 24 YEAR OLD PHARMACIST WHO’S BEING PAID $8.35 AN HOUR?

When, at last, it was my turn to be waited on, I gave the Pharmacist a rueful smile-with-wink, as if to say, “Man, I totally understand how awful it must be for a guy in a store to deal with customers,” and gave him my name.
“von Borax.”
“With a B?”
“Yes, in the Borax.
“Bon Borax?”
“No, von, with a “V” as in Vercingétorix.”
“What’s- worse than the forest?”
“The city is worse than the forest, I suppose, if you’re a squirrel. OH! No, you know, Vercingétorix, the Chieftain who led the great Gallic revolt against Caesar.”
“What are you talking about?” He seemed to be getting peevish, so I snatched a pen from the pocket of his long white coat and wrote my name on the band of the dead guy’s fedora.

The Pharmacist looked through some secret bins under the counter, then typed on a computer for a minute, then went in the area behind the very high counter which prevents the geezers from vaulting over and throttling the Pharmacists, and typed on another computer, and then came out and announced that my prescription wouldn’t be filled for a couple minutes, and insinuated that I should browse through the other consumer goods available in the fluorescent aisles.

I said, “Look, the robot distinctly told me that the prescription would be filled by 6PM.”
The Pharmacist didn’t answer, as he was trying to defend himself against the sudden vicious attack of an Old Lady swinging a walker at his head. So I went to browse.

The first place I went to look was at the toys, of course. The toy selection was amazing: there was a great selection of military action figures: there was a really nice little scale model U.S. torture chamber with a tiny victim on a waterboard, and some keen little toy drones. Everything was strangely overpriced, however. They wanted $47 for the Pay-the-Chief-Executive-Officer-Even-More-While-Cutting-the-Compensation-of-the-Common-Worker game, which I felt was excessive. Matchbox cars were three times what you’d pay for them anywhere else, and all of them were covered with ads for EXXtreme Guava Mountain Dew.

I meandered over to the magazines to look for porn, so I could pretend to be looking at something else while secretly enjoying the hamhanded double entendres on the covers. -Actually, a lot of the time they can’t afford double entendres and have to make do with single entendres- There wasn’t any porn, unless you count those Muscle magazines. I opened one for a moment and burst into tears at the sight of some poor misshapen ruin of a man. He looked like a bunch of cantaloupes held together by twine netting. There were also some nice magazines for mercenaries, featuring ads for eyeball extractors (looked a lot like a standard melon-baller, actually, but MUCH more expensive)and custom kits to modify your hunting rifle into a laser sighted armor-piercing automatic napalm bazooka. But not so much as a single lingerie magazine, because that would be obscene.

There were so many shampoos. I wonder if some people use a different shampoo on each strand of hair? Because you could. I was absorbed for quite awhile admiring the selection of tooth whitening kits (like teeth shouldn’t be kinda greenish yellow). There was an entire aisle devoted to deodorizing different portions of your anatomy. Elbow deodorant, shin deodorant, earlobe deodorant, etc… Do the people who shop at PHARMAHAUS really smell that bad, or is it just that they don’t naturally smell like a synthesized hyacinth and papaya potpourri waterfall? Because I do.

I really got kind of woozy and grossed out by the health and beauty aids. And again, everything was fabulously expensive, like the Colgate was made of 15-year-old Roederer Cristal Champagne or something.
It was an hour and a half before a hideously mangled mispronunciation of my name was broadcast through some giant Dixie-Cup speaker in the ceiling, and I went back to the Pharmacy and stood in line for another 20 minutes while the Pharmacist mocked and jeered at several more old people. The Pharmacist and I had another long conversation about how to spell things, and then he triumphantly produced my pills, in a bottle, in a bag, which he put into another bag. I presented my Insurance card with a flourish meant to impress the cowering old people, who had none.

The Pharmacist said that I wasn’t “in the system,” and proceeded to “put me in the system,” which was about as easy as filing taxes for a major corporation, by the looks of it. Several of the people in line behind me perished of dehydration while we waited. Then I went to the front of the store and stood in line for 45 minutes while this sixteen year old cashier was unable to “scan” things and made incorrect change for a sequence of hopeless people. After my copay, my generic Kuru pills were only 45 cents more than I made last week at work!

I left the store, and breathed the sweet air of the parking lot- (why does the PHARMAHAUS smell like mothballs + Circus Peanuts?) The Moon was high in the sky…just a slim sliver of a new Moon, like the tip of a fingernail. That reminded me that I had meant to pick up some fingernail clippers. I could have gone back into the PHARMAHAUS for them, but I decided I’d rather just see if I could excavate some out of the salted ground where Ye Apothecary Shoppe used to stand.

A Demon that Likes Roast Chicken for No Good Reason


Ones and Zeros

I was listening to music this
Carpathian death klezmer band
On earphones because nobody else wants
To hear this crap: but these dudes have something magic going except
The tone was muddy or shrill
A clumsy staircase had been hewn from a more graceful slope
Everyone got smushed into the middle range
Breaking up
Ones and zeros ones and zeros

I was viewing a folder of files
Of pictures of my family on our last archaeological expedition
To this industrial burial ground
The resolution was unclear
I tried zooming in
Until everything was tiny squares
Pixels aren’t as cute as they sound
It’s broken down
Ones and zeros ones and zeros

I try to be fiscally responsible
Notwithstanding excessive Stilton and gulab jamun expenditures
I logged in to my 401K
I was looking over my investment
The time signature of the algorithm was obscure to me
It was fading away & dwindling
Breaking away-
Ones and zeros ones and zeros

I virtually quit and actually went outside
Where clouds moved across the sky
They were armchairs dragons fondue pots
I bit into an apple
It was firework waterfall June of 1978 forgiveness
And a kiss
Which I passed on to my daughter
Later there was a real rain
And useless things washed away

Seven People: One Bathroom: Sitcom Theme Song

Seven People, one bathroom, it’s a zany scene
‘Cause they all have to pee and shave and primp and none of them is clean
Seven people in the hallway waiting for relief
If they’re in the can a bit too long they get a load of grief
It’s the only bathroom in a kooky boarding house
Run by a spooky butler who’s quite mysterious
Seven people hate each other, always in a rush
The line’s so long, they’re back in line the moment that they flush
Seven people, one bathroom, you should poo your mind
With seven anxious quirky goons all waiting in a line!

(…it’s only a matter of time before someone picks this concept up for production…IT’S PURE GOLD)

A Cat on an Ugly Couch for No Good Reason


Sugar Rush


Gas Station Rose

She pushed my change back from behind the plexiglass
And then she wet her lips and smiled
And asked me why I never tried to make a pass
And her eyes were deep and wild
My head was swimming in the fumes of gasoline
As I stuttered in surprise
She laughed and said a thing that some would call obscene
But from her it sounded nice.
I made small talk for fourteen minutes, acting tough
Not too convincing, I suppose
We agreed to meet that night for chicken in the rough
Me and my gas station rose

She has a run in her dimestore pantyhose
And she knows that life’s a bitch
That ain’t my worry now as my gas station rose
Leaves me some flowers in a ditch

I was grinning so, I must have looked insane
As I drove into the cold
Ten miles down the freeway I called out her name
As I spun out of control
I never saw the patch of ice that did me in
I just couldn’t hold the road
I went over the embankment in a spin
Then I felt the truck explode
She’s finally come out from behind the plexiglass
And the flower petals froze
Standing in the rain and crying by the overpass
My lonely gas station rose.

She has a run in her dimestore pantyhose
And she knows that life’s a bitch
That ain’t my worry now as my gas station rose
Leaves me some flowers in a ditch


How nice to see you! You look soooo old!
Well, sweetie, I’m very excited today!
At 4 PM
I go for my new triple-tier eyebags.
I have been scrimping and saving for this operation for months,
Even to the point of curtailing my windsock expenditures.
I had to get a second job, as a reglazer
Of day-old donuts at the “Donut Make You HAPPY”
Drive-Through Donut Emporium.
(You know what my favorite part of the job is?  Taste my hand!
It’s still sweet, and I finished reglazing six hours ago.
Which helps with the food budget:
I pretty much just eat couscous and lick my hand sometimes)
With the 2 jobs it’s hard to find the time
That I now have to spend every day penciling in worry lines and eye crinkles,
Maintaining the grey highlights in my beard,
Encouraging my ear hairs to grow,
Putting rheum-drops in my eyes.
Keeping up appearances! You know how it is, dear.
And sometimes, when I’m in a hurry, I forget to stoop and shamble like I should.
I’ve been wearing dentures, but sometimes they slip,
And people see that I’m not actually missing my natural teeth, which is SO embarrassing.
Oh, for a pure pink set of plain gums,
Like the very-very-harridan Milvie Spinkle-Thorpe
Was seen chortling carelessly through at the premiere of
“TOO OLD FOR THAT!!!” at Cannes.

I’m going to level with you, honey, it’s hard to keep up
With the cutting edge of couture right now.
That pop musician Squindy Squills can’t be a day over 24 years old,
But with hundreds of thousands of dollars at her disposal
Earned from her hit album “I Got a Little Angina”
She suddenly looks like the most fabulously decrepit codger imaginable, almost overnight.
It looks like she’s had her back humped-
A total ass removal-
Designer-distressed knees-
And a full face drop-
Wanda Limpe-Forque definitely has new wattles
And from her everplunging cleavage, I suspect she’s had extensive increased-gravity treatments.
You just don’t see natural early droopage like that here on Earth-
(My sources tell me Wiwi Norplebower was actually flown to Jupiter for a month
To attain the wondrous pendulousity
That was so prominently on display last month at the Glorioski Awards.)

It’s hard to afford the clothes!
The price of Sans-A-Belt Polyester Slacks has skyrocketed like you wouldn’t believe.
Gravy-stained tweed jackets
Sock garters
Extremely large underpants
Scuffed loafers
Dingy wigs worn askew
Unblocked fedoras
Are flying off the racks.

Bags of cat hair and lint to roll in before you go out to dinner
Cost like sixty bucks
And you only get like an ounce per bag, barely three applications.

I have to shave my scalp thrice daily
Or I get stubble where my male-pattern baldness should be
My knuckles need surgical knobbification.
Though I have almost perfected my spinal S-Curve
And my chest grows more concave daily. My secret?
I’ve been sleeping every night in the clothes dryer with a bowling-ball on my chest.

I hear noted author Horbert Fuuche
Paid a murder of real crows
To roost on his face for two months
To acquire his lauded crow’s-feet.
You know how much a whole murder of crows costs?
I can barely afford a mugging of crows, myself

Incidentally since it’s just us two here and I really shouldn’t say anything
But you remember Melpha with whom we matriculated with?
Who always wowed the boys with her precociously ancient deportment?
I saw her just the other day in the grocery and
You wouldn’t believe the way she hasn’t let herself go-
Her cheeks are all pinkish and puffy
She doesn’t thin her hair at all
She’s got that blank unformed generic look
You’re stuck with before you get a personality
She’s as boring as any one plum on a big plate of plums or something

But it’s unkind of me to say so. She’s not well off-

If I had to say which of the celebrities I personally find most stunning recently,
I have to give it up to Miss Siphia Pimberly
As the hottest starlet of the year.
Oh her chin hair implants-
Oh the constellations of liver spots on her corrugated chest-
Ah the deflated and gelatinous biceps and buttocks-
The cracked and puckered sphincter of her lips- The hook of her nose-
Eyelids crepe-draping suggestively over curranty eyes-
Fairy-dusted in dandruff-
That sexy totter…
That babe is a Stone-Cold Crone.
Oh dear I’m slightly engorged just thinking about it, which reminds me
It’s time for my erectile dysfunction pill
Lest it belie the facade when that occurs
Within my Sans-A-Belt Polyester Slacks

Dream: Morning of 1.1.15

I am at a party at a bauhaus-style clifftop palazzo on the adriatic(?). Fabulous fashionable women go down to the beach and sit around a fire. I try to follow, but I have this big, brimming cylinder of champagne to carry down, and the staircase is precipitous and disintegrating beneath my feet. Carved into the exquisite white marble of the cliffs, enormous porcine faces  look discontentedly out to sea…


%d bloggers like this: