Where's CJ?

For those of you who are mathematically challenged...that's Harold X Harold. I suggest that you do NOT attempt to work that out on your slipstick as you may find yourself in New York city and THAT, my friends, is a fate I would wish upon no one.

(Hey Zen?)

What?

(You're drunk on you're ass again, aren't you.)

(You weren't saying anything, you blithering idiot.)

I post on this forum, drunk, out of respect for Charles Bukowski, who coined the phrase: "Ask a drunk."

Jacob Beardsly, (His maiden name.), between bags of potato chips and cans of Coke, originated this forum.

(What's your point, shithead?.)

I don't know. I miss CJ and Anna. I like to flirt with the girls. Matt's no fun...When I try to kiss him, he giggles. I don't know if he's gay or just shy.

Dude Steel, on the other hand, scares the hell out of me. Don't EVER drop the soap if you take a shower with him.

(Knock it off, Zen, you are becoming obnoxious.)

I'm just kidding.

(Shut up!)

Ok.

(NO!)

Shit!

Hunter Thompson, in the 60s, wrote that when two genius minds meet, for the first time, a spark goes around the world. He further speculated that it was the same with crazy people. I must agree. Since joining this forum, years ago, I have aquired enough static to startle a buffalo.

Did you know that if your room mate closes his eyes when you kiss him that he just might be gay?

Just thought you might want to know.......:)

******smooch smooch******

Now you've insulted me. I want all of your shit out of my guest room, including that Buick.
I have another friend who wants to live here and his Jeep doesn't leak so much oil.

Where in the hell is Rex?

Probably pondering, weak and weary, over some quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore. If not that, then he's trying to clean the grebe shit off of his bust of Pallas.

Stay yourself, Rex. Grebe shit is indelible and it will remain there, evermore.

Oh...wait...That's me.

Nevermind.

*DISCLAIMER*

Other than books, Rex has no serious infatuations that I am aware of.

as for the leaking oil.... I was trying to hide the bloodstains on the hardwood flooring. Why you wanted to butcher your own hog indoors is beyond me.

Rex got himself a crew cut, a bow tie and a varsity sweater and joined a glee club. He now spoons nightly with chaste maidens who put their finger to his lips and giggle whenever he puckers up to kiss them, to which he responds, "Awwww geee! Can't a fella get little lovin'?"

It's a dog's life. I predict he'll be back to drunken misdemeanors before you can say "whiffenpoof." Maybe not here, but somewhere in jolly olde wherever a kerb is about to get urine-soaked by a Man Named Rex.

I have been a loyal subscriber to that for so long, I get the swimsuit issue for free.

I applied for a job once, at the rectory, as a virgin inspector.
I was rejected because I "had a mote in my eye" and dirty fingernails.

The next time I apply, I will have clean fingernails and keep my eyes downcast.

Young virgin nuns...I wouldn't have a problem with that except that Father keeps winking at me.

(Shut up, you fucking idiot.)

I could have said "wanking" you know.

We could make a movie of that. Perhaps we could get Richard Harris for the lead. Is he still alive? No matter...His corpse could fulfill the role. Dead or dead drunk, we could sit him in a chair with a book in his lap and have a narrator, perhaps Anthony Hopkins, carry on while Rex, (Harris), snored (or rotted, whatever).

I have heard that word before. It seems to be one of those words that seeps into one's consciousness without any cognizant thought on one's part.

I traced it's origins back to Kipling and then I passed out. I, as an empath, am senseing Lewis Carrol here.

Oh, jeeze...here it comes...blame this all on Aimless...

Meade Minnegerode, 1910

From the tables down at Mory's,
To the place where Louie dwells,
And the dear, old Temple Bar we love so well,
Sing the Whiffenpoofs assembled,
With their glasses raised on high!
And the magic of their singing, casts a spell.

Yes the magic of their singing,
Of the songs we love so well:
"Shall I Wasting" and "Mavourneen" and the rest!
We will serenade our Louie,
Till health and voices fail,
And we'll pass and be forgotten with the rest.

We are poor little lambs
Who have lost our way,
Baa! Baa! Baa!
We are little, black sheep
Who have gone astray!
Baa! Baa! Baa!

Gentlemen, songsters, off on a spree,
Doomed from here to eternity.
Lord! Have mercy on such as we,
Baa! Baa! Baa!

Must you always flood this forum with erotica? Have you no sense of...

(Shut the fuck up, Zen. You are the most perverted sob who ever came down the pike.)

*drops trousers*

It was Goat Fowler who suggested we call ourselves The Whiffenpoofs. He had been tickled by the patter of one of the characters in a Victor Herbert musical comedy called "Little Nemo" which recently been running on Broadway. In a scene in which there was great boasting of terrific exploits in big game hunting and fishing, comedian Joseph Cawthorne told a fantastic tale of how he had caught a Whiffenpoof fish. It seems that Cawthorn had coined the word some years before when he and a fellow actor were amusing themselves by making up nonsense verses. One they particularly liked began: "A drivaling grilyal yandled its flail, One day by a Whiffenpoof's grave." Cawthorn recalled the verse in making up his patter for "Little Nemo" and put it into his act.

---

Now I'm warning y'all, ye shouldn't call me a "whiffenpoofter" or I'll throttle yer acorns in me fist and before you have time to turn blue.

Perhaps I should say "whiff".

(Hey Zen? No matter how drunk you get...you should know better than to fuck around with Aimless.)

Yeah, I know that, but like Billy the Kid in the movie "Young Guns".

"You gotta test yourself every day."

I find myself becoming very suspicious of you, Mister Judge.

You are beginning to remind me of someone who once haunted the halls of Oxford.

This forum begs a feminine touch.

He gets like this every time it goes missing for more than a week.

I know. I can't stop thinking about women.

(Ah HA! It's YOU who begs a feminine touch isn't it? Beg all you want. Just get used to your cup being empty.)

*sigh*

"Yes?"

"How do you do, Madam. I am the Zen Clown and I am canvassing the neighborhood collecting apostrophes for Dude Steel. You see mam, the poor man is apostrophe challenged. Do you have any extra apostrophes that you would care to donate?"

"Well, you are such a nice young man, here are some apostrophes for your Mr. Steel."

"Thank you mam, would you care for a toss?"

*SLAM!*

Jeeze! I had to hide in the bushes for over an hour waiting for the police cruisers to leave.

It ain't easy...being Dude's friend.

''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

I'm keeping 10% for overhead.

That's a good one. You see, Dude is Jewish. His real name is Yuda Steelburg.
Every April 20th he faces toward Germany, extends the middle finger of his left hand, makes a fist of his right and screams "Heil THIS you motherfuckers!"
His neighbors all come out to watch. It's kinda like Groundhog Day, if he sees his shadow, they know he'll be cursing Germans and Arabs for the next six weeks.
I, being a full-blood German, avoid him during that period.

"Honey? I'm going to the workshop to build a birdhouse!"

"That's nice dear. Try to have all ten fingers when you come to bed!"

Then you slink out with bread and mayonaise and she tries to ignore the reek of dead pig on your breath when you come to bed...Tsk, tsk.

Better try control that craving for pork pal. It'll make your foreskin grow back.

You frightened me away by talking to yourself all the time. At least have the common decency to develop an alter ego to post under like all the rest of us multiple personality folk do. (Dude doesn't realise this but he is actually one of my many personalities, ssshhh, don't tell him, I get sick of coming around naked and covered in mash banana in front of my bathroom mirror with a can of open can spam in one hand and a copy of the NY times in the other. I don't know what he gets up to and I really don't care to speculate).

As bananas were not designed as tracing implements they do tend to wear done to a nubbin fairly quickly so I try to have several bunches on hand at all time as I never know when you/me/they are coming to visit.

The spam just seems to make it that much dirtier and therefore more exciting than it already is!

The NY times does bother me somewhat because I seem to remember Rex saying something about enjoying the crossword puzzle.....

Above...

Done = down

throw in a couple commas and a few apostrophies to use wherever needed too.

Anna, I'm not really talking to myself. I type with one hand whilst the other is operating a hand puppet. Well...actually...It's not really a puppet, it's an old sock with button eyes and a sarcastic attitude.

(You're an idiot.)

See what I mean?

Well, there you have it. The truth is out. Zen's ego is a sock puppet.

Ner.