Posted on 04/26/2007 5:45:54 AM PDT by PJ-Comix
So how to order all this in our minds? May 12 is primarily Fitzmas, but because of "Scoop" Pitt's key role in breaking the news, May 12 is, secondarily, "Pied Piper Pitt Day" and thus the occasion for the "Bad Pitt" Writing Contest.
Kind of on the order of April 19 being primarily the anniversary of Lexington and Concord and secondarily, then, celebrated as "Patriot Day" and the occasion of the Boston Marathon.
It was a dark and stormy night when a semi celebrity wandered into my favorite waterhole. The posse in attendance was small,and I knew if there was half a chance,I could plant my beer stained lips on their backside.
I thrust quivering hands into my pockets to merely confirm my fears, ya ... I was broke again.
I cast sheep's eyes about the smoky bar, but there wasn't a soul I knew who would front me enough money so I could stand the bar a round, my taps were tapped out.
I shot a glance to to Maryanne's tip jar perched on top of her piano, but in looking at her eyes told me clearly; "Don't even f.... think about it, you jerk".
What's with Dames, hey you puke in her car one time, .... but I digress.
But no celebrity fannie will leave here without the lips of Boston's Philosopher in Residence having glazed it. I shoot pleading eyes to Tony behind the bar, what's this? I'm getting the bird already.
This finely crafted brain of mine has a flash!
Ya, that's the ticket, I'll invite said celeb back to pad... ya, nobody will notice when I mix that half bottle of Morgen David and roomie's jug of Ripple. Gee I hope that Jehovah Witness chick has cleaned the place up like she promised...
To be Continued..
And humble, too.
That was said in Pittian mode, of course.
We've got a deacon like that - he does the Voice of God better than God Himself could. Moderately annoying.
I just noticed an excess "of" in that part of my post 29. That was a typo. Please do not count it toward my 100,000 word limit.
Magic Man, Magic Man
Friendly neighborhood Magic Man
Truth and facts he's ignored
Ridicule's his reward
To him, life is all freudenschade
Wherever there's bulldada
You'll find the Magic Man!
hilarious essay, Chas.
Does the 100k word limit apply to all entries combined, or each long-winded screed separately?
LOL! “Midnight Cowboy” was on cable a few days ago.
I present- The Pied Piper Pitt of DUmmielin
I.
DUmmielin town’s in Leftie,
By famous Red Square;
The River Weser, deep and wide,
Washes its wall on the leftward side;
A pleasanter spot you never spied;
But, when begins my ditty,
Almost fifteen months ago,
To see townsfolk suffer so
From vermin, was a pity.
II.
Chimpies!
They fought the dogs, and killed the cats,
and bit the babies in the cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the vats,
And licked the soup from the cook’s own ladles,
Split open the kegs of salted sprats,
Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats,
And even spoiled the women’s chats,
By drowning their speaking
With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and flats.
III.
At last the people in a body
To the Town Hall came flocking:
“’Tis clear,” cried they, “our Skinner’s a noddy;
And as for our KOssics — shocking
To think we buy brown shirts lined with ermine
For dolts that can’t or won’t determine
What’s best to rid us of our vermin!
You hope, because you’re old and obese,
To find in the furry civic robe ease?
Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking
To find the remedy we’re lacking,
Or, sure as fate, we’ll send you packing!”
At this the Skinner and KOssics
Quaked with a mighty consternation.
IV.
An hour they sate in Dummies,
At length the Skinner broke silence:
“For a guilder I’d my ermine gown sell,
I wish I were a mile hence!
It’s easy to bid one rack one’s brain —
I’m sure my poor head aches again
I’ve scratched it so, and all in vain.
Oh for a perjury trap, a perjury trap, a perjury trap!”
Just as he said this, what should hap
At the chamber door but a gentle tap?
“Bless us,” cried the Skinner, “What’s that?”
(With the KOssics as he sat,
Looking little though wondrous fat;
Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister
Than a too-long-opened oyster,
Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous
For a plate of turtle green and glutinous.)
“Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?
Anything like the sound of a rat
Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!
V.
“Come in!” — the Skinner cried, looking bigger:
And in did come the strangest figure!
His queer long coat from heel to head
Was half of yellow and half of red;
And he himself was tall and not so-thin,
With dead blue eyes, each like a pin,
And lacking hair, yet swarthy skin,
No tuft on cheek, only beard on chin,
But lips where smiles went out and in —
There was no guessing his kith and kin!
And nobody could enough admire
The tall man and his quaint attire:
Quoth one: “It’s as my great-grandsire,
Starting up at the Trump of Doom’s tone,
Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!”
VI.
He advanced to the Dummies-table:
And, “Please your honours,” said he, “I’m able,
By means of a secret charm, to draw
All creatures living beneath the sun,
That creep, or swim, or fly, or run,
After me so as you never saw!
And I chiefly use my charm
On creatures that do people harm,
The Rove, and Rummy, and Newt, and Bushie;
And people call me the Pied Piper Pitt.”
(And here they noticed round his neck
A scarf of red and yellow stripe,
To match with his coat of selfsame cheque;
And at the scarf’s end hung a pipe;
And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying
As if impatient to be playing
Upon this pipe, as low it dangled
Over his vesture, so old-fangled.)
“Yet,” said he “poor Piper Pitt as I am,
In Tartary I freed the Kucin,
Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats;
I eased in Asia the Nizam
Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats:
And, as for what your brain bewilders,
If I can rid your town of Chimpies
Will you give me a thousand guilders?”
“One? fifty thousand!” — was the exclamation
Of the astonished Skinner and KOssics.
VII.
Into the street the Piper Pitt stept,
Smiling first a little smile,
As if he knew what magic slept
In his quiet pipe the while;
Then, like a musical adept,
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,
And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled
Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled;
And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,
You heard as if an army muttered;
And the muttering grew to a grumbling;
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;
And out of the houses the Chimpies came tumbling:
Great Chimpies, small Chimpies, lean Chimpies, brawny Chimpies,
Brown Chimpies, black Chimpies, grey Chimpies, tawny Chimpies,
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,
Families by tens and dozens,
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives —
Followed the Piper Pitt for their lives.
From street to street he piped, advancing,
And step for step, they followed, dancing,
Until they came to the River Weser
Wherein all plunged and perished
— Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar,
Swam across and lived to carry
(As he the manuscript he cherished)
To Rat-land home his commentary,
Which was, “At the first shrill notes of the pipe,
I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,
And putting apples, wondrous ripe,
Into a cider press’s gripe:
And a moving away of pickle-tub boards,
And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards,
And the drawing the corks of train-oil flasks,
And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks;
And it seemed as if a voice
(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery
Is breathed) called out, Oh Chimpies, rejoice!
The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!
So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,
Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!
And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,
All ready staved, like a great sun shone
Glorious scarce an inch before me,
Just as methought it said, Come, bore me!
— I found the Weser rolling o’er me.”
VIII.
You should have heard the DUmmielin people
Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple;
“Go,” cried the Skinner, “and get long poles!
Poke out the nests and block up the holes!
Consult with carpenters and builders,
And leave in our town not even a trace
Of the Chimpies!” — when suddenly up the face
Of the Piper Pitt perked in the market-place,
With a “First, if you please, my thousand guilders!”
IX.
A thousand guilders! The Skinner looked blue;
So did the KOssics too.
For Dummies dinners made rare havock
With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;
And half the money would replenish
Their cellar’s biggest butt with Rhenish.
To pay this sum to a wandering fellow
With a gipsy coat of red and yellow!
“Beside,” quoth the Skinner, with a knowing wink,
“Our business was done at the river’s brink;
We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,
And what’s dead can’t come to life, I think.
So, friend, we’re not the folks to shrink
From the duty of giving you something for drink,
And a matter of money to put in your poke;
But, as for the guilders, what we spoke
Of them, as you very well know, was in joke.
Beside, our losses have made us thrifty;
A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!”
X.
The Piper Pitt’s face fell, and he cried,
“No trifling! I can’t wait, beside!
I’ve promised to visit, by dinner-time
Bagdad, and accept the prime
Of the Head Cook’s pottage, all he’s rich in,
For having left, in the Caliph’s kitchen,
Of a nest of scorpions no survivor —
With him I proved no bargain-driver,
With you, don’t think I’ll bait a stiver!
And folks who put me in a passion
May find me pipe to another fashion.”
XI.
“How?” cried the Skinner, “d’ye think I’ll brook
Being worse treated than a cook?
Insulted by a lazy ribald
With idle pipe and vesture piebald?
You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,
Blow your pipe there till you burst!”
XII.
Once more he stept into the street;
And to his lips again
Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet
Soft notes as yet musician’s cunning
Never gave the enraptured air)
There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling
Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling,
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,
Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering,
And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering,
Out came the DUmmies running.
All the little boys and girls,
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,
And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,
Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after
The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.
XIII.
The Skinner was dumb, and the Dummies stood
As if they were changed into blocks of wood,
Unable to move a step, or cry
To the DUmmies merrily skipping by —
And could only follow with the eye
That joyous crowd at the Piper Pitt’s back.
But how the Skinner was on the rack,
And the wretched Dummies’s bosoms beat,
As the Piper Pitt turned from the High Street
To where the Weser rolled its waters
Right in the way of their sons and daughters!
However he turned from South to West,
And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,
And after him the DUmmies pressed;
Great was the joy in every breast.
“He never can cross that mighty top!
He’s forced to let the piping drop,
And we shall see our DUmmies stop!”
When, lo, as they reached the mountain’s side,
A wondrous portal opened wide,
As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;
And the Piper Pitt advanced and the DUmmies followed,
And when all were in to the very last,
The door in the mountain-side shut fast.
Did I say, all? No! One was lame,
And could not dance the whole of the way;
And in after years, if you would blame
His sadness, he was used to say, —
“It’s dull in our town since my playmates left!
I can’t forget that I’m bereft
Of all the pleasant sights they see,
Which the Piper Pitt also promised me;
For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,
Joining the town and just at hand,
Where waters gushed and fruit trees grew,
And flowers put forth a fairer hue,
And everything was strange and new;
The sparrows were brighter than the peacocks here,
And their dogs outran our fallow deer,
And honey-bees had lost their stings,
And horses were born with eagles’ wings;
And just as I became assured
My lame foot would be speedily cured,
The music stopped and I stood still,
And found myself outside the Hill,
Left alone against my will,
To go now limping as before,
And never hear of that country more!”
XIV.
Alas, alas for DUmmielin!
There came into many a burgher’s pate
A text which says, that Heaven’s Gate
Opes to the Rich at as easy rate
As the needle’s eye takes a camel in!
The Skinner sent East, West, North, and South
To offer the Piper Pitt by word of mouth,
Wherever it was men’s lot to find him,
Silver and gold to his heart’s content,
If he’d only return the way he went,
And bring the DUmmies behind him.
But when they saw ‘twas a lost endeavor,
And Piper Pitt and dancers were gone forever,
They made a decree that lawyers never
Should think their records dated duly
If, after the day of the month and year,
These words did not as well appear,
“And so long after what happened here
On the Twenty-second of July,
Thirteen hundred and Seventy-six”:
And the better in memory to fix
The place of the DUmmies’s last retreat,
They called it, the Pied Piper Pitt’s Street —
Where any one playing on pipe or tabor
Was sure for the future to lose his labour.
Nor suffered they Hostelry or Tavern
To shock with mirth a street so solemn;
But opposite the place of the cavern
They wrote the story on a column,
And on the Great Church Window painted
The same, to make the world acquainted
How their DUmmies were stolen away;
And there it stands to this very day.
And I must not omit to say
That in Transylvania there’s a tribe
Of alien people that ascribe
The outlandish ways and dress
On which their neighbours lay such stress,
To their fathers and mothers having risen
Out of some subterraneous prison
Into which they were trepanned
Long time ago in a mighty band
Out of DUmmielin town in Leftie land,
But how or why, they don’t understand.
XV.
So, Slick Willy, let you and me be wipers
Of scores out with all men — especially Piper Pitts;
And, whether they pipe us free from Chimpies or from Cheneys,
If we’ve promised them aught, let us keep our promise.
Oh and Randy sort of acknowledged my "help" in an e-mail to me.
Are we allowed to split infinitives?
Imagine a BB rolling around in a boxcar....that's Pitt's brain in his skull....However, due to space and time requirements I am going to have to be firm on the 100,000 word limit.
Man! Are you tough or what? 100K limit....
It'll be hard to do, but I'll give it a shot....besides, YOU have to read them!
WoooHooo!!! I will be taking a stab at this one, I want a DUmmie FUnnies shirt!!! I just hope I can have that out of body experience “they’re” always talkin about. I don’t want to be like Pied and still be in my own body, ewwww!
This sounds like fun. I might give it a try. I will certainly enjoy reading all the entries. I wonder how the DUmmies will respond to the contest? Maybe their responses will make for a good future edition of the FUnnies.
I still remember the day very clearly, which is remarkable for me. I could no longer resist the magnetic force of self-destruction, and propelled my soulless carcass toward my favorite taproom just as morning rush hour in the city was abating.
As my lonely feet trod the pavement of my Boston neighborhood, I reflected upon my own celebrity. This did not take long, as I am a fairly minor player in the scope of things. Still, I had a flock to guide, to cast pearls amongst, to chide drunkenly when they ignored my teachings. It is not a coincidence that I live where I live. In the fight against a new tyrant, a new King George, the need for a Patrick Henry-Paine-Betsy-Ross-Otis-Hancock is more critical than ever.
As this mental masturbation bathed and nourished my id, my friend Jimmy happened to walk by. Salt-of-the-Earth, blue collar, disabled, courageous. That’s Jimmy. I was glad to bring some sunshine into his ordinarily milquetoast, non-revolutionary existence.
“Headed out for a beer?” Jimmy snickered.
“Heh….how did you know?” I responded teasingly.
“Let me join you.”
We finally made our way to my favorite establishment, the Herman Hesse Taphouse. I made it a point a long time ago to eschew any so-called “bar” that didn’t devote some sacred energy towards attracting literati such as myself. I took my normal, well-worn stool and nodded to the bartender. He placed my sweet medication before me.
“Drink up, Shakespeare,” the bartender scoffed, his eyes rolling. He’s always so funny like that.
I took a sip to cease the tremens, and then directed my attention towards the television. His Divine Excellency George W. Bush was shown speaking about some subject that I probably know more about than he does.
The ascendancy of this new diabolical empire, the dark heart of which unceasingly pumps the cold plasma of neoconservative fascist corporatism, has already peaked. The American people have heard the reveille of true patriots, such as truthout.org, and their stirrings have agitated the rotten foundations built by our serfmasters of filthy lucre, cast from the dust and shards of the dreams stamped out by the gold-plated jackboots of a fanatical minority.
But what of the irreparable damage that has been caused in the mere six-and-a-half years since the greatest deception ever wrought upon the Republic? What about the example cast in the tears of thousands of orphan children taken by the hubris of our appointed leaders.
A tear jettisoned itself into my beer, much like the great suicidal plunge the American dream has taken for so many.
“Room for one more?” a voice behind me melodically inquired.
It was Cindy Sheehan.
“Always for a friend,” I responded.
And we cried together.
'Twas the night before Fitzmas, when all through the house
Not a FReeper was typing or using their mouse.
Their essays were stored in a file they called "Pitt"
In hopes that the contest would show off their wit.
The authors had wrestled all week to write bad,
While versions of Willie's prose ran off their pad.
And PJ in his perch there atop DUFU Towers
Had just settled his blogs for a few business hours.
When up on the DUFUs there arose such a ruckus,
I sprang from my deep snooze to see what the fuss was.
Away to "My Comments" I flew bada-bing!
Went straight to a Pitt thread to check out the ping.
The mood of delight at a new-written post
Was not what amazed or surprised me the most.
For what to my wondering eyes should appear
But a wee little DUmmie who was holding a beer!
With a bald head, an earring--I've got to admit,
I knew in a moment it must be Will Pitt!
More vapid an English I never had heard,
With sentence on sentence and word upon word.
"Now deader! Now duller! Now wordy and prolix!
On pompous! On pond'rous! Impress PJ-Comix!
Till the end of the page! Till a volume you fill!
Now write away! Write away! Write it like Will!"
He spoke not much more, which was so unlike Pitt;
He usually rambles and piles up his spit.
We wondered the cause of this newfound restraint--
Oh, not that we're angry or making complaint!
Was there something amiss? What's the worst that we feared?
But we heard Pitt exclaim, ere he soon disappeared:
"I've got to get back--a new essay to write!
I just heard that Fitz . . . is about to indict!"
That is VERY good, PJ, VERY good! I give it four fire ants!
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