Fat Albert’s Outpatient Folk Clinic ………………… All Of Fudd’s Children


There was Iron Butt, Dodger Crotchrot, Roderick Sexmaniac, Angry McHardon, Perri Coma, Styp, the Evil Dwarf, and a host of others – as in, a plague of hosts.
Patients in the Waiting Room of Life, as lived by another who was psychopathic.
Each felt themselves the best, more than any others. None would not stop to make fun of another whom they decided threatened their minor empire, like Styp and the girlfriend several other guys would fuck and discard, confident that even confronted with the oh-so-clever sarcasm they would not get punched out.

Which they confused with the one made aware of this as unknowing, or stupid.
Or with Booby Wasu (aka the Evil Dwarf), steal lines from someone, insert it in a song, look guiltily at them while they performed and then go stand by them so they could be told ‘hey that’s my shit’ as they said ‘oh yeh, sorry, will take it out.’ Shameless wankers.
And those who in earlier days had classified the entire lot as losers would come to play the elder statesman and talk about their Great talent when the place shut down temporarily.

Reputation fed on even the most minor conveyance of respect, absent of course of any greater talent in the world, so that there was a whole class of non-entities praising each other then and in later days.

The exceptions had a much keener eye for the fuel of hypocrisy,
and were usually busy getting into print, or being otherwise known elsewhere.
As long as the person pretended not to know who had value and who was merely acting as the city’s buttclench, they were left undisturbed by rumor or innuendo.
Those who had actual connections to greater artists, from friendship or simply introduction, were silently chastised and cursed. No surprise that they would be vilified as they had achieved something without the imprimatur of the crowd of angry villagers.

Well, some of us long for memory’s little death, especially after the continental stupidity of some SOB howling as though his cat was being dipped in hot water.
Howling at the bare moon. Of discovering there was an ass, and they are it.
Cracking up, or being sick with violins; until you’re as ill as they speak of these ghosts and those dead.

Of course this is more exorcism than festival, more pathology than curse, more forgetful patience than celebrated remembrance.
These knobs could steal the stink off shit.

Babies meeting, then turning vicious in their rosy-cheeked and full-pants appreciation of the world. Ignoring the obvious, the cold
superiority that only arises in familiar confrontation of gabble and gobble.

Back and forth, eye on the opening door; never mind the performer, forget the stage and reason.

This is the real, the old soft soap opera without a season.

©Dean Baker

 

 

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An interview with Dr. Dean, Poet Laureate. He was interviewed by the ghost of Mother Teresa.

Reprinted here is an interview with Dr. Dean, Poet Laureate. He was interviewed by the ghost of Mother Teresa.
…. from —>

Mother Teresa; Namaste, Mr. Dean
Dr. Dean: First, it’s Dr. Dean, and I’m curious about that word. Na –mahs, te. Is that like lazily saying Nah, must have tea?
Mother Teresa: It means blessings upon you, to me.
Dr. Dean: How about just forking over $1000.00? That would be a blessing.
Mother Teresa: Oh no (giggling), that is the material world. I do not deal in that.
Dr. Dean: That would explain why you’re a fucking ghost.
Mother Teresa: We do not make that distinction between the spiritual and material worlds, though we can recognize the distinction.
Dr. Dean: You don’t think it’s necessary after all this time? I mean, look what happened to Gandhi, ML King, John Lennon. And then of course you, although you did not gain any significant spiritual awards say like Lenin, by not decomposing. You must have been a real blight on the sense of smell for those few days.
Mother Teresa: Oh yes, by golly. My followers had a difficult time. It was a test to strengthen their spirit, and detach them from the world of needs requiring pleasant things.
Dr. Dean: Well no doubt you were a banquet of reassurance in that department.
Mother Teresa: Well, yes, humble as I am. I was. But we are not here to praise me, we are here to acknowledge that your poetry is gaining great significance in the spiritual world.
Dr. Dean: Shit, I knew that – ever since I started writing. Problem is you fucking ghosts don’t carry any cash.
Mother Teresa: It is true.. We are raised above our origins in dust, and have joined totally with the Spirit.
Dr. Dean: That doesn’t help me. You, in your Pledge rags, championing a higher world, won’t buy me books, or peace of mind.
Mother Teresa: Perhaps you need to express a greater sense of gratitude so Grace may be visited upon you.
Dr. Dean: If she shows up at the door, the wife is going to pitch a fit.
Mother Teresa: Oh no, no. The blessings of Grace, from the Spirit.
Dr. Dean: I experienced that! Hallelujah.
Mother Teresa: No! I mean the spirit.
Dr. Dean: I mean the spirit, too, you bundle of Goodwill discards.
Mother Teresa: Now, no need to become rude, I am here to help. To acknowledge your greatness.
Dr. Dean: I have people acknowledge my greatness every day. They say I inspire them, they love my work, all that good bullshit. But it’s rare they buy the books, the cheap bastards.
Mother Teresa: But you are reaching them where it counts. Spiritually. You are blessing them where it counts.
Dr. Dean:(raises his leg) I’ll bless’m alright if they don’t buy some books.
Mother Teresa: What do books matter if you cannot reconcile your great poetry with spirit in this world?
Dr. Dean: Hey Tessy, are you retarded? Books bought equal notice equal more attention which equals myself earning some focking moolah to keep body and spirit together.
Mother Teresa: I did fine while alive. I kept spirits high. I served the people.
Dr. Dean: Good for you, granny. You mentored holy cows, and when a complaint was lodged about the sink and the filth and the flies in keeping said cows in apartment blocks, you responded with great humor, “Well, the cow will just have to get used to it.”
Cow flops became Frisbees, fire starters, and birthday cakes. No one asked, what is this shit.
Now that’s evolvement. Get comfortable with crap to prove your higher being.
Mother Teresa: You are so nasty.
Dr. Dean: Stop with the compliments, you handbag.
Mother Teresa: Is nothing sacred to you? You are getting on my nerves, as they say.
Dr. Dean: Why don’t you chow down on some cow burger – 100% Pure Beef Poo – and join me in the world of poverty.
Mother Teresa: By golly gosh. You are disturbing my holy self.
Dr. Dean: Well, wait a minute. Now I get complaints from ghosts? Hey, listen, I had some burger before you arrived. I can share.
Mother Teresa: Oh alright, it would not be a sin since I am holy.
Dr. Dean: Hey me too, ya old tart. Come closer and I will share.
Mother Teresa’s billowy ghost leans over towards Dr. Dean. At which point, he raises his leg, lets go a ripper, and exclaims: I bless you! Eat that, it’s spiritual!
Mother Teresa: By gosh, by golly! The Devil has come to get me, I am dying!
Dr. Dean: You say you’re done with the main course? Want an appetizer?
The same earlier scene is repeated, resulting in the swift disappearance of the ghost of Mother Teresa.
Dr. Dean is heard exclaiming: Buy my books, or when I’m all spirit, I’m going to be all spirit all over you and your legion of Robed Rejects.
A cloud of dust erupts and the voice of Mother Teresa in a weak tremor can be heard fading into the distance: I am spiritual. I am so spiritual. I will be spiritual. By golly gosh, that bastard farted on my Holiness. Oh world , is nothing sacred.

©Dean J. Baker

-excerpt from Tormenting The Monkey https://www.createspace.com/5604224

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Fat Albert’s Outpatient Folk Clinic “Acid wit, deep insight, humor, powerful metaphor, intelligence…. A smooth ride on a bumpy road, with side trips into unseen hollows of the human experience…. What else do you need to know? An excellent read, worth sharing far and wide… More, please….” Prose poems that are a paean to Musicians, Writers, Artists, & Wingnuts.

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