from Cousin Harold’s Adventures In The Real World… ‘Cousin Harold, Security Guard’

Dean J. Baker - Poetry, and prose poems

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“Of course I like to help people – from my desk, with pop and chips. It’s the thought that counts.”

Cousin Harold

So stated a laboring Cousin Harold as he struggled against the imprecations of one Mrs. Grumpypants who was shoveling inspiration as quickly as she could on why Cousin Harold ought to apply for a job, somewhere.
Cousin Harold had been having a bad time considering the dozens of jobs for which he ought to apply and it had tired him out daily. By the time he came to actually having to do something about it he found himself caught in the philosophical dilemma of ‘to do, or to be.’

This became boring after a few seconds so he fell asleep on the couch with the newspaper folded over him.
Which was usually how Mrs. Grumpypants found him after returning home from work.

“Harold! Wake up! If you…

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The Origin Of Names in Certain Russian Characters: Vlad Pootin’

How Vlad the Tooter became Vlad Pootin who now is Vladimir Pootin’

Coming from some deep Russian, Ukrainian, Polish ancestry on one side of my family, I can vouch for the necessity of name change.
Superstition, bureaucracy feeding on its people, a sense of privacy required, and the freedom to begin without the weight of idiots’ prejudice.
Thus we come to the status of world leader Vladimir Pootin’ – and the origins of his patronomic.

As might be guessed, and divined from great Russian Literature, as well as the tiny bit of knowledge of the real world that gets through which the media fails to block, Vladimir is the Russian leader who is ex-KGB, strong, authoritative and prone to eliminating enemies, perceived and real.
He’s kind that way. He does not relegate them to government jobs by which they might snipe at him via malicious gossip. Smart to do so.

His ancestors were likely peasants grubbing the land, ducking whenever Stalin the Sentimental Butcher came a-roving. Of necessity they ate potatoes, beets, roots, and cabbages.
Thus we come to the origins of his familial name.

The family knew – because he told them – when Vlad was young that he’d be a leader, making sure to gather food for them. That sold them on his career; his neighbors helped, and the word spread: support young Vlad and eat well.
However, most people wanted proof so when young Vlad was not stretched back grazing on the family’s jewels: taters, beets, cabbages – he was sent forth on walking trips to spread the proof.

Given that the government wanted to eliminate any challenge whatsoever, a method was devised whereby he could assure the peasants, and keep his name secret.
His many cousins would arrive at each town and set up a table, with a big chair toppled backwards on which young Vlad would make his ‘speech.’

Upon secretly arriving, Vlad would climb the chair, facing away from the audience; who would be greeted with only the aspect of his arse presenting itself for their perusal.
His cousins would charge the audience with statements such as, ‘Who wants to always eat!’ and ‘Trust the one who gives you food!’ and ‘What is the surest faith?!Proof!’
With one more statement, young Vlad would be prompted to begin his convocation of confidence: ‘And in Russia, what is the greatest proof of constant food, since we dine on potatoes, and cabbages?! – nasty farts!’

At this point Vlad would start his toot-worthy attempt to make known the Russian anthem in support of patriotism.
The crowds were swayed. A few fools everywhere though demanded proof that he was not a government plant, and asked him how could they know he was dining on cabbages, and that these were from their areas.
His politician’s brain went to work.
‘You know how there are certain dialects for many areas, variations on a common ground of language? Well just so with vegetables, and their after effects in specific scents!
Come closer and smell the proof!’
At this time, anyone looking at the many spectacles taking place with each meeting in the small towns would be greeted with the sight of a line of small children, old women and bent–over men lining up as if to kiss an anonymous ass, then walking away with smiles of satisfaction. Claude Lévi-Strauss would have been stupefied in his attempts to detect the origins of such a habit.

Thus Vlad’s fame and authenticity passed.. so to speak. His anonymity was guaranteed. This did present a problem of how he might gain electoral office if he wasn’t known, yet his identity disguised.
A clever peasant, Bilary Clintoniak, was who employed to snatch the fleeting will-knots off Vlad’s butt – lest they harm the townsfolk – came up with the minor disguise of changing the last name Pooting to Pootin’.
She fully expected to assume the throne, as well, although rumor has it she merely got hit by a stray will-knot as she attempted to snatch a few and market them as gems later.

Thus in their efforts to disguise this great pretender to the Russian throne, a certain essential and inescapable reality was missed.
Vlad had named himself after his activity. The media had translated his name with a ‘u’ rather than the more common ‘oo’ after the P.
The fact that it was not his name at all had been lost.
Small clues began to emerge when ‘Vlad’ was heard muttering ‘Just watch me,’ and ‘Fuckez vous’ and ‘ Le Pierre, c’est moi’ (although to be fair this was mistakenly heard and translated as ‘I am your peer.’*), despite the fact that many English speaking people will swear that he said, ‘I shit in your ear.’

And so began the myth of old dead bloodsuckers being dug up and assuming office, pooting their way through the land and the people as some complained, some exclaimed, and all were unable to smell the trees because of the breeze.

©Dean J. Baker

*Disclaimer: this is not Pierre Elliot Trudeau, former Prime Minister of Canada, who is verifiably, and really and truly, dead as can be attested to by the long lines of Ontario residents que’d up to take a dump on his grave at $100 a ‘shot’.
Far be it for the editors to imply that they have heard rumors that the governors of La Belle Province have been heard to be thinking about turning the incurring piles into apartment buildings for ‘ce foutu anglais, le maudit anglais’ in a misguided attempt to erect a shrine to their former leader.

When poet Dean Baker was asked his opinion, he said, ‘A shrine to Turdeau? made of vacationers’ dumps? I like it. It has a certain ‘je ne sais quoi’, but let me not repeat myself.. so to speak.’

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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

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