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

Dean J. Baker - Poetry, and prose poems

1
“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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