Tag Archives: Sunday

The blathering idiot and the job interview

The blathering idiot stood in line for a job interview. He had finished writing his campaign memoir, but so far had found no publisher to accept it. His old job at the candy factory was no longer available. And his off again / on again girlfriend Zoey said she was not going to date a man without a job, even a former candidate for the highest office in the land.

So, here he was in line, down to his last ten dollars. After waiting an hour and half, he was about to be interviewed. If he didn’t get the job, he didn’t know what he was going to do.

“Next,” the woman in the office called out.

The guy who had just finished interviewing stepped out of the small room and past the blathering idiot. His face was ashen. His eyes wide, drool at the corner of his mouth.

“Next!” the woman was louder and more insistent.

The blathering idiot hesitated, unsure he wanted to step inside.

When he did, she immediately reached up and snatched his resume out of his hands.

“Don’t like to read them beforehand,” she said. “Like to feel the vibe off the paper as I look you straight in the eye. The paper can lie, but you can’t.”

She glanced over his resume, raising an eyebrow when she read something in particular. She then slapped the resume down on her desk.

“So you ran for the highest office in the land?”

The blathering nodded slightly.

“Well, did you?” She stared right at him, though he felt like it was more right through him.

“Yes,” he said.

“So, did you win?”

The blathering idiot wondered if it was a trick question. If he had won, would be here, standing before this woman, too scared to sit down? Or would she be the one who might be sweating and too scared to sit down.

“No,” he said finally, “I did not win.”

“Thought not,” she said, her voice gravelly, maybe from too many cigarettes. She had that sharp cigarette smell about her. Some smokers wore like perfume. “Don’t know anything about his Pro-Accordion Party you mentioned, but it wouldn’t have matter. I didn’t vote anyway. Waste of time.”

After a moment, the woman looked up and said, “You can go now.”

“But you didn’t ask me any other questions.”

“My vibe tells me you’re lying.”

“Lying?”

“Yeah, like a politician.”

And there he was, branded for being a lying politician and he hadn’t even won the election. He’d probably never be able to find work now.

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Zombies and Valentine’s Day

Undying love

by David E. Booker

Stolen flowers; stolen moments
Of these things I am a proponent.
Human heart upon a chair,
Fitting complement to your candy ’wear.
Office supplies, engraved utensils;
Box of dead chocolate, bundle of thistles.
Your preserved nipple tattooed o’er my heart.
It’s not a good one, but it’s a start.
So now I sit and wait, a zombie for your love
As I pluck the feathers of a very disgruntled dove.

A feather for your thoughts.

A feather for your thoughts.

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Filed under cartoon by author, holiday, poetry by author, zombies

Sunday silliness: “Feeling insipid today”

Feeling insipid today

by David E. Booker

Feeling insipid today.
Side pain won’t go away.
My workload’s here to stay.
Yes, feeling insipid today.

Co-worker asked me out
So she can just re-spot
The things this place is about
That only make me shout:

Feeling insipid today.
You’re a pain that won’t go away.
My work life should here stay.
Yes, feeling insipid today.

Her offer I did decline,
Being of a simple mind
That re-living this place confined
Is ridiculous beyond sublime.

Gallbladder must come out.
Sits under my liver and pouts,
Feels like it’s putting out grout.
The pain just makes me shout:

Feeling insipid today.
This pain in my side’s Grade A.
My gallbladder should go away.
Yes, feeling insipid today.

If one part of the body is enlightened, is all enlightened?

If one part of the body is enlightened, is all enlightened?

Of it, I’ll make a shrine.
Next to my Buddha you’ll find
Its new home in the brine
With spirituality refined:

I’ll feel less insipid that day
Surgery will have taken away
The pain that’s made me say:
“Yes, feeling insipid today.”

Vita absurd est
That’s just my best guess
About this entire mess
That I try to digest.

Work is rife with strife
My gallbladder has a new life
Due to a surgeon’s knife
And yet it won’t suffice:

Feeling insipid today
This pain won’t go away.
My overload’s here to stay.
Yes, feeling insipid today.

[Editor’s note: been feeling a bit under the weather these past few days, so have not been at the blog entry writing as much. I hope to feel better soon. And if wondering, it is not a gallbladder issue. A draft of this poem was written long before today. I was only thinking that for the one or two people who read and enjoy (or at least tolerate) my posts, I needed to post a piece of work of some sort.]

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Filed under cartoon by author, poetry by author, Sunday silliness

Serendipity comes to an end

rosster on cage

The rooster atop the birdcage. Through the window are books offered for sale.

By David E. Booker

I have worked at a struggling independent bookstore. I used to joke that I couldn’t hang out in bars, so I hung out in bookstores instead. Truth is, I probably wouldn’t be hanging around bars anyway. They never held much attraction for me.

But a neighborhood bookstore in a former bar, and on top of that a bar that has a reference in literature? Sometimes more serendipitous things have happened, but for slightly over two years Central Street Bookstore was just such a place. Housed in what was formerly the Corner Lounge, the same Corner Lounge referenced in Cormac McCathy’s novel Suttree, it was a place where you could find a good used or rare book as well as stand at the bar that may have been around when Cormac McCarthy lived in Knoxville.

You could also find interesting curiosities such as an orrery, a smiling Buddha with red nipples, a limber-headed statue of Edgar Alan Poe, and a rooster sitting atop a birdcage housing lights. It was a place, as owner John Coleman said, “where people can still make serendipitous discoveries,” be those discoveries novels by authors you knew or didn’t know (including Suttree and other books by McCarthy), books of poetry, history books, and copies of books you might not find anywhere else, including comic books and even the occasional book on tape. I found and bought probably way too many books there for myself and friends, including some this past Christmas.

Books on shelves

Some of the books for sale at Central Street Books.

Unfortunately, that will all end this March 2013, when Central Street Books closes its doors. John says the store is too small to be profitable, and that at least for the moment, he’ll concentrate on his Internet book selling and traveling to sell at book fairs. He will also have some books at a local antique mall. The struggling independent bookstore I worked at over 15 years ago is also closed. Has been for many years. The building is now home to an Oriental restaurant.

It was a serendipitous that this bookstore showed up in my neighborhood, even if for only two years. I’m just not sure where my next serendipitous finds will be found.

Book sign

Books and more.

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Filed under Essay, Photo by author, Sunday story

New word: “Untree”

What is a succinct way to say the main course of your meal, your entree is not up to expectation?

You can stick any number of adjectives before the noun. For example, bad entree, lackluster entree, limp entree. But in our fast-paced society, maybe there is a need for a one-word noun that covers the issue.

That’s why we, to collective perspicacity of this blog suggest this new word: “untree.”

For example, “Waiter, my untree.”

That is all you would have to say. You wouldn’t have to say, “Waiter, my entree is unacceptable.”

Just say: “Waiter, my untree.”

bowl of oatmeal

Sometimes breakfast is the most untree of the day.

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The blathering idiot and Santa’s lap

The blathering idiot stood in line to sit on Santa’s lap.

“Do you really think this is a good idea?” the young mother asked of the man standing with her as they tried to control three squirming kids dressed in wise men outfits.

The man grunted.

“We can always stop.”

The young woman was very pregnant.

The man grunted again.

Santa hats

For some wishes there isn’t enough magic in Santa’s cap … or lap.

The blathering idiot had never sat in Santa’s lap when he was a kid. Since losing the election for the highest office in he land, he decided he would do some of the other things in life he had never done before. Sitting in Santa’s lad was the first thing on his list.

He did not tell anybody: not Zoey, not Xenia, not Lydia, not anybody.

One of the kids in front of him squirmed away from her parents and was toddling away. The mother ran after her. The mother had to pick the daughter up and bring her back, kicking and screaming all the way. It was then that the blathering idiot realized all three of the kids were girls. Still, they looked as if they had been dressed to be miniature wise men.

“Are you sure?” she asked again.

She was staring hard at her husband.

He stared back. He did nothing to help control the kids.

The blathering idiot could detect a cold silence between them as the line crept forward.

As they neared the head of the line, the kids increased their antsiness.

Then they were next in line. It had been almost thirty minutes.

The boy on Santa’s lap burst into tears. After two attempts to calm the young man down, Santa looked at the mom, who, slightly red in the face, stepped up from the other side of Santa’s thrown and retrieved her son.

An elf in a pea green costume with bells on the ends of his up curled show tips and a five o’clock shadow across his downturned chin, stepped up to the red velvet rope and unhooked it from one of the poles.

“Last chance,” the woman said.

“Next,” the elf said, stepping back, clearing the way up the two steps to the dais on which Santa sat.

The man hesitated, then surged forward.

The mother and the three girls followed. They walked up to Santa, the squirmy one still in her mother’s arms, and the other two fidgeting as they moved. Then, they walked past Santa as the man, the husband, the father sat in Santa’s lap.

Seeing the man plop himself into Santa’s lap and Santa struggling to handle the size and the weight, the blathering idiot no longer had a desire to sit in Santa’s lap.

“Santa,” the man said, “I want you to bring me a baby son for Christmas.”

Then the blathering idiot suddenly felt antsy. He couldn’t remember what he wanted to ask Santa for.

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Filed under blathering idiot, Christmas, Photo by author, Story by author

The Devil’s Dictionary: Abstainer, Adage, Age

In our continuing quest to revisit a classic, or even a curiosity from the past and see how relevant it is, we continue with The Devil’s Dictionary by Ambrose Bierce. Originally published in newspaper installments from 1881 until 1906. You might be surprised how current many of the entries are.

For example, here are definitions for Abstainer, Adage, and Age. The Old definitions are Bierce’s. The New definitions are mine or somebody else contemporary. The new definitions can also be simply examples of The Devil’s Dictionary definitions. From time to time, just as it was originally published, we will come back to The Devil’s Dictionary, for a look at it then and how it applies today. Click on Devil’s Dictionary in the tags below to bring up the other entries.

Old Definition

Abstainer, n. A weak person who yields to the temptation of denying himself a pleasure. A total abstainer is one who abstains from everything but abstention, and especially from inactivity in the affairs of others.

Adage, n. Boned wisdom from weak teeth.

Age, n. That period of life in which we compound for the vices that we still cherish by reviling those that we have no longer the enterprise to commit.

New Definition

There once was a man, an abstainer,
a four-square, by-the-book refrainer,
who couldn’t live up to the adage —
something wise and about cabbage.
He refused to believe it was a sustainer.

He did not believe he must dine
without a proper glass of red wine.
Upon such a stewed mess,
boiled and very plain no less:
the adage about cabbage, he declined.

He now hangs out in a ratty ol’ garden,
but eats only his own private slumgullion.
Yet, to all who pass by
and not wanting to know why,
he says cabbage has made him well again.

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Filed under Ambrose Bierce, Devil's Dictionary, poetry by author

How my mind works

Sometimes when someone asks me a question, my mind goes on a rambling spree. Below is such a spree based upon an issue that came up at work. I place it here not because it is a masterwork of prose, but because sometime stuffing a response full of absurdities is the best I can do. Call it “How my mind works.”

My un-sophisticated wild donkey guess:

They (whoever they are) decide to re-open the contract for bids because they are looking for a version of the bids for separate (but equal) running of our place and the other one.

Then after another round of bids, public presentations (or whatever they are called), and an extension or two to get past the mid-term elections, the decision is made to either award one contract or two based on a giant rock/paper/scissors contest held on the National Mall between the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial reflecting pool.

The entire event is MC’ed by Martha Stewart, who will show how to make origami and lovely wedding and holiday center pieces out of the loosing contract bids.

Pumpkin guts

The looked inside his collapsed mind and all they found was a hollow laugh a pile of pumpkin seeds.

The losers will immediately file protests and lawsuits, claiming that the winner used disabled ringers who could only form rocks or paper with their arthritic fingers, and that bid information was leaked to retired generals by doctors’ wives and shirtless FBI agents, semaphoring in information about where the disabled ringers should stand to have the best chance of winning.

And there will, of course, be Congressional hearings at which octogenarian nuns with broken wrists will smile beatifically from the backs of the rooms as Senators and Representatives thump their chests and try to impress the doctors’ wives with their persiflage if not their perspicacity. All the while retired painters enhance the Congressional dome with a nice shade of blood red.

This event, in its entirety, will be carried live on Comedy Central, where the Daily Show will become a never-ending event unto itself, as – Thelma and Louise style – the federal government plunges over the financial cliff and into the abyss of absurdity from which it came.

We will all sit in stunned amazement, then slowly link arms as we rest on the Group W bench, and sing in slow undulation: “You can get anything you want at Alice’s Restaurant / You can get anything you want at Alice’s Restaurant / Walk right in it’s around back / Just a half mile from the railroad track / You can get anything you want at Alice’s Restaurant – excepting Alice.”

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Filed under absurdity, How my mind works, Photo by author, Sunday silliness

Sunday Silliness: limerick: “Ohio”

There once was a woman ill from Ohio
whose love life was in complete spiral.
She took to her bed,
pulled the pillows over her head:
her boyfriend had voted across the aisle.

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Filed under poetry by author, political humor, Sunday silliness

The blathering idiot and the Pro-Accordion Party, part 9, fund raising

The blathering idiot stood outside, behind a table with a few bumper stickers, buttons, and other items, including some holiday decorations. It was cool autumn morning. Leaves were falling. He could almost hear them. He turned toward Lydia at the table next to his. All three tables together formed a shallow U.

“Is this how it’s done?” he asked.

She smiled at him. “We are a small party with only a small name recognition. Until we become more well known, we won’t get the big money donors like the other parties have.”

The blathering idiot turned and looked at Xenia, his young assistant and the daughter of his off again, on again girlfriend. She was standing at a shorter table to his right. This was the fourth such event they had both been a part of this week. At none of the events did they seem to have much success.

She smiled at him, and then shrugged her shoulders. There were a few things on her table. She was actually selling more than he was.

He looked back at Lydia. “How much money do we have to raise today?”

“More than yesterday.”

“And how much did we raise yesterday?”

“Not enough.”

“That’s what you said yesterday when I asked about the day before.”

“And it was true then and it’s true now. These days, with outside groups being able to buy and run all kinds of ads on their own, campaigns need a lot of money just to get going, and to keep them going requires even more.”

“Like a corporate sponsor?” the blathering idiot asked.

“Not quite,” Lydia said.

“Like maybe we could get a sponsor to put their logo on the side of the campaign truck? ‘This campaign sponsored by Deep Fried Fritters,’” Xenia said. “’Deep fried fritters, just the thing to warm you up on a cool fall morning.’”

Xenia did her best to put an announcer’s voice into her mock advertisement.

“I don’t think that would fit on the side of the truck,” the blathering idiot said.

“And that’s not what this is about.” Lydia scowled at Xenia.
“Then what is this about?” the blathering idiot asked.

“It’s about name recognition,” Lydia said

“Then maybe we should sponsor something.”

“But we don’t have the money.”

“And that’s why we’re out here.”

“Yes.”

“And that’s why we’ve been doing this for four days?”

“Yes.”

“And how many more days will we be outside like this?” Xenia asked.

“Until we raise enough money,” Lydia said.

“To sponsor something?” the blathering idiot asked.

Lydia scowled at him. “The Pro-Accordion Party is already sponsoring you. This yard sale and all the other ones is about raising money to get you elected to the highest office in the land. Pro-Accordion members donated all this junk so you might get elected!”

Just then two people came through the gate into the yard. They heard the word junk, looked disappointed and even a little angry (The blathering idiot thought he saw a scowl forming on the man’s face.), immediately turned around and left.

“I guess he won’t be sponsoring us,” Xenia said.

This time Lydia glared at her.

Sale sign

Sometimes it’s hard to get the people who are selling to buy into what you are selling.

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Filed under blathering idiot, Photo by author, Pro-Accordion Party