Celebrity Haiku, Vol. #43

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-Marcel Marceau

Don't Call Me Dude

You can Call me Buddy,You can Call Me Mack,You Can Call Me Bigfoot,

You Can Call Me Jack, just don't Call Me Dude
Don't You Call Me Dude
Don't Call Me dude, cause if You Do, I get's as Evil as a Man Can be.

You Can Call me the Govenor, You Can Call Me Hoss,
You Can Call Me the Commsihner, You can call me the Boss
Just don't Call Me Dude, don't call me dude
Don't dude me dude, cause if you do, I get's as evil as a man can be.

You can call me Slimmy, you can call me Red,
Call me Sir, or any name instead,
Just don't call me dude,don't you call me dude,
You call me dude, I think that's rude, n'I get's as evil as a man can be.

I ain't ridin' the range, ain't got no ten-gallon hat,
My spurs ain't janglin', I ain't wearing no chaps,
So don't call me dude, don't you ca-a-a-l me dude.
If you dude me dude, and put me in the mood,
I get's as evil as a man can be.

Bigfoot Chester's Advice for the Outdoorsman 4/08/06

Dear Bigfoot,

I have recently married into a family where outdoor recreation, Fly-Fishing in particular, is a big part of their tradition. I have always enjoyed being outside, but I wouldn't exactly call myself a hard-core fisherman, by any means. But being a good sport, I went with my brother-in-law to one of his favorite fishing streams and he tried to teach me the fine art of fly-fishing. We met some of the local guys, we chit-chatted about what was biting, and on what, and where they were biting. I don't know, but it seemed like I couldn't get a straight answer out of those guys. It seemed like they were stringing me along, patronizing me almost. Tell me Bigfoot, you're pretty slick in these affairs, I'm told. How can you tell if a fly-fisherman is lying? I'd hate to think I was being duped.

Neophyte in Norridgewock

Dear Neo,

How you can tell if a fly-fisherman is lying is the same way you can tell if a politician is lying: their lips are moving. Fly-Fisherman are not what you'd call the most effusive bunch you'd want to meet. Getting honest fishing information from most fly-tiers is about as easy as getting 'cuttsies' in the Junior high lunch-line on Pizza Day. It ain't happenin'. They are most fearful that if they give you any information, no matter how trivial, you might be the one hauling out a 13" slimy brook trout out of the water, not them.

You ask them how the fishin's goin', they say, 'oh alright'. You ask how many fish he's caught, he'll say, 'oh, I jest kept one'. 'Kept' is a word that means, in effect 'caught'. If a fly-tier says he's only 'kept' one, that means he's only 'caught' one, even though it's meant to imply he's caught and released many more. If a fisherman says he hasn't kept any, that pretty much means he's been skunked. Asking a fly-fisherman what they're biting on and you'll get an answer so vague that you'll swear you're talking to Tricky Dick Nixon. And asking about the size of his fish is asking for an answer about as accurate as if you were asking him the length of his penis.

Yeah Neo, you're being played alright, but not because you're a 'newbie'. We all do it. When in Rome, lie like the Romans do. You say nothing. Play dumb. It's better to look like you haven't caught a fish since 1987 than give up a precious advantage to another bloke who's only going to Bogart your favorite 'fishin' hole'. They lie, you lie. Avert eye-contact and keep the possibly revealing small talk to a minimum. Even if they see your fish creel flipping and flopping, earnestly claim you haven't seen a fish all day. Call it paranoid, but it's not paranoia when they're all out to get your fish. That's my best advice. But you didn't hear that advice from me.

Keep your fly wet.

Bigfoot Chester

Look for Bigfoot Chester's regular column at www.totallyout.com . Bigfoot is neither a licensed counselor or a Registered Guide, so don't think of litigating for poor advice.

Salad Days Vol.86 "The Buck St. Shuffle"

It was the best of times, it was also the Best of times. Way back in the day, as we like to say. Back in the Glory Days, talkin' 'old school'. Not 'Little Red Schoolhouse' old , but still, old-school, never-the-less.

The Van-Doggen Brotherhood gather at T-Bone's Webster St. appartment. Congregate- around eight- don't be late- to get your drink on and get in some pre-game preparations:

Doggen powdered? Check
Skinny Black tie? Check
Hair feathered back? Check
Trousers cuffed? Check
Paco Rabanne liberally applied? Check

One last swig, and it's off to the pub for a little pre-party party. Put a couple of more 'Rusty Nails' into our coffins and chain-smoke like your crazy AuntEdna from Ipswich. Notice a few 'jolie jeune filles' down the bar a ways. Shag reaches into his tackle box and pulls out the old 'English Accent' routine. Excellent effort, but no dice. Time to blow this popsicle stand.

Gingerly, off we go around the corner and down the street to Benjamin's After Dark. A little Bar-band Rock and Roll and ice-cold Scotch; good for what ails you. Singing along with Buffalo Chip Tea, local legends, to Bruce Springstein... "A-Romeo and Juliet...Sampson and Delilah..." good times. But all good things must come to an end, and the siren call of the Bounty Tavern proves to strong.

Roll up into the Bounty, Rat-Pack wannabees. The bouncer knows us all by heart. The bar maid comes up and tugs on T-Bone's tie. I get into Wing man formation. It's go-time. Ton-Loc is right on time with the Funky Cold Medina and the females are lookin' fine. Circle, loiter, reconnoiter, make the rounds and chit-chat the line-up of usual suspects.

Open up our tackle boxes and adjourn to our favorite spots. Shag reposes in one of the back booths, butane lighter set for incinerate, smoking like Keith Richards and trolling heavily. Stovepipe assumes the position on the Dance floor doing the 'Lazy Snake'. T-bone takes out the 'Diamond Dave' down at the bar; a sure-fire winner..."looks like you'll get some leg tonight for sure... tell us how you DO". P.T., by this time robbed of his suave approach by his last Gin and Juice, just now starting to grip his Cerabellum, eyes the passing females with about as much sublety and panache as a hungry hyena eying an ijured young antelope, straggling back from the herd. His tackle box is empty; it's about time for the ol'Buck St. Shuffle.

Some nights the Van Doggens heed the siren call of the Bounty's many Temptresses. They are legend:

Midge, Morgan, Psycho-Dyko, Map, The Thomas Hill Disaster, The ring-o-Rosie of Death.

But not tonight. There will be other nights for the Funky Cold Medina, but tonight it's up the hill, back to T-bone's appartment, arm in arm, rewriting history, with a quick stop at the 7-11 for a Captain Aham sammich and a bag of chips. Up the heartbreak hill of Buck St. you stagger, smoking and joking, just as it should be. "Hey, there still might be a couple of coldies in T-Bones fridge, n'est pas"? Life is good. Back up to Webster St. to the friendly confines. One last 'cold and refreshing ' and you fall asleep on the recliner, to the strains of MTV, crumbs on you face, clutching you Captain Aham like a Binky. You sleep like a big drunk baby.

That's the way I remember it, anyway.

Spring has Sprung

The Grass has Ris'

I Wonder Where

Them Flowers is

"Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy"

-Benny Franklin

St. Paul's Letter to the Irish of South Boston

Beer is patient, Beer is kind. It is not jealous, Beer is not pompous, it is not inflated,

it is not rude, it does not seek its own interests, it is not quick-tempered, it does not brood over injury,

it does not rejoice over wrongdoing but rejoices with the truth.

It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

Beer never fails. If there are prophecies, they will be brought to nothing; if tongues, they will cease; if knowledge, it will be brought to nothing.

For we know partially and we prophesy partially,

but when the Beer comes, the partial will pass away.

When I was a child, I used to drink as a child, think as a child, reason as a child; when I became a man, I put aside childish things.

At present we see indistinctly, as in a mirror, but then face to face. At present I know partially; then I shall know fully, as I am fully known.

So faith, hope, Beer remain, these three; but the greatest of these is Beer.

From the World Headquarters of Big Heads

On my next to last night on Easter Island, I went back to the rim of the Rano Kau volcano with Tito. You think I’m making this up? Last week I was on assignment for Conde Nast Traveller magazine, on what is literally the most remote island on earth, over 2000 miles off the coast of Chile.
I’d spent the week tracking down the story, racing around Easter Island, more properly known by its true name, Rapa Nui. Now, as I prepared to take my leave, I wanted to come back to this sacred place for reasons of my own.
As Tito set off to view the petroglyphs with a couple named Tom and Joan from Denver, I sat down and looked at the Oceano Pacifico, taking a moment just to stay still. “Is a good place,” Tito had said to me. “To talk to your ancestors.”
So I set about doing just that. I lay back in the long grass, feeling the tropical sun on my face, and thought about the road that had led me here.
Suddenly, I felt a stab of pain in my back. Whatever this was, it burned like fire. I’d been told there were scorpions on the island, but I until now I hadn’t thought they’d view me as an adversary. Anyway, everyone said the scorpions were no big deal—they were only “little ones.” A bigger threat, supposedly, were the black widow spiders.
Tito heard me cry out, and he came back and checked me out. “Bee sting,” he announced, and a moment later removed a stinger from my neck. “You okay?”
“I’m okay,” I said, and Tito headed on to Orongo with the Coloradoans.
As I sat there, I thought about my father, who had been massively allergic to bees, after once running over a yellowjackets nest with the riding mower, and with a sudden thunderclap it struck me: my father had died twenty years ago this very day, on Easter Sunday. In all the exploring of ruins and moai and the traveling halfway around the world, the anniversary had managed to slip my mind.
So I closed my eyes and thought about my father, who had died of melanoma, and I tried to reach out to him in my heart. And as I lay in the hot tropical sunshine, I suddenly felt his voice speaking to me.
“Jenny,” he said. “Put on some sunscreen!”
Which I did, and I pulled my hat down over my forehead, and I thought about the old man for a while. He was a good man: sweet and kind and funny. Then his spirit told me something else.
Later, when I got back to the van, Tito asked me what I’d been thinking about, and I told him I’d had a conversation with my father, who’d died twenty years ago to the day.
“Yes?” said Tito. “And what did he say to you?”
And at that moment the big fat tears rolled down my face. “He said---“ I began, but I couldn’t finish the sentence, as I began to weep among strangers, on top of a volcano. Tito looked embarrassed. “You no say, you no want to say,” he said, but I pressed onward.
“But I want to say,” I told my guide.
“Okay,” said Tito, “Tell me.”
“He said—he is alive,” I said, and the tears poured down.
Tito nodded. “Is good, if you think is good.”
We all got back in the van. Tom and Joan, who’d looked on horrified as this conversation proceeded, were silent as we drove down from the volcano’s rim, tears still spilling down my face. Finally Joan said, “And what did your father die of, so young, Jenny?”
I sighed. How could I tell them what was in my heart, tell the story in a way that would make sense?
“He died,” I said. “Of a bee sting.”
“Oh, Jenny,” said Joan. “I’m sorry you lost him.”
As we bumped down the road, I also realized another thing. He’d died, in 1986, on Easter Sunday. And where was I now, twenty years later to the day? Easter Island.
“He is not lost,” I said. “But risen.”
Is good, if you think is good.

Dear Humans,

• We've been following your newspapers and Television broadcasts and had become increasingly concerned over the last few years about what's going on in the MiddleEast, and what we had thought was "crimes against you Man-a-tees". Imagine our embarrassment. Nevermind, and keep up the good work.

The Manatees

P.S. "Save the Everglades"!

Joke of the Week 4/02/06

Actually a true story:

Me and Muddah are walking down the street. He sees this ol' dog lying down on the grass, licking his balls. Old Muddah sez, "man, I sure wish I could do that". So I sez to him,... (punchline coming)... "don't you think you should pet 'im first or something so he don't bite you"?

Submit your joke of the week to jack@totallyout.com and have it published on UPG#178!

Alcohol Abuse

"Oh...the Humanity"!

Photo by Muddah Totallyout.com