Blank Generation

If you're like me, when you see a pile of jewel boxes (hard to use that phrase with a straight face, but there it is—the italics don't do much to soften the blow) that someone has discarded after realizing that their apartment was stuffed with the things and all they actually needed were the discs, you pick them up and take them home. The things cost as much as blank discs and they come in handy when sending music or data through the mail. Of course you can't know what the previous owner was doing with (or to) the boxes, so it's best to fumigate them once you're back in your crib. Certain albums tend to collect more cooties than others. Swab a Laurie Anderson box and it'll always come out sterile. But if you find a GG Allin booklet still in the plastic, best to drop that one directly in a bucket of bleach.

Natural enough, right? But who would have thought that Bambi would have a similar fear of germs, as one local paper reported yesterday? A cub reporter followed a horned beast into the woods and found it sterilizing a small pile of jewel boxes. His editor baulked at the headline. How could he be sure of the species? Eventually, though, he gave in.

• "Deer Gases AC/DC CD Cases," agreed?

If You Can't Beat 'Em, Enjoin 'Em

Some people have a hard time ridding themselves of parasites. Hook worms are notoriously hard to purge from the body. But with enough time and money they can be taught to dance, swim through hoops, play pinochle, and perform other sea monkey like tricks. However, just because a microscopic creature can be trained, doesn't mean it can be taken anywhere. Recently a certain printer magnate went to the beach and was appalled to find out what his hook worm was wearing. He chastised him thusly:

• "No Speedo, tame nematode." —Epson.

Those readers who happen to know the true etymology of Epson, please shut up.

Pistol Whipped

Don't get me wrong. Editors are wonderful human beings who clarify ideas, cut excess verbiage, and make dull prose shine. But when it comes to poetry, sometimes they just don't get it. I, for instance, had once written a brilliant little piece about my days as a vigilante, blowing away thieves who periodically ransacked a neighbor's home after a hurricane. There was a scene in which, overcome with bloodlust and a sense of triumph after nailing one bandit, I place a foot on his dead body and wave my pistol at the sky. But I'm not one to glorify violence so plainly: while taking this victorious stance I am filled with sudden remorse—worry, really—that perhaps I have been seen by disapproving eyes. So I included the watchful gaze of an eagle from above. My editor, of course, didn't understand a thing, and, misunderstanding the symbolism altogether, replaced the bird with a plane.

• Retool an ode? Yes, a wing is a sign I was eyed on a looter.

Having learned that cartoons can be used as powerful political tools, the Bush administration has started a new program to discredit their rivals. The plan? Send spies, disguised as artsy caricaturists, into areas heavily populated by liberals, then have them set up easels and sketch various leaders involved with what they consider dangerous ideas. Residents, according to their forecast, will finally turn with disgust away from rival candidates and welcome republicans with open arms and flowers. One recent order to a high level agent, was recently decoded:

• Go bandanaed, draw, oh, Howard Dean, a DNA bog.

Ever come across one of these proselytizing citrus drinkers of the medical profession? They happen to believe that everyone should eat a grapefruit, or squeeze a tangerine and have a swig, every last day of their lives—to ward off dysentery, cancer, rickets, tennis elbow, you name it. They never tell you that the acid will rot your teeth and probably your stomach too, to say nothing of the brain. Anyway, if you haven’t met one it’s because you probably don’t live in Iceland. There’s not a lot of citrus-fruit-bearing trees in that far off land and the derth attracts the seed preachers. So most of the citrus-a-day conferences happen there, usually in a giant glass structure that sits a atop a cliff—one with water flowing out of its base from two hairy cavernous holes. Well, I’m sure you know what happens at these conferences. Exchanging ideas about nectarine extractions is not what they come for.

• Dr. OJ flirts on a nostril fjord
  

Ok, I admit it: I haven't actually seen any of the Snakes on a Nose sequels (though I'm sure they're out there, somewhere, somewhere). But there are what you might call prequels already in existence, and they happen to be ever so ripe for palindroming. You'll see for yourself if you're not afraid of clicking on the link below. As it's my job to police YouTube clips for "graphic content," I'm afraid I must report that the film mentioned contains nothing more titillating than several omnivorous canids attacking attractive women. Still, we take what we can get.

• Ref: "Foxes on a Kayak? A no sex offer."

When movies become cult classics before they’ve even been released, you can be sure that there are many spin-offs and sequels to come. In some cases sequels of sequels are already in the works. But an unnamed source was quoted in the news today saying that one of the sequels, which was to take place on the Space Shuttle as it flew over the midwest, has been cancelled :

• No "NASA Snakes on a Nose: Kansas" —Anon.
  

But believe it or not, this film already has at least four episodes in the can, one of which features a group of slithery bureaucratic fellows trying to prevent foreigners from entering the country through the usually legal path:

• Visa Snakes on a Nose: Kansas—IV

The rich and the famous think they can get away with all kinds of vulgarities and offences these days. Mel Gibson's rants—and films—are just the most obnoxiously visible slice of celebrity bigotry. There are slightly subtler forms. The other day I was strolling down the sidewalk when I passed the home of an actress who appeared in The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe, and Adaptation, among other movies. And what do you think I saw in her yard? A wooden figurine, of Ariel Sharon. Perhaps she thought it funny, but I found it as vile as those little statues of black servants people used to use as lawn art (and still do, surely—somewhere). In fact, I decided to check it out for myself, maybe smash it if I had the chance. So yes, I touched it. But as soon as my finger grazed the figurine, the actress popped out of a shrub, cell phone in hand, and called the cops on me. Trespassing, she said, though I'm sure that you'll agree that her display was the greater offence. In court I felt as put upon as a certain Shakespearean king, but owned up to my "crime" when the judge asked me for the truth.

• I, Lear, sir . . . I felt Tilda's sad little fir Israeli.

Who knew that computer news would provide the world with so many meaningful palindromes? Furthermore, who knew that one of the largest companies in the business was using a soda made from a West Indian shrub with mildly acid cherrylike fruits to power its laptops? And really, who knew that such juice was so highly inflammable?

• Dell Acerola Cola Recalled

When Polish ex-presidents denounce Nobel Prize winners for their suddenly revealed Nazi past the press can be a bit hasty with its headlines. Walesa never actually called for the author to be jailed, as one reporter nearly reported. Luckily, an editor caught the misquote and marked the poofs so that it would be removed.

• Del "Lech: 'Grass's SS? Argh! Celled!'"

There are certain dead presidents that somehow keep up with the latest in computer technology. So whenever I have a techy question, instead of calling up IT, I just break out the Ouija board. As you may know, Apple just came out with its latest and it's put me in a bit of a quandary. I hate to reveal secrets, but here at the POD we rely on a vast army of microbes to help us keep churning out the 'dromes. Many of them use Windows, though, and I have no way of knowing how they would weather the change to the new OS. So I dimmed the lights, slid the puck over the zodiacy symbols and asked old number 16 just what to do.

• Abe: Mac Pro for PC ameba?

It wasn't long ago that I was a mere swab. A lowly status, I know, but compared to the shoddy job performed by my cousins, the brooms, I felt I was really something. I mean, brooms can't clean up anything unless it's dry and loose, and the world just isn't made that way. Mud, spit, spilled cola, blood, vomit . . . need I go on? Sure, you might say I was just a sponge on stick, dunked in bilge and shoved over a surface coated with other people's filth. But I was proud of what I could do: I could change things, decrust the encrusted, bring shimmer and shine to what was once putrid. The point is that I was fairly well full of myself and eventually I came to think I could clean anything, no matter how vile. I didn't realize that vilness is not the only challange for tools of my trade. I had never come up against a purposeful mess. When a group of pranksters, using hair gel, blocked off an entire wing of a building that was under my watch, I realized I had met my match.

• Pomade wall awed a mop.

Everything's been done, they say. But they don't say just how embarrassing it is when you think you've dreamt up something new, then acted it out for millions, only to find out it's entirely old hat. Happened to a friend of mine back in the seventies. She went on one of these old TV talent shows sometime around Christmas and had her pets projectile vomit holiday brew onto the panel of judges. They were not amused—not because they were covered in feline stomach acid, but because they had seen the tired act many times before. In fact, one of them had once performed the routine with his own pets. His recommendation: Go back to that Star Trek reenactment thing you used to do.

• Gong! Geek up, Stacy—my cats puke egg nog.