Talking like a man with a paper ass...

My dad and I were standing by the grill earlier talking about health care reform. Pretty standard. I'm no expert, but I do know that the arguments being made against government health care are crap arguments. It's no more socialist than the police force any one of us can benefit from. And there would be no increase in taxes. Or rather, there would be, but gone would be the health care premiums and deductibles making health care CEOs filthy rich. Personally, I think taxes would work out cheaper, and we'd be a healthier nation. Maybe I'm looking at it wrong though.

But let's get back to those crap arguments being made. The bastardization of information in the media is a problem of obese proportions, and some Americans are ready to believe whatever they hear from the idiot with the loudest microphone, which is why I was surprised when my dad told me some of the New Republicans are really getting pissed about the sorts of propaganda being spouted at high volume by loudmouths like Rush Limbaugh and Newt Gingrich. This is refreshing news for freedom of speech. Intelligence might just get its voice yet.

Now the funny part. Our discussion reminded my dad of a euphemism his father often used for describing unintelligent, crap arguments. He described the irresponsible speaker as “talking like a man with a paper ass.” I admit I can't quite figure out what this phrase means, but I like it, and somehow it makes sense inside my head. I hope to keep this phrase handy for regular use. But still I'm curious. Any ideas why it works?

Silly in religion

Driving yesterday, I saw a license plate that read "2CJESUS." My first reaction was: Whoopie! Another asshole Christian trying to ram salvation through my head.

But then the underlying humor hit me. That driver was right then and there going to see Jesus. I had a fair chuckle, and realized how much more I like Christians when they're making jokes instead of playing missionary. This in turn found loose connections with recurring thoughts of late, one of which is the mild sadness I feel from knowing that juvenile humor generally meets disdain. It's like some people have forgotten how to have an innocent laugh. I know my own world is a much happier place when I spend more of it enjoying humor at any level.

Recently, Griffin learned to blow raspberries with his lips... semi-funny in and of itself. Then one night, he made that sound almost immediately after releasing a real fart. I was so proud of my son's very first fart joke. Of course cynic that I am, soon came the thoughts regarding the lack of respect that fart jokes get any more. It's like you're an outcast for enjoying bodily humor (just one of the many arguments supporting ecofeminism's claim that the master consciousness has trained humans to consider the natural world inferior).

Well, I don't give a flying fish. The snobs of the world can kiss my ass, which is that funny-shaped set of lumps halfway down the backside of my body. My body, by the way, is my physical connection to the natural world; nowadays, some consider it "inferior" to the human mind and soul. In my religion, the body, mind, & soul deserve equal attention.

Having said everything I have written thus far, I declare that from this day forth, no human shall rightfully trespass upon my natural right to laugh about turds and their hilarious variety of shapes and exit sounds. I shall not find embarrassment in shifting my rational thought process into simpleton gear for an episode of South Park. (I recently saw the queef episode and just about choked on my own laughter.) Nor shall my soul suffer the narrow moralizing eye of the prideful elites who can't stand being anchored to reality by a crude vehicle that expels waste. Heaven forbid humans learn the powerful energy of recycling!

Em's bathtime tune

(sung to the tune of Funiculi Funicula while dipping G-riff's backside in and out of the water)

Dunk-dunk-dunk-dunk
Dunk, dunk-a-roo
Dunk-dunk-dunk-dunk
I dunk-a you
Dunk-a-you, dunk-a-you, dunk-a-rooooo
I dunk-a-you, dunk-a-roo
Dunk-a-doo

(repeat as desired)

Coda (sung as random, festive silliness):
Dunk-a-doodle! Dunk-a-doodle! Dunk-a-doodle-doodle-doo!

The song came about as a more popular spin-off of Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy on the bed.

Mother's Day 2009

Emily, her folks, Griffin, and I spent Emily's first Mother's Day at Pike Place Market in Seattle.




We tasted cheeses n' jellies, ate a damn delicious lunch, saw the fish being thrown, etc.


from left: zimdog (wearing his new favorite hat), Em the Mom, li'l Grif, Mimi, Gramps

Go west, young man. Go west.

On April 28, Emily and I left the Florida life we've been living since August 2003. The good from the last 5.5 years will stick with me, while the bad became history as soon as I left the curb.

The trip out west took nine days. The overall movements were complicated, but to cut to the chase, I met up with Griffin, Emily, and her parents in St. Louis on May 2nd. (For those musical fans out there, of course I made the "Meet me in St. Louie, Louie" joke at least once before my flight). From there, we made Tacoma in six days of driving. Not bad, considering we did it all with a 4-month old. (Griffin was a real champ, by the way.)

We're now holed up in a Tacoma hotel room, our stuff in storage and the U-Haul trailer safely returned. Already, this place promises more sanity for the zimdog. If nothing else, I'll be living under cooler weather, a fact that leaves me physically and mentally pretty cool.

If you've never been out West, I recommend driving it... if you have the time. Those Florida skies may look big, but they ain't shit compared to big mountains topped by big skies. Here's a visual sample of what one encounters when forging new frontiers. Pioneers, Ho!

Father & Son Reunited in MISSOURI



Somewhere in IOWA


SOUTH DAKOTA







WYOMING






MONTANA








IDAHO



WASHINGTON








Tacoma at last! (>3800 miles traveled)


This one says it all...


It feels good to be still, for a few.

On Becoming Poet Colbereate

I just finished reading a friend's months-old post regarding an unexpected rise in the reading of literary fiction. The news is not quite so good for poetry. Man, I don't get it. Not only is poetry fun to write, it's also fun to read. There are no strings attached, no commitments. You just read and react. There's nothing to figure out.

While reading her post, I thought about my own recent experiences with poetry. My degree is in fiction writing, but poetry's always been a good friend. Just last month I sent some poems out to a contest and a journal in hopes of a bite. We'll see.

I also sent, late in December, a letter to Stephen Colbert regarding the Siamese Scats that won me an honorable mention in the 2007 Wergle Flomp. I'm surprised they made it that far, given a vast majority of society's judgmental attitude toward anything fecal. Were the poo-ems juvenile toilet humor? In ways, yes. But they are a little more than just poo poo humor. If read aloud and given some consideration, it is possible to find a certain amount of thoughtful poesy therein. My hope in sending them to Colbert was that they might actually gain further recognition via someone who seems capable of considering toilet humor for something more.

Well, it's been quite some time since I sent the letter, so I am facing facts--especially after reading my friend's post about literary reading habits. I think it's time to archive the letter in my blog, because it won't likely meet exposure any other way. And so I present an original letter entitled, "On Becoming Poet Colbereate."



22 December 2008

Dr. Stephen T. Colbert, D.F.A.
c/o The Colbert Report
513 West 54th Street
New York, NY 10019

Dear Dr. Stephen T. Colbert, D.F.A.,

Until your show became a conduit for global success, I had no idea how important I was to myself. Yes, the intoxicating promise of the Colbert Bump has the potential to seize us all... even a humble man such as meeself. And so now, in meek tone, I write to you on the matter of why I should be named Poet Colberteate. I offer up as evidence the enclosed Siamese-twin poems, “Sca-rat-ska-bat-tale: A Movement” and “Movement Number Two: A Scatastrophe.” Read aloud, these poems conjure the simplexity of an everyday verse that could resound loudly throughout the Colbert Nation.

At the end of this sentence, you will find the appropriate meta-textual time-space gap that facilitates the reading of the enclosed poems...

{Blog link provided specially: the Siamese twin poo-ems}

... so now that you understand the importance of the Siamese Scats, you see how truthfully they harness the vulgaris hominum via the vox populi. The moral, too, is clear: semper ubi sub ubi. (Et illa est verba.)

The truthiness of the matter is, the Siamese Scats should earn me the prestigious title of Poet Colberteate because the “honorable mention” dealt thus far has only insulted my precious Siamese Scats. On the day of their penning, these poems were handed down directly by the purveyor of all things natural, the Almighty Poet Himself, Sir Henry Godsworth Longdong. In the golden light of this budding revisionist history, surely my heavenly droppings glow worthy of the American literary canon. Unfortunately, getting them there requires more than the peristalsis of everyday life... unless....

Enter the American media syndicate. Heck, if Rush Limbaugh can flush his daily verbal toilet with the Clear Channel, why should my divine defecations not undergo nationally-syndicated passage via Viacom? I await your reply, sir::: zimdoggie@gmail.com, or 954.###.####.

Cheers,

c.d.zim

P.S. If nothing else, please issue the Wergle Flomp judges a stern Wag of Your Finger for me, or perhaps some “swimming lessons,” iykwim.

Interesting Strawberries of Recent

The most monster strawberry I have ever seen. I bought the package just so I could bring it home and eat it.



with others for scale



This one's just a little guy (from a different package):



ditto