Limerinski (Maud)

We sometimes do poetry, right? So here goes:

Monica Lewinski, former White House intern

The Washington Post runs a weekly contest in its Style section.

Ted Kaczynski, former assistant professor, dept. of mathematics, Berkeley University (possibly the best math department in the world), serving a life sentence for UNA-bombing

This week contestants had to use the two names Lewinsky and Kaczynski in the same limerick. Here are the three winning entries:

　
Third Place:

　
There once was a girl named Lewinsky
Who played on a flute like Stravinsky
Twas 'Hail to the Chief'
On this flute made of beef
That stole the front page from Kaczynski.
　
Second place:
　
Said Clinton to young Ms. Lewinsky,
We don't want to leave clues like Kaczynski,
Since you made such a mess,
Use the hem of your dress
And please wipe that stuff off your chinsky.
　
And the winning entry:
　
Lewinsky and Clinton have shown
What Kaczynski must surely have known,
That an intern is better
Than a bomb in a letter,
When deciding how best to be blown.

(Please let us know in the comment section what you think of the ranking, and, oh, Stravinsky didn't play the flute)

Capricorn (Jezza Smilez)

Feel it? (Sacha)

"Hi, I'm really a sweet guy, and even though something is wrong with the horizon, I, too, read Michael Ampersant's outrageous new novel Green Eyes!"  

(Artwork by Bob Bienpensant)

Skyfallen (3)

The never-ending story continues, so go here for the previous installment.

Hi, I'm Ralph Fiennes, a somewhat unusual addition to the story in the role of Gareth Mallory, the Chairman of the parliamentary Intelligence and Security Committee. I will needle Judy ceaselessly with my perfect accent until (a) her final defenestration, (b) my taking her job ("M") and (c) reappointing her absurdly moderno-style office along the traditional lines of a Whitehall mandarin who gets high on sherry, not whiskey.

"Shit. Where did I leave my copy of Michael Ampersant's outrageous new novel Green Eyes?"

Wanted

Michael Ampersant is around since barely 4 months, having been invented as the author of our Green Eyes, but his star is rising fast, and the FBI (Fbi) is already in hot pursuit:

Screen shot of the StatsCounter page following this blog (Dec. 14, 2012)

The spy who trusted Gmail? That's so yesterday, folks, now it's the Agency that trusted Bing.



It wouldn't be us if we wouldn't have a fitting quote from our prodigious literary production, this time not from the Green Eyes, but from the Freedom Fries, our first, and so far unfinished novel. Here it is, from Chapter 5 of said novel (we are at Chapel Hill Farm, George W. Bush's country seat in Texas):

Freedom Fries --- Chapter 2: "The President is on the line for you!" (Part 1)

Previously, there have been hints that George W. Bush may experience a change of heart post-retirement, that Samuel Fisher, founder and CEO of the Lynx (LYNX) channel, is concerned about the ratings, and that  George Lukacs, the charismatic hedge-fund titan, can't handle fair-and-balanced news. We're now in Berkeley, at the law school of Berkeley U. where John Yoo, author of the famous torture memos, teaches constitutional law.

John Yoo, professor of constitutional law, Boalt School of Law, Berkeley University

The classroom with its white tables, whiteboards, and overhead projector conveys the so-so appearance of a better UC campus, yet the carpet reveals that California’s university system has basically run out of money since Proposition Thirteen in 1978. Jim feels slightly awkward in this bluish overall, but he has come solely for the purpose of today’s happening, and so he is sitting nervously next to Liz, who has made him do this.

Liz is obsessed with Yoo because she loves constitutional law. She would sit up in bed at night and read Supreme Court opinions like other girls of her bend would read Jane Austen — not to study really, no, to relish an outdated language with pointers to a distant, politer past. She is the only con law student in America who doesn’t dream of the Supreme bench; she wants a humbler job and become Reporter of Decisions. The reporter is charged with the syllabus, an introduction to court opinions that supposedly elucidate the decision for the larger public, and the syllabus usually does its best to compete with the arcane language of the opinion itself. She would write more language for the record of the court than any individual judge. It’s a nice position, fairly well paid, and you work closely with the Justices. Reporter of decisions under Chief Justice Pamela Nachtrieb Timbers, that is her ambition. Timbers, her aunt twice removed, is actually serving as dean of Berkeley’s law school at the moment, but she was clearly destined for higher things, and Liz would follow her to the Supreme Court. Liz was mesmerized by Pamela, infatuated with Pamela, captivated by Pamela. It wasn’t sexual — let’s hope — but that is the only thing it wasn’t. Pamela and Liz are so close; it isn’t even clear whether today’s happening wasn’t Pamela’s idea.

Vermeer, dude, Vermeer. What's Michael Ampersant's take on Vermeer in his new novel Green Eyes?

(Artwork by Wes Hempel)

(Gotcha, Gotcha, we haven't pronounced on Vermeer in the Green Eyes, so you'll have to wait for Part II, which will be titled "The End of the World.")

Sirrr --- a letter to Frank Rich

Like most posts involving Frank Rich, this post will  start with the obligatory statement that he is our true hero, even more so than Paul Krugman, our other true hero. To general despair, Frank left his perch at the New York Times for calmer waters at the New York Magazine, where he now writes a monthly column. And the last column, two days old or so, is about Petraeus, the ex-general, and other fallen American heros, how could they fall and why.

The world's leading I-told-you-so artiste

We haven't posted a Sirrr post for two years or so, but here it is.

(Sirrr:)

Frank --- your dressing-down of Petraeus is beautiful, but your analysis of America's adulation-addiction falls short; it's basically tautological: America adulates heros because Americans love a good hero. Who doesn't?

The spy who trusted g-mail

I don't have the answer either, but I have a question. And it invokes Holden Caulfield, another American hero, this one the prime example of a literary anti-hero who suffers as much under the "phoniness" of modern American culture as you, Frank, and us, your readers, tend to do. OK, Holden Caulfield of the Catcher in the Rye. He has his own Wikipedia entry, of course (bear with me), and it runs, quote:

I read Michael Ampersant's Green Eyes even though it's winter and I have other things to do.

(Artwork by Bob Bienpensant)

Skyfallen (2)

The never-ending story continues, so go here for the first installment.

Hi, I'm Ben Whishaw, the new-new Q, or quartermaster (we never knew that, or did we). I'm glad to combine the old donnish eccentricity of Desmond Llewelyn with the new donnish eccentricity of mainstream nerdism (computers), while discarding any pretense to step into the shoes of John Cleese, who took over from Desmond in the Bond-brand makeover that also brought about Judy Dench. It's a complete miracle what got into John's head when he got into Q's character --- he wasn't funny, he wasn't eccentric, he wasn't British, he wasn't spy-ish --- anyhow, he did so poorly that they had to ditch him and complete a few Q-less Bond installments.  Is the pun intended? --- I haven't made up my mind yet, sorry. Well, I'm here to stay.

It gets funnier and funnier --- the more often you see it

(Hat tip: Andrew Sullivan)

French for beginning poets (1) --- On se fout de nous

(lyrics)

Et passent [pass], passent, passent, passent, passent, passent les jours [days (as in journal)],
Et rien [nothing], non rien, rien ne change [changes] sur le parcours [parcours],
Ce sont les mêmes [same] pages [pages] qui défilent,
Les mêmes vers [verse] qu'on récite,
Le même vieux [old]  film [film] que depuis cent [hundred] fois [times] on rembobine, [replay, sort of]
Et on s'accroche [acroach] et on s'acharne [acharne], et on s'abime [abime] et on se gâche [spoil], on s'épuise [epuise] et on s'entame [entame], on s'enlise [enlise] et on s'éloigne [eloin],
Et on s'accroche et on s'acharne, on se brise et on s'attarde, ne soyez pas si cons.

Skyfallen (1)

The name is Craig, Daniel Craig. You know me from the Bond movies, and you are looking at me in the opening sequence of Skyfall, the latest installment, n° 24, to be precise (if you include the '67 non-Broccoli production of "Never say  never again"), opening worldwide this year to commemorate the 50th birthday of our franchise. Sorry, I got this wrong, this is not from the opening sequence, the paneling is all wrong, and the bullet hole is wrong too, since we won't start shooting until we've left this tacky place where a disk (disk!) of all the names of all MI6 agents was stolen needlessly and several good men have lost their lives already, so that they are now dumpling in their own blood on the ground. Fairly icky. One colleague wasn't completely dead but M, my boss, Judy Dench (or Drench, I always get the spelling wrong) ordered me via satellite and internet and ear piece (the connectivity we know so well from the Bourne franchise) to abort all resuscitation efforts and go after the disk pronto. My dying colleague rolled his eyes. The disk! 

Hi, me again. I'm in hot pursuit of the bad guy (not Dr. No or Goldfinger, just some lowly operative) who had the bad idea to steal the disk (disk!) with all the names and so on that somebody had the bad idea to take to Istanbul for no particular reason.

I heart you

Sunday morning gif picture

"Let me help you!"

I read Michael Ampersant's Green Eyes because I like to dream

Green Eyes --- Chapter 12: Badfuck

Previously, we had a rough day, meeting new friends in familiar places. We're now off to a midnight party at the house of Godehard Wagner (family), dragged along by one of our new friends. Charles is back from the bathroom, where he had a difficult time (he was defecating a lot of blood, as he tells John).



As Maurice is saying this he's grabbing my shoulder. His knees fold, his body folds. He's falling to the ground, now he's just lying there, eyes shut. I touch his shoulder,
"Maurice, Maurice," I say. No reaction. I slap his cheeks. No reaction. He's unconscious.

"He's unconscious," Neill observes, "a bad fuck probably." This will be the last time that anybody uses those words at the party.
"Gohard," I shout, "we need an ambulance."
"We need an ambulance," Godehart answers.
"Somebody must call an ambulance," he continues.
"What's the number?" the rent waiter asks. Godehart doesn't know, of course.
"Nine-one-one," somebody suggests helpfully.
"No, no," I plead, “that's the police, we need an ambulance. Call them directly, that's faster."

The party that isn't going to happen

The police would take Maurice directly to the landfill, better still, they would take his unconscious body to the hospital, with RapeDick in the back blocking Maurice’s neck artery expertly with his thumb, leaving no marks. We’ve seen this in the movies. Maurice will arrive dead on arrival at the hospital, having died of badfuck, a contagious disease, and the night shift directs the body to the morgue where it can chill forever.

I am thinking this very quickly. "Please call an ambulance," I plead in Neill's direction while squatting next to Maurice; I'm trying to feel his pulse. Neill must have been through this before as a restaurant owner, not to mention bad fucks in the upstairs department, he must know how to avoid the police.

Jezza Smilez

This blog is currently #4, or even #3 on the Google search for Jezza Smilez, so let's tell everybody how inventive, imaginative, inspired, informative we think this guy really is. Here's an example, his drawing for the Sagittarius sign:

We love you, Jezza, we love you.