My post this morning is an example of me having a little fun
with some literary humor (as if that’s possible, because we all know that the
word ‘literary’ is actually a secret code word for elitist, boring, tedious,
humdrum, platitudinous, insipid, prosaic …well, you get the idea… it’s a lot of
superficial nonsense of abuse to a word that boring people use to try to make
themselves look smart, or at least smarter than what they really are, but I’m
getting off topic …where was I …oh, yeah…) by the ever-loving, roaming, philosophical
genius known as Jack Kerouac (although I’m not sure everybody loves the writer,
poet, artist, as much as I do, but I digress) and his love for the
ever-popular, ever-controversial, ever-lovin’ use of the fantastical, humorous,
and quite often abuse of the illicit run-on sentence in his off-the-beaten-path,
fantasy, quirk (“Kerouac dreams of America in the authentic rolling rhythms of
a Whitman or a Thomas Wolfe, drunk with eagerness for life,” so says John K.
Hutchens on the cover) of a book titled “Dr. Sax” – I’m rolling in laughter
this morning and I hope you will too, but if you don’t then you’ve just got no
good laughter in you and your sense of humor is broke and in need of a remedy.
~
Dr. Sax: But I sank the 8-ball! – you can’t shoot now!
Old Bull: Son (patting the flask of Old Granddad in his
backpocket with no deprecatory gesture) the law of averages, or the law of
supply and demand, says the 8-ball was a goddamn Albino 8-bawl (removing it
from pocket and spotting it and lining up white cueball with a flick of his
forefinger to speck on the green beside it, simultaneously letting out a loud
fart heard by everybody in the poolhall and some at the bar, precipitating
various reactions of disgust and wild cheer, as the Proprietor, Joe Boss,
throws a wadded paper at Old Bull Balloon’s ass, and Old Bull, position
established, whips out a bottle to the light (said flask) and addresses it a
short speech before taking a shot – to the effect that alcohol has too much
gasoline in it but by God the old Hamp-shire car can go! promptly thereafter
re-pocketing it and bending, neatly and briskly, with amazing sudden agility,
neat and dexterous, fingertip control of his cuestick, good balance, stand, the
forefingers all arranged on the table to hold the cue just so high, just right,
pow, the old pots the yellow one-ball into the slot, plock, and everybody
settles down for the humor to see a good game of rotation between two good
players – and though the laffs and yaks continue into the night, Old Bull
Balloon and Doctor Sax never rest, you can’t die without heroes to look after
you.)
Till next time,
~T.L. Gray
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