Friday, July 25, 2008


A few things I noticed lately:

1) the table isn't black–it's dark chocolate!

2) there's no way that the word 'cup' was written by the same man or woman who wrote 'Reese's'–clearly, it was written by a child. I am guessing he was nine and enjoyed a good game of jacks.

3) I am not sure what is falling out of that icebox, but it looks very delicious and nuggety and I think it is supposed to be peanut butter. If my grandfather were alive (the Swiss one, who had a moustache) I would ask him if they used to store peanut butter nuggets in the icebox. This was of course before 'refrigerators.'

4) I wonder where 'CHOCOLATE TOWN' is. If it is in Hershey, Pennsylvania, you don't need iceboxes there, at least in winter! You can keep your chilled and frozen Reese's Peanut Butter Cups on the window sill, because they don't smell like hot apple pies which the kids used to steal from the window sills back when Jimmy Cagney was in the movies, but not later when he got a little rotund for obvious reasons.

5) Last night I dreamt my car and I were at the mechanic's and they asked how it was running and I said "GREAT!" and so they said, "Then why are you here?"

6) Anything that has been made since 1923 must be good.

7) I think that 1923 was the MANLIEST year of all time: Charlton Heston, James Arness, Norman Mailer, George Patton, Chuck Yeager, Hank Williams, Rocky Marciano, James Dickey, Jean Stapleton, Dexter Gordon, Alan Shepard, The Fabulous Moolah and Frank Sutton. Gee Whiz! You could cut it with a knife. The manliness, I mean.

7a) Just kidding about the Jean Stapleton thing.

8) But seriously, I just fell asleep at the desk. And I had a dream. I dreamed that I was swimming in a rich, creamy layer of smooth peanut butter, and my head rose through the surface of delicious milk chocolate, but I wasn't swimming–I was drowning. Was I going to die? No. Thank God for that old smiling guy in the seersucker suit who held out his hand and pulled me out of the tasty confection of my deepest and darkest fears–he was happy and quite strong and very snappy for an older gent. I am guessing, and this is only a guess: 81. Nope, he wasn't my grandpa. I really do wish he was, though.

all artwork, including handsome monsters and most photographs but not crinkly devilish types, ® mr. crispy flotilla, 2008

Saturday, July 19, 2008



ONCE A MAN invented a water gun that could shoot a stream of water over 60 feet! Its pump-action design made the water jet out straight and true in a crisp, clean trajectory. The gun also sported a reservoir chamber that was designed to hold ice cubes that could, with a flick of a switch, make the stream of water icy cold and a startling experience for its unwitting victims.

This gun, the JOHNNY APOLLO PLANET POLICE AUTO-PYROTOMIC JET GUN DISINTEGRATOR made its inventor both proud and extremely rich. He could afford yachts and jets and mansions and Las Vegas and the Russian Tea Room and chambermaids and manservants and Wayne Newton shows and Stella McCartney dresses and rare tropical birds and zebras and llamas and that horse that won the Kentucky Derby and many other things, like Mickey Mantle trading cards.

In spite of this, he was not a happy man. I forget why, exactly, because just thinking about all those wonderful things makes me so happy that I feel dizzy and giddy in a good way and I would just rather not think about someone who is unhappy right now, especially if they have so many wonderful things that they should appreciate but don’t. I wish I had all those things, desperately. He has all those things, and he is miserable. Why? I can’t think of a single good reason. I hate him, and he is stupid.



at the French Restaurant.

Musing upon whether one would be better served by pheasant or woodcock–with a soupçon of sweet madeira–and whether a ‘soft’ Burgundy, say, a Vosne Romanée–would be preferable to a ‘robust’ Hermitage from the Northern Rhone Valley.

Muse long enough and the temperamental Cellist who is your dinner guest is certain to go truly bananas–although he will not kill you in his ‘bananas’ state–for his wife, an aid and a comfort, will console him and soothe his jangly nerves. Burgundy or Rhone– who cares?? I will either play great music, says the Cellist, or I will die.

Still, the experience will be transformative no matter what, and none will die for now. He the Cellist will instead be reduced to a soupçon not of madeira– a favourite of Thomas Jefferson–but of jello–a favorite of God-Knows-Who. Since we are in France, we will adopt a more continental gelée–and that is what he is: French Jello, and a threat to nobody. If you pose the query of jello, though, you mustn’t use the word ‘muse’ with the word ‘jello.’

You can, however, and upon the right occasion, marry the words ‘muse’ and ‘gun.’ A faithful wife always carries one of those, but she never muses upon it. A faithful wife actually HATES musing, and dumb conversations about hoity toity wines (especially Vosne Romanée!) but who would ever suggest that a faithful wife does not care for the cello? Imagine a wife, then, married to a Cellist. She hates soupçons and she hates Burgundies. She is bone-weary of your coy witticisms and brainy wit, double entendres and ribald allusions. Let’s face it: she even hates italics, but none of that matters. What matters is that you invited her, she showed up, and most of all, that she is packing.



I’ve always heard that a dolphin
could best a shark in a dispute.

Dispute! Did you hear that?
It sounds like they are
going to court. Sharks and
Dolphins don’t “go to court”
and they don’t “court” either–
difficult at best for a dolphin
with their long, powerful snouts.
All they can hope for is a little snuggle,
and even less can a shark hope for
since he must continually move forward
in order to stay alive, according
to comedian Woody Allen and
oceanographer, Jacques Cousteau.

So, let’s recap what we know:

1) dolphins and sharks don’t dispute

2) a dolphin can best a shark in a, well, a contretemps

3) dolphins yearn to be kissed

4) nobody knows what a shark yearns for

5) Jacques Cousteau’s grandson is struggling to keep
his grandfather’s legacy alive

6) CORRECTION: nobody knows or cares what sharks
yearn for except for Jacques Cousteau’s grandson,
but he is presently too busy preserving his grandfather’s
legacy presently to discuss what sharks yearn for

7) The ocean hides many mysteries, but we will probably
figure most of them out pretty soon

8) When I purchased a blue dolphin and a green shark
squirt gun from Target Drug Store and the blue dolphin
squirt gun shot a stream of water very well and the green
shark squirt gun didn’t shoot at all, I marveled at how
little we truly know about the sea, and yet, how I had
learned a little about the sea even while being on land,
so far from the sea



20 sec: unshaved long haired man lights a cigarette and puts a gun to the head of a blind man who is hurt and lying on the ground

40 sec: a fireball and a blazing explosion!

60 sec: man who looks like Anton Chekhov verbally defies man who looks like a young Santa Claus who then throws something on the ground and pounds the table with his fist (note: old Santa Claus would never do this.)

80 sec: no entry provided at 80 sec interval. Humongous woman behind me is laughing too loud. I think back to the blazing inferno (entry at 40 sec.)

100 sec: centennial anniversary of movie watched in 20 second intervals! Champagne and light refreshments are served and the plane lurches a little. a glass and light refreshment falls from the hand of Paul, the pilot about then.


The sky still looks black and there is no green in it. I don’t know if I believe this green, pink and orange deal.)


120 sec: Young Santa Claus pours an amber-colored drink from a cut crystal decanter. (see entry 60 sec regarding relative behavior of older, more mature Santa Claus.)

140 sec: pretty blonde: where did she come from? Walks down the hallway of some businessy-looking building and jumps into the arms of a man wearing a clever disguise of a fedora and tortoise shell glasses and sporting a thick, luxurious fake van dyke beard.

160 sec: sec ≠ 160 sex

180 sec: SECURITY IS ALERTED! THE ALARMS GLOW RED AND BRIGHTLY! I suppose ‘glow’ is the wrong word, for the effect that a security alarm has. Perhaps ‘throb.’ The security alarm throbbed red and bright! (see: 160 sex)

Meanwhile, the cleverly disguised man removes his van dyke beard and fedora and tortoise shell glasses and quietly slips out past the unsuspecting gendarmes, stationed adjacent to the throbbing alarms.

Where’s the blonde? I kind of felt like I was falling in love with the blonde.

200 sec: I don’t celebrate bicentennials because the last one just seemed to be about looking at a bunch of big dumb ships in some stupid harbor all day.

220 sec: looks like everyone is in Russia to me. If you want someone to feel the same way, dress all the men in long coats with fuzzy ear muffs and keep all the women indoors next to fires that have gone out about a week ago.

240 sec: small girls play outside in the snow

260 sec: definitely Russia. The outside world is stark and beautiful, a Russian woman hiding indoors.

all artwork, including handsome monsters but not crinkly devilish types,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2008

Tuesday, July 08, 2008


I stood upright
and erect, holding
a long spear in
my right hand
and a saber at
my side, sporting
skin-tight pantaloons
with one foot
perched triumphantly
on an angry cougar:

Who do you
think I am?

Cabeza de Vaca,
the virile Spanish

I don a mighty
codpiece, made
in Spain: Hecho
en España

Now can you
guess who I
think I am?

That’s right!
Cabeza de Vaca
again. Vaca,
Vaca–always with
the Cabeza de Vaca.

If only the angry cougar
spoke Spanish. “Head
of Cow” indeed!

He would say, and
gooble up my Cabeza
de Vaca in a jiffy.

Strolling away, murmuring
to himself, licking his chops,

all artwork, including handsome monsters but not crinkly devilish types,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2008

Wednesday, July 02, 2008


all artwork, including handsome monsters but not crinkly devilish types,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2008


A fork is harder to draw than a spoon.

A cockroach can live for seven days without
food, but only one day without water.

Virginia Woolf made fun of Lord Byron.

T.S. Eliot made fun of Lord Byron.

I can live for one day without Virginia Woolf.

I can live for seven days without T.S. Eliot.

I made fun of Lord Byron.

Just kidding.

I am always just kidding.

It’s a pretty day outside again.

When someone says, “sunburnt nation” they are usually
referring to Africa, esp. in poems by Lord Byron.

Henry Rousseau didn’t understand how bananas grew, and they
do grow in sunburnt nations including Africa, for example.

Henry Rousseau stared at tigers in the zoo,
at bananas in the grocery store.

Jones Root Beer, made with real cane sugar,
is a delightful treat on a hot summer day.

We’re all doomed.

all artwork, including handsome monsters but not crinkly devilish types,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2008
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