Category Archives: satire

The Great Horn of Pokesleigh (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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“I have anticipated great interest in the origins and history of the Great Horn of Pokesleigh,” writes Violet Crepuscular, introducing Chapter CLXXXV of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney. In Chapter CLXXXIV, the village blacksmith blew the horn to disperse a dangerous peasant revolt throughout Scurveyshire.

“The Great Horn of Pokesleigh has been kept by the smiths of Scurveyshire–real smiths, I mean, not just people named Smith–since the year 818 A.D., when King Alfred the Great gave it to Mandrake, First Earl of Scurveyshire. He was also the last earl, as the result of a tragic accident with gumballs, and the Horn was left in his will to Horny Tom the Blacksmith, to make up for unpaid bills.

“Throughout history the Horn has been blown to ward off dire emergencies. It is said William the Conqueror was deathly afraid of it. Before the incident described so vividly in Chapter CLXXXIV of my epic romance, Oy, Rodney, the last time the horn was blown was in 1678, to end a plague of click beetles.

“The Horn is said to be a genuine prehistoric woolly rhinoceros horn overlaid with pure gold contributed by the Saxon Ladies’ Garden Club in 993 and engraved with mystic pictures of centaurs, unicorns, and strangely disturbing not-quite-human faces. It takes a mighty man to blow it, and he will never be the same afterward. In 1484, blacksmith Big Ned Wigwam blew it to avert a catastrophic battle in the Wars of the Roses and was hanged by Richard III, who had had big plans for that battle. Other smiths came to equally bad ends. This has discouraged them from blowing the horn just to whoop it up for New Year’s.”

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All of this is very interesting, but it does nothing to get Lord Jeremy Coldsore’s foot healed so he can marry Lady Margo Cargo.

Meanwhile, the complete re-upholstering of Lady Margo’s sprawling country house continues, despite some over-zealousness on the part of the upholsterers. An attempt to upholster the aquarium housing Oswin the Crayfish had to be vetoed at the last minute, before any real damage could be done.

We are not told what “Pokesleigh” is or was.


How To know yiu Are a Interllectural

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A lot of yiu Ordrinary  dum peeple yiu dont know What Is a Interllectural and yiu mite evin “think” yiu are One! Well that “is” jist stopid so i whil explane to yiu How “to” know iff yiu Are a Interllectural or knot!!

Yiu are a Interllectural if yiu are “in” Collidge doing Ginder Studdies!

Yiu are a Interllectural if yiu got no Job and annywhay Work it blows so yiu dont “whant” no job annyhow!

Yiu know you are a Interllectural iff yiu has got no Frends becose them ordinary dum peeple thay Are Jellice of yiu four being so Smart!!

Yiu are a Interllectural iff yiu Know Hillery she shuld aught to Be Pressadint but Donold Trumpt he canoodled whith The Rushins and thay stole “it” fromb her!!!!

Yiu are a Interllectural wen yiu are four Socile Jutstus and any boddy who isnt that got to be throne in Jale!!

Yiu are a Interllectural if yiu “know Climbit Change” it Is reel! and any boddy who dont beleave it thay are a Notsy that Haits wimmim and Peple of Culler!!! See if Hillery she was pressadint it wuld Be “a” Law that yiu Has Got to “beleave” and iff yiu dont yiu go To Jale!!!

Yiu are a Interllectural iff yiu Dispeyes Wite Peeple and yiu know “that” al the Prombles in the whirl thos are thair Fallt!!

Thare is of corse lots moar “to it” butt this it aught to Get yiu strated! I jist whant to ad that ownly us Interllecturals we “are” Smart Enuohgh to under stand al this iff yiu are two dum it whont make no cents!!!!!


Hillary’s Supreme Court Picks

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A visit to an alternative universe almost too horrible to contemplate…

President Hillary Clinton today announced her newest nominee to the Supreme Court, replacing Justice Anthony Kennedy, who drowned in a neighbor’s swimming pool two nights ago.

“You’ll all be glad to know–it’s Chelsea!” The president has nominated her own daughter. “She’s smart, she’s a woman, and she is committed to fundamental transformation–not only of society, but of everybody in it, individually.”

Senate Majority Leader Chuck Schumer says Chelsea will be confirmed unanimously, “probably this afternoon.” She will be the second Supreme Court Justice placed by Hillary Clinton, following former attorney general and now Chief Justice Loretta Lynch.

Meanwhile, People’s Social Justice Guards are tracking down enemies of progress and equality and making sure they have nothing more to say. Masked units of the People’s Social Justice Guards have prevented Nazi White Supremacist justices Samuel Alito and Clarence Thomas from coming to court, and Justice Neil Gorsuch is expected to die soon of an unnamed medical condition–which means President Hillary Clinton will soon have three more nominations to offer.

On the short list for those three spots on the high court are former Speaker Nancy Pelosi, Representative Maxine Waters, film-maker Michael Moore, gun control activist David Hogg (“Only 18 years old, so he can sit on the court forever!”), several currently incarcerated felons, and at least half a dozen “trans-men” and “trans-women.”

“I think what I’d really like to do is expand the court so they can all be Supreme Court justices,” said the president. “Heck, there might even be a spot for Bill!”

Former President Bill Clinton, who remains in a dormant state following his wife’s election, was unavailable for comment.

 


New from J-School: A Scoop Every Time!

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Greetings, featherless bipeds! Welcome to Journalism Made Easy, the course that makes everyone xer own news organization!

Every reporter wants to scoop the others, and be the first to break the story. Today in our class, you’re going to learn how to do this every single time! And don’t worry about it breeding inequality among journalists–because everyone can do it!

I know, you’re gonna laugh when you find out what it is, you’re gonna cry out, “Now why didn’t I think of that!” You may even be kind of ticked off that you paid all that money for this course.

But here it is, the sure-fire method of getting the scoop on every story:

Report the news before it happens!

Gee, but how to you do that?

You just bleeping make it up, stupid! What do you think ABC Nightline does? You think they actually wait for something to happen before they report it? Sheesh! You won’t ever get a scoop, that way.

Best of all, if you do this many, many times, maybe thousands of times, sooner or later, one of those stories you made up is bound to turn out to be true! And you’ll have nothing left to do but accept the Pulitzer.


The Peasants Are Revolting (‘Oy, Rodney)

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We must skip the next three chapters of Violet Crepuscular’s remarkable epic romance, Oy, Rodney, in which nothing happens. I don’t know why she wrote them. And she is fresh out of Estonian folk tales. These three chapters, she hints slyly, are the result of very bad weather in Scurveyshire.

In Chapter CLXXXIV, Lord Jeremy’s foot has healed after being accidentally shot by his friend, the American adventurer Willis Twombley, and he is ready to proceed with their wedding to Lady Margo Cargo, the richest widow in Scurveyshire. But then another problem crops up, which Lord Jeremy, as Justice of the Peace, must deal with: a full-scale peasant revolt.

“I didn’t even know we still had peasants in Scurveyshire!” he complains. “Where were they, all this time?”

“Constable Chumley says they came swarming out from under the vicar’s backyard wading pool,” his clerk informs him.

“What did he say exactly, man?”

The clerk pauses to search his memory. “As near as I can reconstruct them, sir, the constable’s exact words were ‘A farthy night, I thwill, yare greechins forthered a grambly riot up out of Arth itself, an’ wicky sump!'”

Meanwhile, the peasant mob, under the leadership of a masked man who looks like Desi Arnaz without the makeup, has overturned the ancient statue of Colonel Sanders in the village common and now surrounds The Lying Tart, demanding free beer. The landlord has been out of beer since Ms. Crepuscular ran out of folk tales, and fears for his life.

“This is Rodney’s doing,” opines Lady Margo. “If only I weren’t so busy with all the new upholstering at home, I’d flee to someplace nice.”

“Ol’ hoss,” says Twombley, “you better order the constable to disperse them peasants before somebody gits hurt. I ain’t got enough ammunition left to shoot ’em all.”

The constable having gone into hiding, a search ensues. They finally locate him at the constabulary’s station house, playing Scrabble with the prisoners. He has just gotten a triple word score for “Quixzorj.”

“Constable, I order you to disperse that mob of crazed homicidal peasants!” cries Lord Jeremy. Constable Chumley indicates by eloquent gestures that they will disperse themselves as soon as the town blacksmith blows The Great Horn of Pokesleigh.

“We shoulda thought of that,” remarks Twombley.

Even as he speaks, a horrible noise reminiscent of half a dozen giant ground sloths trapped in a tar pit comes roaring and grumbling across the landscape. As if by magic, the peasants drop what they’re doing and stampede out of the story. Scurveyshire is saved.

Adds Ms. Crepuscular, “I will not listen to carping comments to the effect that I have chosen a cheap way out of this dilemma. The Great Horn of Pokesleigh has a long history of being used in emergencies, and it’s not my fault if this fact is poorly known outside of Scurveyshire.”


We wil Abollish Sex-ism!!

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We hadded a meting of The Stodent Soviet “last nihght” and al yiu ordrinary dum fokes who “thinks” it is eazy being “a’ Introlllectural yiu dont know waht yiu “Are” talkin abote!! Yiu think its eazy thinking Up “al new” whays of makin Socile Jutstus? Yiu are jist al Stopid!!!

Butt we comed Up whith a Doozy lats nihght! This it wil reely Fix them Sex-ists! Evin ordrinary dum peeple thay auhght to be “abel to” under stand this!! And hear it is!

Iff yiu like wimmin, yiu are a Sex-ist!

Iff yiu dont like wimmin, yiu “are” A Sex-ist!

and Aslo iff yiu do not cair one Whay or another then yiu are aslo Sex-ists!!!

Lets sea yiu dum peeple get out “of” That!!!!!

Man our heds hurted becose it Was “so harrd” to Come Up whith this! Troo Introlllectural Thinking,, “it Is” harrd wirk!!That is “whye” yiu has to has a Collidge Eddication! Jist plane peeple thay “are Nott” smart Enuhgh to Think “of” stuph like this!! It maid me Dizzzy and i had “to eat” a hole paire of Jim Sox befour i fellt Normel again!! and aslo my Moth Antenners thay hert tooo!

We are goingto putt this “in” the Teechers Hand Book so thay can has a Inclusivv Clast Roomb and aslo so thay “Can” stop Micro Grecians befour thay start!!!

Thare woont be anny Moar bad thinking whenn We “get” throohgh!


Happy Dependence Day!

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In keeping with California’s commitment to lead the rest of America into the utopian future, Gov. Jerry Brown has proclaimed July 4 “Dependence Day,” instead of “Independence Day.”

“They laugh at us now,” said the governor, “but in twenty years, the whole United States will be just like California!”

“As every college-educated person knows,” he said, “work blows and no one should ever have to work. Nor should anyone ever have to pay for anything. Someday, and sooner than you think, thanks to Artificial Intelligence, our every need will be provided by the state.”

Brown outlined a “road map to the future” which will start with every resident of California receiving a state-certified college degree in the subject of xer choice.

“Whatever you want, you name it, you’ve got it! Gender Studies, LGBT and Disability Studies, Engineering, Computer Technology, Undocumented Migrant Studies, Cowboy Poetry, Super-Hero Studies–it’s yours for the asking. And your degree will count just as much as if you physically attended a university for six or seven years!”

The next step, he said, will be “to completely erase California’s border with Mexico so everyone in Mexico can come right in and get free stuff! And anyone from anywhere else, for that matter, who doesn’t mind coming here through Mexico.”

Supporting these measures will be a 100% income tax, a 100% property tax, and a 100% tax on corporate profits.

“And get this!” he added. “Free tents will be provided in lieu of conventional housing–just think of the savings, with no more private homes gobbling up electricity! Not to mention Saving The Planet from Man-Made Climate Change! From now on, only Very Special Persons, like me, will live in houses–really nice ones, too. Because, after all, guiding America into the future is hard work, and those of us who do that work won’t have time to be out there foraging for food. But we’re really only talking about a very few of us. The great mass of the people will be swaddled in the bosom of Equality!”

The first free college degrees are already being printed, he said, and will soon be available to anyone who requests one.


Ms. Crepuscular’s Estonian Folk Tale (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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In Chapter CLXXXI of Violet Crepuscular’s interminable epic romance, Oy, Rodney, we get the pleasant little Estonian folk tale we were promised in Chapter CLXXX. It is intended to tide us over while Lord Jeremy Coldsore’s foot heals from being accidentally shot by the American adventurer, Willis Twombley.

We are not convinced that this is a genuine Estonian folk tale, but it will have to suffice.

Once upon a time, King Patrick of Estonia had three daughters but no sons. Needing a male successor, the king advertised in the newspapers for suitable princes to marry his daughters. Meanwhile, he questioned his daughters to see which of them loved him the most.

“I love you so much, O father of mine, that it makes my socks roll up and down,” said the eldest, Princess Jackie.

“That’s nothing,” said the second eldest, Princess Foozle. “If every ant in India brought me a gold doubloon, it still wouldn’t be enough to buy my love for you. And there are an awful lot of ants in India!” We are assured that “Foozle” is a genuine Estonian girl’s name of great antiquity, but we are at liberty not to believe it.

But the youngest, Princess Chimney, answered, “I guess I love you as much as I’m supposed to. I mean, you’re okay.” Outraged by this answer, the king marries Chimney off to a beggar with dandruff. Meanwhile, he marries Jackie to the Duke of Flatbush and Foozle to Prince Huitzilxochitl of Kizzuwatna.

(“It’s jist the kinda thing them dam’ Hittites always used to do,” interjects Twombley. “Asia Minor went to pot when they moved in.”)

The two eldest princesses turned against their father and divided up his kingdom, putting him on public assistance.

But Chimney’s husband turned out to be the Emperor of Peedle in disguise. His fantastically large army conquered Estonia and restored King Patrick to his throne, and sent the now-impoverished elder daughters and their husbands into a humiliating exile. They were last seen begging for food in Detroit.

“And that,” concludes Ms. Crepuscular, “was enough to make the king leer!”

 


Dog parks Is Too A Rape Zoan!!

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I hasnt got a Dog thare “is” no roomb for it “In” my prefesser’s Toool Shed ware i “live” the only Pet I “evver” had it was some Sea Munkies and thay never lernt to Talk or Whatch TV like it sayed in the Ad in the Comick Book thay dint do nothing Thay was suposed to do!

Well wen i heared a lexture by a Femnest abote them Dog Parks thay are Rape Zoans I had to “Go” thare and sea for My Selph only i dint has no Dog so i borrerowed this Stuffed Dog and dragt it afftar me on a leesh thare is only dum peple thare at the Park and “thay” amb not Introlllecturals so thay “d” never knotice!!

So i goed thare and I dint see no rapes!!! not evin one! then i reelyzed Thay “wher” al being Sneeky abote it and them Rapes “thay” wood only Hapen “wen” I wassnt thare!!! and some Racist she got al Snottty and sayed to me Waht “Do yiu fead that Dog of yores, Fome Rubbber?? but” I dint do “nothing” Becose she had this Big Pitt Bull and he loocked at Me like “he Was” goingto Bite me!!!!

It jist gose to Show “thatt” we has got to has Socile Jutstus “four” dogs And annamils tooo!! No boddy thay has got anny Rihght “to” Own a Dog it is whay too mutch like Captolism and once We has got Open Boarders no one whill be aloud to own nothing no moar!!! and thenn some Big Corgi it grabed my Stuff Dog and runned awhay whith It!! and i culdnt gett it Back and waht my Prefesser’s pratner whill say wen xe fineds out i borrerowed xis Stuff Dog whith “Out” askin to, wel i jist dont know!!! I whill jist has to tel him i done it four Socile Jutstus and Maby xe woont Hit “me” no moar!!


The Return of Lord Nodule (‘Oy, Rodney’)

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Lord Nodule, former Justice of the Peace for Scurveyshire, has threatened to interfere with Lord Jeremy Coldsore’s wedding to Lady Margo Cargo, and is rather miffed that the wedding keeps getting postponed. In Chapter CLXXX of Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney, he has just returned from an inspection of the Andaman Island penal colony.

“They do things right, out there,” he says. “The place is a regular hell-hole.” To make his point more telling, he bounces up and down on a pogo stick. The owner of the local bicycle shop fears that this may start a fad and impact adversely on his business.

“Germy, we got to do somethin’ about old Nodule,” says Jeremy’s friend, Willis Twombley, the American adventurer who thinks he is Sargon of Akkad. “What say I plug him one?” He flourishes his trusty Colt. It goes off accidentally and shoots Lord Jeremy in the foot.

“Now see what you’ve done!” cries Lord Jeremy, hopping on his uninjured foot. “How am I supposed to get married on one foot?”

“I’m awful sorry, ol’ hoss. Well, maybe it’ll grow back. I seen that once. The king of Assyria cut off his foot while he was peelin’ onions, and eventually it growed back. ‘Tweren’t as good as the old foot, but he could hobble around on it okay. But that’s why they ain’t allowed to sell onions in Assyria.”

Lady Margo has a better idea. “You should have the bad foot amputated, my dear, and replaced with a nice new wooden one, beautifully upholstered, like my leg.” Her upholstered leg has a bad habit of falling off at inopportune moments, but Lord Jeremy is too tactful to mention that.

Lord Nodule hops all the way to the hospital on his pogo stick, just so he can threaten Lord Jeremy some more. “I can hardly wait for your wedding night!” he sneers. “Will I have a surprise for you!”

So Twombley shoots him. They explain it away as a pogo stick accident. Constable Chumley is sympathetic. “Many’s the loor in a fathin’ veeth,” he says, quoting a wise old Scurveyshire proverb.

“I promise to present the wedding as soon as Jeremy’s foot is healed,” Ms. Crepuscular reassures her readers. “Meanwhile, the next chapter will tide you over with a pleasant little folk tale from Estonia.”

We can hardly wait.

 

 


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