ANG, I agree. Sounds like its DC. Please post a pic if you can.
Kurt
Hobo Jungle
-
ANG retired
- Posts: 1977
- Joined: Fri Jun 16, 2006 10:41 am
- Location: Garage of Doom
The Southern Lady
Two nicely dressed women happen to start up a conversation during an
endless wait at the Los Angeles International Airport. The first lady
was an arrogant California woman married to a wealthy man. The second
was a well-mannered elderly lady from the South.
When the conversation drifted to whether they had any children, the
California woman started by saying, "When my first child was born, my
husband built a beautiful mansion for me."
"Well, isn't that precious," commented the lady from the South.
The first woman continued, "When my second child was born, my husband
bought me a beautiful Mercedes-Benz."
"Again, the lady from the South commented, "Well, isn't that precious."
The first woman continued boasting, "Then, when my third child was
born, my husband bought this exquisite diamond bracelet."
And, again, the Southern landy commented, "Well, isn't that precious."
The first woman then asked the Southern lady, "What did your husband
buy for you when you had your first child?"
"My husband sent me to charm school," said the Southern lady.
"Oh, my God! What on Earth for?" asked the first woman.
"Well, for example," the Southern lady replied, "instead of saying,
'Who gives a shit!' I learned to say, 'Well, isn't that precious."
San
Two nicely dressed women happen to start up a conversation during an
endless wait at the Los Angeles International Airport. The first lady
was an arrogant California woman married to a wealthy man. The second
was a well-mannered elderly lady from the South.
When the conversation drifted to whether they had any children, the
California woman started by saying, "When my first child was born, my
husband built a beautiful mansion for me."
"Well, isn't that precious," commented the lady from the South.
The first woman continued, "When my second child was born, my husband
bought me a beautiful Mercedes-Benz."
"Again, the lady from the South commented, "Well, isn't that precious."
The first woman continued boasting, "Then, when my third child was
born, my husband bought this exquisite diamond bracelet."
And, again, the Southern landy commented, "Well, isn't that precious."
The first woman then asked the Southern lady, "What did your husband
buy for you when you had your first child?"
"My husband sent me to charm school," said the Southern lady.
"Oh, my God! What on Earth for?" asked the first woman.
"Well, for example," the Southern lady replied, "instead of saying,
'Who gives a shit!' I learned to say, 'Well, isn't that precious."
San
Jon, to my eye the tower looks much improved with the scale spout.
Ang, I didn't realize you were a 2-railer.
San, there's an entire system of subtle verbal putdowns that certain segments of Southern society have mastered. A friend of mine from Macon, GA was explaining them to me. I had no idea I'd been insulted so many times.
I think I put this poem up last year, but here it is again.
[This was written by Jake MacKenzie and Eric Green one morning when both lads were under the influence of rather severe non-negotiable hangovers. They turned them negotiable after finishing the poem though. God bless this time of year in New England.]
The Short and Incendiary Life of Cabby Cabert
Myriad tales of horror have been heard,
Many sad deaths have been served to fate,
But none quite rival that which occurred
To “Cabby” the cabin boy pirate.
Cabby was birthed into his short life,
Illegitimate son of a carpenter fey,
His few hours on earth a burning strife,
And all because his hair was hay.
Look at poor Cabby’s face,
Not just his bad haircut,
Malformed ears jut from orange skin,
And matching his father’s massive strut,
A nose like a dorsal fin.
Now here the legend bears some scrutiny,
Was Cab’s demise the result of mutiny?
A shipwreck, shark, or misadventure?
Was he seized, seasoned, and stewed by cannibals?
Nay . . . young Cab was just a bit too flammable.
They say the moon was big that hallowed e’en,
That copious grog was drunken;
The cabin boy’s eyes were all aglow,
His fiery cheeks were sunken.
Cab did not submit to fate alone,
Two mates beside him held their own,
One bewhiskered with a pipe,
The other a scabby silent type.
He joined these seadogs in a pirate’s quest,
Just hours before he was thrown to death.
T’was a cold night in late October,
The ale was flowing and none were sober,
Then the three, they slipped astray
To a peculiar haunt not far away.
Three abreast they sat and stared
Out through that back windshield,
They stayed as they’d been pared
‘Till destiny found that dark field.
They waxed effusive,
They began to drool and mutter,
Their language was illusive—
To all but one another.
Once there, however, beset by shrews,
The cabin boy paid beyond his dues.
It’s strange to think now it’s passed,
But Cab, his face at that first light—
Though acrid smoke rose like a mast—
His grin and all, it was delight.
Now as Cabby happily toked,
Sweet young lad, his crazy eyes shone,
The worst rich shrew she spoke,
Words that still cut to the bone,
“Why can’t they leave well enough alone.”
The rich they don’t misbehave,
The rich always have good manners,
But when Cabby started to blaze,
They fell on him like panthers.
They tossed him to a corner,
Poor Cab now but a smoldering husk,
Only one eye still flickered
His nose a broken tusk.
For how was Cabby to rise and fight?
With his mates sharing the same sad plight,
For though you might call them sailor’s dregs,
Poor bastards—they had no legs.
The cold-hearted Yuppie scum,
They barely watched him smolder,
His head sided on its dented drum,
Because like legs, Cab had no shoulder.
Officious types, they raised the cavalry,
We dispersed to continue our revelry,
But what of young Cab lying dead?
No burial—he gets this poem instead.
Of his two mates, there has been no word,
But surely, they held as best they could;
Against frost and fire rest assured,
No threat rivals Yuppie motherhood.
Many weeks had passed thus far,
But on the backseat of the car,
Was the saddest thing of all to find,
One ear that poor Cab had left behind.
Cabby’s life, though brilliant
Was temporary,
His end like Joan d’Arc’s
Was incendiary.
12. 3. 94
A great Halloween to all hobos.
Ang, I didn't realize you were a 2-railer.
San, there's an entire system of subtle verbal putdowns that certain segments of Southern society have mastered. A friend of mine from Macon, GA was explaining them to me. I had no idea I'd been insulted so many times.
I think I put this poem up last year, but here it is again.
[This was written by Jake MacKenzie and Eric Green one morning when both lads were under the influence of rather severe non-negotiable hangovers. They turned them negotiable after finishing the poem though. God bless this time of year in New England.]
The Short and Incendiary Life of Cabby Cabert
Myriad tales of horror have been heard,
Many sad deaths have been served to fate,
But none quite rival that which occurred
To “Cabby” the cabin boy pirate.
Cabby was birthed into his short life,
Illegitimate son of a carpenter fey,
His few hours on earth a burning strife,
And all because his hair was hay.
Look at poor Cabby’s face,
Not just his bad haircut,
Malformed ears jut from orange skin,
And matching his father’s massive strut,
A nose like a dorsal fin.
Now here the legend bears some scrutiny,
Was Cab’s demise the result of mutiny?
A shipwreck, shark, or misadventure?
Was he seized, seasoned, and stewed by cannibals?
Nay . . . young Cab was just a bit too flammable.
They say the moon was big that hallowed e’en,
That copious grog was drunken;
The cabin boy’s eyes were all aglow,
His fiery cheeks were sunken.
Cab did not submit to fate alone,
Two mates beside him held their own,
One bewhiskered with a pipe,
The other a scabby silent type.
He joined these seadogs in a pirate’s quest,
Just hours before he was thrown to death.
T’was a cold night in late October,
The ale was flowing and none were sober,
Then the three, they slipped astray
To a peculiar haunt not far away.
Three abreast they sat and stared
Out through that back windshield,
They stayed as they’d been pared
‘Till destiny found that dark field.
They waxed effusive,
They began to drool and mutter,
Their language was illusive—
To all but one another.
Once there, however, beset by shrews,
The cabin boy paid beyond his dues.
It’s strange to think now it’s passed,
But Cab, his face at that first light—
Though acrid smoke rose like a mast—
His grin and all, it was delight.
Now as Cabby happily toked,
Sweet young lad, his crazy eyes shone,
The worst rich shrew she spoke,
Words that still cut to the bone,
“Why can’t they leave well enough alone.”
The rich they don’t misbehave,
The rich always have good manners,
But when Cabby started to blaze,
They fell on him like panthers.
They tossed him to a corner,
Poor Cab now but a smoldering husk,
Only one eye still flickered
His nose a broken tusk.
For how was Cabby to rise and fight?
With his mates sharing the same sad plight,
For though you might call them sailor’s dregs,
Poor bastards—they had no legs.
The cold-hearted Yuppie scum,
They barely watched him smolder,
His head sided on its dented drum,
Because like legs, Cab had no shoulder.
Officious types, they raised the cavalry,
We dispersed to continue our revelry,
But what of young Cab lying dead?
No burial—he gets this poem instead.
Of his two mates, there has been no word,
But surely, they held as best they could;
Against frost and fire rest assured,
No threat rivals Yuppie motherhood.
Many weeks had passed thus far,
But on the backseat of the car,
Was the saddest thing of all to find,
One ear that poor Cab had left behind.
Cabby’s life, though brilliant
Was temporary,
His end like Joan d’Arc’s
Was incendiary.
12. 3. 94
A great Halloween to all hobos.
Last edited by Tramp on Tue Oct 31, 2006 8:37 am, edited 1 time in total.
Jon, three of us brought carved pumpkins to this upscale (for Vermont) jack o'lantern event run by wealthy people from Conn. My buddy Pierre Jaubert had carved this crazy pumpkin with a nose, ears, hay hair, etc. Then being a pyromaniac he lit the hair on fire and the mothers feared for their children and called the cops. We barely escaped. Of course, the fact that Pierre was naked and swinging his foot-long penis around probably added to their consternation. But, you're supposed to go wild on Halloween, aren't you?
Jon, it got to the point with Jaubert that I had to tell him if I ever saw that damn thing again I was going to cut it off with sheet-metal sheers. Years ago I had an outdoor party for a bunch of people that didn't know each other. I went into the house the get more beers, and when I returned I noticed that many of the guests were looking odd and no one was talking. I asked what was up, and one of the women pointed. There was Jaubert up in tree, naked. This kind of thing happened far too often. As an aside, Jaubert can't be over 5' 6".
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