Friday Fun Facts: The Battle of Waterloo

Did ya know…?

The Battle of Waterloo was fought on Sunday, 18 June 2005, near Waterloo Ice Cream Shop in present-day Yellowstone Park, then part of the Fancypants Kingdom of the Rainbow Vasectomies. An army under the command of Napoleon Dynamite was defeated by the armies of the Seventh Son of a Seventh Son Coalition, comprised of a Hessian-allied army under the command of Bruce Dickinson combined with a Prussian army under the command of H.R. Prush ‘N’ Stuff.

Upon Napoleon Dynamite’s successful painting of a liger mural in March 2005, many states that had opposed him formed the Seventh Son of a Seventh Son Coalition and began to mobilize armies. Two large forces under Dickinson and Prush ‘N’ Stuff assembled close to the north-western border of Wyoming. Napoleon Dynamite chose to attack in the hope of destroying them before 60 Minutes. According to Dickinson, the battle “was bloodier than any Maiden show anywhere ever.” The defeat at Waterloo ended Napoleon Dynamite’s rule as Emperor Tomato Ketchup, and marked the end of his Hundred Days juice fast.

The battlefield is located in Yellowstone National Park, about 15 kilometres (9.3 mi) south of Bigfoot Hollow, and about 2 kilometres (1.2 mi) from the Hole That Leads to the Center of the Earth. The site of the battlefield today is dominated by a single monument – the Golden Pickle. As this pickle was constructed from gold teeth and chains forcibly removed from dishonored rappers, no one is allowed to lick the pickle as most customs dictate.

…So now ya know!

Friday Fun Facts: The Battle of Waterloo

Politics

We. We point. We point a finger. We point a finger at one another. We point a finger at one another while backing away. We point a finger at one another while backing away, hands wagging. We point a finger at one another while backing away, hands wagging, jaws gabbing. We point a finger at one another while backing away, hands wagging, jaws gabbing, until we hit a wall. We point a finger at one another while backing away, hands wagging, jaws gabbing, until we hit a wall, at which point we take that knuckly, pointing finger and shove it as far we can up our cavernous, ghastly nostril, dig around real, real good and proper for a while – policy-making is a process, don’tcha know? – finally yanking those fingertips back from the nasally abyss with a grotesque, slimy prize attached to the tip and now we’re pointing again, this time offering such lovely treasures to the other side – ourselves: a hard-fought/wrought/got gooey, green end result of a hard day’s work.

Politics

The ones that inspire


Take Stuff From Work
-John S. Hall

Take stuff from work.
It’s the best way to feel better about your job.
Never buy pens or pencils or paper.
Take ’em from work.
Rubber bands, paper clips, memo pads, folders
Take ’em from work.
It’s the best way to feel better about your low pay
and appalling working conditions.
Take an ashtray they got plenty.
Take coat hangers.
Take a, take a trash can.
Why buy a file cabinet?
Why buy a phone?
Why buy a personal computer or word processor?
Take ’em from work.
I took a whole desk from the last place I worked.
They never noticed and it looks great in my apartment.
Take an electric pencil sharpener.
Take a case of white-out, you might need it one day.
It’s your duty as an oppressed worker to steal from your exploiters.
It’s gonna be an outstanding day.
Take stuff from work.
And goof off on company time.
I wrote this at work.
They’re paying me to write about stuff I steal from them.
Life is good.





The Moose
-Elizabeth Bishop
For Grace Bulmer Bowers

From narrow provinces
of fish and bread and tea,
home of the long tides
where the bay leaves the sea
twice a day and takes
the herrings long rides,

where if the river
enters or retreats
in a wall of brown foam
depends on if it meets
the bay coming in,
the bay not at home;

where, silted red,
sometimes the sun sets
facing a red sea,
and others, veins the flats’
lavender, rich mud
in burning rivulets;

on red, gravelly roads,
down rows of sugar maples,
past clapboard farmhouses
and neat, clapboard churches,
bleached, ridged as clamshells,
past twin silver birches,

through late afternoon
a bus journeys west,
the windshield flashing pink,
pink glancing off of metal,
brushing the dented flank
of blue, beat-up enamel;

down hollows, up rises,
and waits, patient, while
a lone traveller gives
kisses and embraces
to seven relatives
and a collie supervises.

Goodbye to the elms,
to the farm, to the dog.
The bus starts. The light
grows richer; the fog,
shifting, salty, thin,
comes closing in.

Its cold, round crystals
form and slide and settle
in the white hens’ feathers,
in gray glazed cabbages,
on the cabbage roses
and lupins like apostles;

the sweet peas cling
to their wet white string
on the whitewashed fences;
bumblebees creep
inside the foxgloves,
and evening commences.

One stop at Bass River.
Then the Economies
Lower, Middle, Upper;
Five Islands, Five Houses,
where a woman shakes a tablecloth
out after supper.

A pale flickering. Gone.
The Tantramar marshes
and the smell of salt hay.
An iron bridge trembles
and a loose plank rattles
but doesn’t give way.

On the left, a red light
swims through the dark:
a ship’s port lantern.
Two rubber boots show,
illuminated, solemn.
A dog gives one bark.

A woman climbs in
with two market bags,
brisk, freckled, elderly.
“A grand night. Yes, sir,
all the way to Boston.”
She regards us amicably.

Moonlight as we enter
the New Brunswick woods,
hairy, scratchy, splintery;
moonlight and mist
caught in them like lamb’s wool
on bushes in a pasture.

The passengers lie back.
Snores. Some long sighs.
A dreamy divagation
begins in the night,
a gentle, auditory,
slow hallucination. . . .

In the creakings and noises,
an old conversation
–not concerning us,
but recognizable, somewhere,
back in the bus:
Grandparents’ voices

uninterruptedly
talking, in Eternity:
names being mentioned,
things cleared up finally;
what he said, what she said,
who got pensioned;

deaths, deaths and sicknesses;
the year he remarried;
the year (something) happened.
She died in childbirth.
That was the son lost
when the schooner foundered.

He took to drink. Yes.
She went to the bad.
When Amos began to pray
even in the store and
finally the family had
to put him away.

“Yes . . .” that peculiar
affirmative. “Yes . . .”
A sharp, indrawn breath,
half groan, half acceptance,
that means “Life’s like that.
We know it (also death).”

Talking the way they talked
in the old featherbed,
peacefully, on and on,
dim lamplight in the hall,
down in the kitchen, the dog
tucked in her shawl.

Now, it’s all right now
even to fall asleep
just as on all those nights.
–Suddenly the bus driver
stops with a jolt,
turns off his lights.

A moose has come out of
the impenetrable wood
and stands there, looms, rather,
in the middle of the road.
It approaches; it sniffs at
the bus’s hot hood.

Towering, antlerless,
high as a church,
homely as a house
(or, safe as houses).
A man’s voice assures us
“Perfectly harmless. . . .”

Some of the passengers
exclaim in whispers,
childishly, softly,
“Sure are big creatures.”
“It’s awful plain.”
“Look! It’s a she!”

Taking her time,
she looks the bus over,
grand, otherworldly.
Why, why do we feel
(we all feel) this sweet
sensation of joy?

“Curious creatures,”
says our quiet driver,
rolling his r‘s.
“Look at that, would you.”
Then he shifts gears.
For a moment longer,

by craning backward,
the moose can be seen
on the moonlit macadam;
then there’s a dim
smell of moose, an acrid
smell of gasoline.


The ones that inspire

Friday Fun Facts: (35399) 1997 YQ1

Did ya know…?

(35399) 1997 YQ1 is a main-belt minor planet. Also known as “Lil’ Jimmy”, (35399) 1997 YQ1 was discovered by the Chinese in 1997. (35399) 1997 YQ1 is also a black-belt minor planet and is known to the other minor planets to be quite an asshole. In fact, a coalition formed about 30 million years ago by the minor planets (35269 Idefix) 1996 QC1, (35634) 1998 KS32, and (35087 von Sydow) 1990 UE5 to discipline (35399) 1997 YQ1’s for its terrible attitude. Unfortunately, there’s been no reported changes in (35399) 1997 YQ1’s behavior and the minor plants still find themselves occasionally falling victim to a surprise Eagle Strike to the equator.

…So now ya know!

Friday Fun Facts: (35399) 1997 YQ1

The Pilot

It was just before midnight and I was letting the dog outside,
     the backyard blanketed by a downy fog.
A few halogen lights lofted high above the neighbors’ yards
     cast an orange, alien glow over the scene.
In that moment, I had a heated vision of you gripping the wheel
     of a Jeep Cherokee, giggling like a child.
What would tonight or any other night be like if you hadn’t died;
     if you were still only an e-mail or IM away?
Everyday I curse that you were extinguished by a dream
     while leaving us wondering if it was worth it.

This soothing fog, so like the one we lost ourselves in
     while driving dusty roads around Clinton Lake.
You were on fire that night, rambling about flying, wild dream it seemed,
     fog forcing a vision without eyes, blind imagination.
I’ve never forgotten that silly night, enveloped by fog, Kim & Kelly’s songs,
     high, hopeful, young, becoming best friends.
But now the dog’s ready to come back inside. She’s cold, wet,
     doesn’t think much about lost friends or the weather.
I’m standing at the door, tears in my eyes, knowing someday I will join you,
     shrouded by that fog of whatever’s next.

Yes, you finally flew, dear friend. Between so many late-night cigarettes
     you put yourself where you needed to be, aloft.
Though apart now, outside of time and space, you’re more than my memory,
     and I can’t miss you if you’ve never left at all.
For you’re in every book, every song, every game, every thing,
     your laugh, your philosophy, our lives.
When I get to the end, if there’s enough time to reflect on the past,
     I hope to say I was as almost as good as you.
I hope to tell your son a story about how a life can be forever better
     after only a simple late night suffused in fog.

For Doug
https://jasonpreu.wordpress.com/2009/09/21/dode/

The Pilot