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,