Here is an excerpt from a script of a MST3K 3000 show's Easter-related scene (I’ll list the URL below but won’t cite the source using MLA... if you do not know what MST3K is, leave this blog...just kidding... go to http://www.mst3k.com):
[Frank is dressed as an executioner]
Dr. Forrester: Ah, Joel. A hearty hello to you and yours. Let me say this about today's invention exchange; let them eat chocolate.
TV's Frank: That's right Joel. Our invention this week is based on one's natural inclination to bite the heads off of chocolate bunnies.
Dr. Forrester: That's right Frank. [steps aside to reveal guillotine]
Dr. Forrester: That's why we've invented the chocolate bunny guillotine. Eliminate the guess work in biting the heads off bunnies. Ready Mr. Executioner?
TV's Frank: Yes my liege.
Dr. Forrester: [producing a scroll] You have stolen painted eggs in a time of famine. Off with their head Frank. [Frank cuts the string]
Dr. Forrester: And no chocolate mess. Well poopsies?
Tom Servo: [crying] What about the pardon from Fanny Farmer?
Crow T. Robot: His only crime was being born delicious!
Source: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0094517/quotes
I actually found the video for the Easter-related scene with the chocolate bunny in MST3K. Fast-forward to it when you get to this link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vnGiaS9uOf8&feature=related
Here is just one scene with the Executioner treating the chocolate bunny like a baby-doll:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9uUNuTrI9I4
Here is a less humane way to get rid of a chocolate bunny:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZCrGnd3ljqA
Here is yet another awful way to get rid of a chocolate bunny:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UKDofFXmRIg&feature=related
This one shows why you should never leave a pet or child in a hot car with the windows rolled up, and also begs the question, “Is there a chocolate division of PETA?”:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-yAwCIaPt2Y&feature=related
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Stereo-types and Satire
Enclosed below are some relatively stereo-typical, satirical haikus and Buddhist sayings infused with a Jewish perspective. As you know, stereo-types sometimes have a grain of truth, and satire often plays upon these stereo-types for humor. As long as stereo-types are not taken to the horrible level of propaganda, I think that, for satirical purposes, they can be exaggerated.
By the way, a professor friend of mine forwarded these to me after they were sent to him by a literary agent, so I cannot attribute them to a direct source nor can I cite where this e-mailed information originated.
Here they are:
JEWISH HAIKU:
Lacking fins or tail
the gefilte fish swims with
great difficulty.
Beyond Valium,
peace is knowing one's child
is an internist.
On Passover we
opened the door for Elijah.
Now our cat is gone.
After the warm rain
the sweet smell of camellias.
Did you wipe your feet?
Her lips near my ear,
Aunt Sadie whispers the name
of her friend's disease.
Today I am a man.
Tomorrow I will return
to the seventh grade.
Testing the warm milk
on her wrist, she sighs softly.
But her son is forty.
The sparkling blue sea
reminds me to wait an hour
after my sandwich.
Like a bonsai tree,
is your terrible posture
at my dinner table.
Jews on safari --
map, compass, elephant gun,
hard sucking candies.
The same kimono
the top geishas are wearing:
I got it at Loehmann's.
The shivah visit:
so sorry about your loss.
Now back to my problems.
Mom, please! There is no
need to put that dinner roll
in your pocketbook.
Sorry I'm not home
to take your call. At the tone
please state your bad news.
Is one Nobel Prize
so much to ask from a child
after all I've done?
Today, mild shvitzing.
Tomorrow, so hot you'll plotz.
Five-day forecast: feh
Yenta. Shmeer. Gevalt.
Shlemiel. Shlimazl. Meshuganah
Oy! To be fluent!
Quietly murmured
at Saturday Synagogue services,
Yanks 5, Red Sox 3.
A lovely nose ring,
excuse me while I put my
head in the oven.
Hard to tell under the lights.
White Yarmulke or
male-pattern baldness.
And since we're in an Eastern mode, here's some Jewish Buddhism for you (please excuse the formatting with the cut and paste):
If there is no self, whose arthritis is this?
Be here now.Be someplace else later.Is that so complicated?
Drink tea and nourish life;with the first sip, joy;with the second sip, satisfaction;with the third sip, peace;with the fourth, a Danish.
Wherever you go, there you are.Your luggage is another story.
Accept misfortune as a blessing.Do not wish for perfect health, or a life withoutproblems.What would you talk about?
The journey of a thousand miles begins with asingle Oy.
There is no escaping karma.In a previous life,you never called,you never wrote,you never visited.And whose fault was that?
Zen is not easy.It takes effort to attain nothingness.And then what do you have?Bupkis.
The Tao does not speak.The Tao does not blame.The Tao does not take sides.The Tao has no expectations.TheTao demands nothing of others.The Tao is not Jewish.
Breathe in.Breathe out.Breathe in.Breathe out.Forget this and attaining Enlightenment will be theleast of your problems.
Let your mind be as a floating cloud.Let your stillness be as a wooded glen.And sit up straight.You'll never meet the Buddha with such rounded shoulders.
Deep inside you are ten thousand flowers.Each flower blossoms ten thousand times.Each blossom has ten thousand petals.You might want to see a specialist.Be aware of your body.Be aware of your perceptions.Keep in mind that not every physical sensation is asymptom of a terminal illness.The Torah says,Love your neighbor as yourself.The Buddha says,There is no self.So, maybe we're off the hook.
Now on to something not so completely different...
Within “The Rocket to the Soon,” a novella that I wrote and included within Joe Fraccalvieri’s and my anthology “Extra! Extra-terrestrial!,” I included a sub-plot in which some aliens conform to stereo-types of Jewish Hollywood agents because of reading Internet propaganda. I was concerned that people would think I was advocating the stereo-type or the propaganda itself, yet I know that my smart readers will know that I am satirizing those stereo-types.
Here is the excerpt from “The Rocket to the Soon” from “Extra! Extra-terrestrial!” (available on http://www.amazon.com/Extra-Extra-terrestrial-RonBaxley/dp/1419646982/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1205795815&sr=8-1 or so an intra-site search for Baxley and Extra on Amazon.com):
"...And with this, A-1 got the attention of his colleagues who were looking at alien toys, and they set off for the textile plant. They could not go as aliens and visit “Fireball” Chelder, who the “Interplanetary Ambassador” had said to see. They realized not all of the Earthlings knew about them after so many mentions of costumes. They decided it best to go incognito.
They poured over showbiz Internet research on agents, which they hacked into using temporary cyborg micro-implants. They could ask for the information from their own supplemented memory and have everything they needed. Unfortunately, A-1 (who could have been called Arian 1 after this mistake had the alien even known the gravity of the mistake) found mostly Neo-Nazi propaganda on Jews along with some indictments of “Hollywood Jews” from various right-wing columnists. Of course, some Jews were agents — kind of like how some Caucasians really were as cold-hearted and up-tight as reported and some African-Americans were thugs. –Just not all. However, to show that all agents were Jews and to see it as a conspiracy was an anti-Semitic, dangerous idea. Yet the Martians could not discern what information was trash. They thought their portrayal was anything but inaccurate.
When the alpha-numeric aliens showed up at Fireball Chelder’s office with slightly large prosthetic noses, slick suits, slicker than their hair, glasses, and whiny accents with an occasional Yiddish word thrown in for good measure, Fireball didn’t move an eyelash.
He had been in showbiz and had seen some true Jews of all varieties but not these walking stereo-types. Being from the South and having less exposure to Jewish people, “Fireball” could embrace stereo-types. These short, walking mimicking misconceptions fit his bill.
Fireball mopped his forehead and his artificial gumball red hair with a hand, wiped it on his pants, and showed a gap in his smile the size of that between the teeth of a novelty clown comb and stuck out his ham-hock hand.
A-1 shook it:
“A-1 here... I’d like to book you in engagements in outer-space. I can makeyou money;plus, you can present that concert you’ve always wanted to, you mis’-shoo’-gana, you.”
“You’re A-1, a number one, I’ll say,” Fireball barked, “So they’re doing concerts at the space station, now, are they? —Knew they’d started letting citizens live up there, but...”
A-1 said, “You could say that . . . an, er, under-ground space station on Mars. We’re all fa’-klemp’t about the possibilities.”
Fireball didn’t enjoy appearing foolish or not in the know. So he said, “Well, I hadn’t heard about that, but I’m sure it’s exciting. –Knew the moment you all walked in you was agents. –COULD... JUST... TELL. Me and my buddies have been tryin’ to get the band back together for a while. We fizzled out years ago.”
Cont’s in the anthology…
By the way, a professor friend of mine forwarded these to me after they were sent to him by a literary agent, so I cannot attribute them to a direct source nor can I cite where this e-mailed information originated.
Here they are:
JEWISH HAIKU:
Lacking fins or tail
the gefilte fish swims with
great difficulty.
Beyond Valium,
peace is knowing one's child
is an internist.
On Passover we
opened the door for Elijah.
Now our cat is gone.
After the warm rain
the sweet smell of camellias.
Did you wipe your feet?
Her lips near my ear,
Aunt Sadie whispers the name
of her friend's disease.
Today I am a man.
Tomorrow I will return
to the seventh grade.
Testing the warm milk
on her wrist, she sighs softly.
But her son is forty.
The sparkling blue sea
reminds me to wait an hour
after my sandwich.
Like a bonsai tree,
is your terrible posture
at my dinner table.
Jews on safari --
map, compass, elephant gun,
hard sucking candies.
The same kimono
the top geishas are wearing:
I got it at Loehmann's.
The shivah visit:
so sorry about your loss.
Now back to my problems.
Mom, please! There is no
need to put that dinner roll
in your pocketbook.
Sorry I'm not home
to take your call. At the tone
please state your bad news.
Is one Nobel Prize
so much to ask from a child
after all I've done?
Today, mild shvitzing.
Tomorrow, so hot you'll plotz.
Five-day forecast: feh
Yenta. Shmeer. Gevalt.
Shlemiel. Shlimazl. Meshuganah
Oy! To be fluent!
Quietly murmured
at Saturday Synagogue services,
Yanks 5, Red Sox 3.
A lovely nose ring,
excuse me while I put my
head in the oven.
Hard to tell under the lights.
White Yarmulke or
male-pattern baldness.
And since we're in an Eastern mode, here's some Jewish Buddhism for you (please excuse the formatting with the cut and paste):
If there is no self, whose arthritis is this?
Be here now.Be someplace else later.Is that so complicated?
Drink tea and nourish life;with the first sip, joy;with the second sip, satisfaction;with the third sip, peace;with the fourth, a Danish.
Wherever you go, there you are.Your luggage is another story.
Accept misfortune as a blessing.Do not wish for perfect health, or a life withoutproblems.What would you talk about?
The journey of a thousand miles begins with asingle Oy.
There is no escaping karma.In a previous life,you never called,you never wrote,you never visited.And whose fault was that?
Zen is not easy.It takes effort to attain nothingness.And then what do you have?Bupkis.
The Tao does not speak.The Tao does not blame.The Tao does not take sides.The Tao has no expectations.TheTao demands nothing of others.The Tao is not Jewish.
Breathe in.Breathe out.Breathe in.Breathe out.Forget this and attaining Enlightenment will be theleast of your problems.
Let your mind be as a floating cloud.Let your stillness be as a wooded glen.And sit up straight.You'll never meet the Buddha with such rounded shoulders.
Deep inside you are ten thousand flowers.Each flower blossoms ten thousand times.Each blossom has ten thousand petals.You might want to see a specialist.Be aware of your body.Be aware of your perceptions.Keep in mind that not every physical sensation is asymptom of a terminal illness.The Torah says,Love your neighbor as yourself.The Buddha says,There is no self.So, maybe we're off the hook.
Now on to something not so completely different...
Within “The Rocket to the Soon,” a novella that I wrote and included within Joe Fraccalvieri’s and my anthology “Extra! Extra-terrestrial!,” I included a sub-plot in which some aliens conform to stereo-types of Jewish Hollywood agents because of reading Internet propaganda. I was concerned that people would think I was advocating the stereo-type or the propaganda itself, yet I know that my smart readers will know that I am satirizing those stereo-types.
Here is the excerpt from “The Rocket to the Soon” from “Extra! Extra-terrestrial!” (available on http://www.amazon.com/Extra-Extra-terrestrial-RonBaxley/dp/1419646982/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1205795815&sr=8-1 or so an intra-site search for Baxley and Extra on Amazon.com):
"...And with this, A-1 got the attention of his colleagues who were looking at alien toys, and they set off for the textile plant. They could not go as aliens and visit “Fireball” Chelder, who the “Interplanetary Ambassador” had said to see. They realized not all of the Earthlings knew about them after so many mentions of costumes. They decided it best to go incognito.
They poured over showbiz Internet research on agents, which they hacked into using temporary cyborg micro-implants. They could ask for the information from their own supplemented memory and have everything they needed. Unfortunately, A-1 (who could have been called Arian 1 after this mistake had the alien even known the gravity of the mistake) found mostly Neo-Nazi propaganda on Jews along with some indictments of “Hollywood Jews” from various right-wing columnists. Of course, some Jews were agents — kind of like how some Caucasians really were as cold-hearted and up-tight as reported and some African-Americans were thugs. –Just not all. However, to show that all agents were Jews and to see it as a conspiracy was an anti-Semitic, dangerous idea. Yet the Martians could not discern what information was trash. They thought their portrayal was anything but inaccurate.
When the alpha-numeric aliens showed up at Fireball Chelder’s office with slightly large prosthetic noses, slick suits, slicker than their hair, glasses, and whiny accents with an occasional Yiddish word thrown in for good measure, Fireball didn’t move an eyelash.
He had been in showbiz and had seen some true Jews of all varieties but not these walking stereo-types. Being from the South and having less exposure to Jewish people, “Fireball” could embrace stereo-types. These short, walking mimicking misconceptions fit his bill.
Fireball mopped his forehead and his artificial gumball red hair with a hand, wiped it on his pants, and showed a gap in his smile the size of that between the teeth of a novelty clown comb and stuck out his ham-hock hand.
A-1 shook it:
“A-1 here... I’d like to book you in engagements in outer-space. I can makeyou money;plus, you can present that concert you’ve always wanted to, you mis’-shoo’-gana, you.”
“You’re A-1, a number one, I’ll say,” Fireball barked, “So they’re doing concerts at the space station, now, are they? —Knew they’d started letting citizens live up there, but...”
A-1 said, “You could say that . . . an, er, under-ground space station on Mars. We’re all fa’-klemp’t about the possibilities.”
Fireball didn’t enjoy appearing foolish or not in the know. So he said, “Well, I hadn’t heard about that, but I’m sure it’s exciting. –Knew the moment you all walked in you was agents. –COULD... JUST... TELL. Me and my buddies have been tryin’ to get the band back together for a while. We fizzled out years ago.”
Cont’s in the anthology…
Monday, March 10, 2008
Getting and Spending
I was thinking of this poem today and how much the first two lines can apply to me at times. I think that many modern individuals contend with the first two lines of this poem. I vaguely recalled the lines, "The world is too much with us... Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers." Next, I thought of how many people in the suburban, urban, and even rural areas strive to have the latest flat screen television or the latest technological gizmo. Then, I searched for the rest of the poem. It is enclosed below. May it speak to you, web wanderer.
William Wordsworth: "The World Is Too Much with Us" (1807)
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; (1)
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, (2)
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus (3) rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton (4) blow his wreathed horn.
William Wordsworth: "The World Is Too Much with Us" (1807)
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; (1)
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, (2)
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus (3) rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton (4) blow his wreathed horn.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Poetry with Transcendental, Science Fiction, or Fantasy Themes
This part of the blog will be for poetry with the aforementioned themes. A lot of the poetry within the anthology "Extra! Extra-terrestrial!" includes themes such as these, so it seems fitting that this should appear here. My co-author, Joe Fraccalvieri, and others may post here from time to time.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Flying Hans Solo
At one point, given that an obnoxious automobile finance company with a 20% interest rate or higher had put me deeply in debt, I had to give up a sporty little red compact that I called the Red Rocket. In order to survive, for only $500, I bought a 1999 Pontiac 6000 (its name derives from the fact that it gets 6000 inches to the gallon). The paint had long since vanished from its surface, leaving it a dull metallic color. I called the hunk of junk the Millenium Falcon.
Given its color, I also called it the Bucket of Bolts. In fact, I considered getting one of those skin coverings to make it look like the Millenium Falcon. By skin covering, I mean those polymer ones, not some sicko Buffalo Bill covering. (It puts the polymer coating on the Millenium Falcon and does what it is told.) Anyway, an artistic colleague had created an entire mural on hers. What would be wrong with a science fiction geek putting a covering on the car to make it look even more like it was out of the junkyard? (Professor Frink voice: "From what I remember, George Lucas and his band of filmmakers exhumed junk and made ships that were the equivalent of found art sculptures. -With the gluing and the zooming and the glaven!") What if I could visit my parents back home and dig out a small satellite dish (my Dad once sold dishes door to door but in a different sense) and affix it to the top of the car? (I swear that I was only a quasi-geek. I stood in line for the "Star Wars" prequels but did not inhale the metaclorians and did not wear a fiberglass helmet.) I am sure that the Millenium Falcoln would have made me a Chic (sheek) Geek.
Also, the parallels between Hans Solo and me were striking. I had a monolithic corporation wanting my car back. In fact, I am sure that a morbidly obese customer service supervisor with said corporation must have had plenty of debtors chained to his person. He would pull them to him in a fit of sadistic rage, foaming at the mouth with a tongue lolling about, whenever he wanted an extra payment. His labored breathing over the phone sounded like he could barely waddle over to answer it. You would never guess that I was a smart alec when it came to dealing with these folks just like Hans Solo was. I don't think that carbonite would have suited me well, though. It doesn't match my eyes.
Therefore, I gave up that sporty car and flew Hans Solo for a while. The last I thought of the Millenium Falcon was when I was in Myrtle Beach for a conference and visited the Retro-Active store. On their wall, they had a bumper sticker which read, complete with a photo of the spaceship, "My other car is the Millenium Falcon." I shall always remember that car and the time I was Hans Solo. Every once in a while, as I am driving my newer Ford across one of the bridges in Charleston, I say his name like a geeky mantra. Hans Solo. Hans Solo. Hans Solo.
Given its color, I also called it the Bucket of Bolts. In fact, I considered getting one of those skin coverings to make it look like the Millenium Falcon. By skin covering, I mean those polymer ones, not some sicko Buffalo Bill covering. (It puts the polymer coating on the Millenium Falcon and does what it is told.) Anyway, an artistic colleague had created an entire mural on hers. What would be wrong with a science fiction geek putting a covering on the car to make it look even more like it was out of the junkyard? (Professor Frink voice: "From what I remember, George Lucas and his band of filmmakers exhumed junk and made ships that were the equivalent of found art sculptures. -With the gluing and the zooming and the glaven!") What if I could visit my parents back home and dig out a small satellite dish (my Dad once sold dishes door to door but in a different sense) and affix it to the top of the car? (I swear that I was only a quasi-geek. I stood in line for the "Star Wars" prequels but did not inhale the metaclorians and did not wear a fiberglass helmet.) I am sure that the Millenium Falcoln would have made me a Chic (sheek) Geek.
Also, the parallels between Hans Solo and me were striking. I had a monolithic corporation wanting my car back. In fact, I am sure that a morbidly obese customer service supervisor with said corporation must have had plenty of debtors chained to his person. He would pull them to him in a fit of sadistic rage, foaming at the mouth with a tongue lolling about, whenever he wanted an extra payment. His labored breathing over the phone sounded like he could barely waddle over to answer it. You would never guess that I was a smart alec when it came to dealing with these folks just like Hans Solo was. I don't think that carbonite would have suited me well, though. It doesn't match my eyes.
Therefore, I gave up that sporty car and flew Hans Solo for a while. The last I thought of the Millenium Falcon was when I was in Myrtle Beach for a conference and visited the Retro-Active store. On their wall, they had a bumper sticker which read, complete with a photo of the spaceship, "My other car is the Millenium Falcon." I shall always remember that car and the time I was Hans Solo. Every once in a while, as I am driving my newer Ford across one of the bridges in Charleston, I say his name like a geeky mantra. Hans Solo. Hans Solo. Hans Solo.
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