Hades, Satireday, January 31, 2004

 

 

From: the Task of the Editor

 

To: All of you who haven’t got a hope in Hell

 

 

Having “written such volumes of stuff,” His Satanic Majesty, recognizing that He can’t work and chew God out at the same time; furthermore, that He cannot reasonably continue to tempt man, to say nothing of his consort, woman, into committing all of their countless follies and simultaneously chronicle and hold the entire sum of their follies up to ridicule with anything like the biting sarcasm He is able to muster for any one instance of foolheadedness, has therefore decided, howsoever reluctantly, to pull in His satyric horns insofar as to concentrate on doing, if not justice, then at least some small measure of comeuppance to their ‘single’ greatest folly: marriage. This He has every condemnatory intention of doing by means of His long-planned diatribe on the subjects, What Are You Wedding For? (a Lucifer’s Lexicon® book). However, due to the seemingly endless (and still growing) number of follies committed in its name, He readily concedes that the Devil knows how long the execration-in-progress will ultimately be in the making, though, He swears, it’s certain to be the last word in revilement and a classic of the genre. Therefore He has commanded me to do his dirty work for Him by telling you, in no uncertain terms, that, with the following, you can expect no further such voluminous outpourings from the likes of Him until such time as He has gotten this whole ludicrous matter of animal husbandry off His chest.

 

With this latest volume (no.60), He would have me add, there are currently no less than 905 lost souls, forever damned,  in that Purgatory He is pleased to call His Archest of Archives®;  and in which doomed and wretched mass you who are somewhat less than pleased to be among the living (temporarily) may complacently look upon the whole, aghast, and see any number of pieces of yourselves—all of which eternal objects of misery may be looked down upon, by means of His conveniently located Hellphabet® (above); which, He nudges me to be sure and add, enjoys no small measure of reputation for wit in certain diabolical circles of the underworld. If, in the meantime, the sum total of these wretched, writhing souls are not sufficient to satisfy your macabre voyeuristic tendencies, then, I have been instructed to inform you, you may all damned well go to Hell (see below)—and as far as He’s concerned, as well arrive sooner as later.

 

With these few words (the most conciliatory, I am pleased to say, it has ever been my duty and privilege to utter on His behalf) I herewith append Volume 60 of Lucifer’s Lexicon: A Devil’s-eye View of Life on Earth precisely as He dictated it to me (in both senses of the word) this date, January 31, 2004

 

and remain,

 

David Madison, Editor and Chief Devil’s Advocate-in-Attendance-to His Satanic Majesty

 

 

 

Hades, Satireday, January 31, 2004: Vol.60

 

You know you are in Hell when…

you convert to solar energy, only to discover that

it’s a sonofabitch too, though admittedly on a much

smaller scale.

—Song of Old Sol(oh man!) 82:15

 

 

FACE VALUE.  Priceless, according to the bearer, but, taking into account the customary high rate of inflation, not really very much at all.

 

It’s the price each person puts upon

   Your physiognomy

For making it a paragon

   Of put-uponery:

 

First, each one gives you large cheekbones

   (God they must) since when you speak

You (God knows those two aren’t meek bones)

   Give, each one a lot of cheek;

 

And each wisely puts these cheekbones high

   So that, a little south,

It’s obvious to every eye

   There’s room for your big mouth;

 

Then above it all each puts your forehead

   Culturally so

So each eyebrow will look highbrow

   Though it’s culturally lo-o-ow;

 

Then, it’s they stick your nose high in air

   (Your finest theory) for

How could you do but look down it they’re,

   So damned inferior!

 

Then they make sure, each sees to it

   (It’s quite your fondest eye),

You do so, yes, you must admit,

   With your best jaundiced eye;

 

And look so go-o-od (you looker, you)

   You’re naturally quite nervous

Wondering how you’ll pay them, but you do:

   With (your best yet!) lip service;

 

Beneath which, when you smugly smile

   (As if one had to tell you)

Each sees they’re far less than buck teeth

   And arrives at your face value.

 

HEROIN ADDICT.  One who believes that heroin is God; and thus, several times each day, religiously takes the Lord’s name in vein. This hopeless case is often confused with a HEROINE ADDICT, a closely related junkie who believes his heroine to be a goddess and so, come wedding day, takes her hand in vain. So powerful are these two addictions that neither one ever kicks his habit, though at least one of the two, when the high wears off, may often be seen to kick himself.

 

I. R. S.  Acrimony for Internal Rub-on-you Service, a national collection agency who really could care less how bitter and resentful you are, as long as they get the acrimoney due them.

 

Yes, the I.R.S. outrages

   Taxpayers something hellish

Since they garnish poor folks’ wages

   —And garnish them with relish!

Never caring if the relish comes

   From up north or down south

As long as the embellished sums

   Leave a bad taste in the mouth.

 

Uncle Sam’s been in the business, see,

   Of relishing a nickel

Since he first said it’s His—“Sez me

   —And you’re in one big pickle!

Especially if you don’t pay me

   —Voluntarily

And I have to chase—you slay me—

   When, in ire, I garnishee

 

“Your paltry wages and you cry,

   ‘You take away my breath!

And, not satisfied, slap, when I die

   —A tax upon my death!

Fly into an I-Rate fury

   That I no longer earn

Yet still —forever—make me worry

   You’ll tax all I urn,

 

‘And the truth is, Sam, I yearn—a lot—

   And then I really burn

On finding why—now I’m really hot—

   It’s called a tax return

—Although I don’t—and burn—in fire

   In death and tax—distress!

Uncle Sam—you s.o.—’ be the ire.

  

Ever more,

 

 The Ire S.”

 

JANITOR, n.  1. A common drudge elevated to the second degree of euphemism; a low-level factotum who, with applied diligence and the passage of time, eventually graduates  with the coveted third degree, and proudly hangs out her shingles (and related nervous disorders): housewife. 2. A housebound whose job it is to clean up after a husband, which wifely duty tradition dictates she do in the time-honored fashion: by divorcing the slob and getting not only the house clean and free, but laundering the better part of his money in the washing-her-hands-of-him machine and hanging the loot, correction, the lout out to dry. [From Early Matrimonial Latin Cleanitor else, literally, “a new groom sweeps clean.”]

 

KEEPSAKE, n.  1. A worthless sentimental notion or memento a man hangs onto for dear sake, against his better judgment, for fear of that dear’s infinitely more bitter judgment. 2. An alcoholic beverage made from fermented rice a man keeps on hand in case he ever has to entertain a JAP, even though such Jewish American Princesses are known to prefer being plied with ‘No.1,’ and to simply have the unfermented wiled grains (though it goes much against his) showered on her. 3. A notion a woman hangs onto for sentimental reasons despite his obvious worthlessness.

 

LIVE BIRTH.  1.  A birth that is not umbilically prerecorded for ‘broad’cast at a later date, but rather one in which the little ‘slip’ of a thing’s arrival (by way of the babe tube) is consequently heralded by “It’s a blooper!” Compare STILLBIRTH in which the latest talking head, when it all the sooner errs on the boob tube, is pronounced “Still dead from the neck up!” by a dissenting talking head on a rival neckwork.      

 

2. What fetuses hope for:

   A ‘father,’ God bless!

Slip down the old slope for,

   A live one no less!

Or a large-living ‘pappa,’

   Or ‘pater,’ life-giving;

Or real live ‘poppa’

   Who gives them a living;

Or ‘pa,’ warm and breathing,

   Or ‘pops’ whom they can,

A little past teething,

   Then call their ‘old man.’

 

What fetus would bother

   Slip out in survival

If it knew its father

   Would be ‘dad’ on arrival?

 

MARRIAGE, n.  1. A union conceived in Utopia, sanctified in Heaven, consummated  on Earth, and thereafter played out in Hell. 2. An institution founded on troth, funded on trust, fondled on trial, and foundered on tryst. 3. A ceremoaning in which a man and a woman are joined together in mere rage, woely headlock, wholly a matter of money, and con-jugheaded bliss—four bitter or worse. 4. A con-nubile situation in which a male and female, each of whom has sex, agree to live together for the purpose of having two times the sex, and, having so united, soon proceed to two-time one another. [From Olde Anguish, The more I rage, the more I age, loosely translated as vice versa.]

 

Naively, I married:

   I took me a wife.

Out took she my small ‘i’

   —And marred me for life!

 

Naively I married:

   A husband I took.

He took me for granted

   —God, what a crook!

 

Naively we wedded

   “Til death part us,” said

Our vows, did our part,

   And now we d ded.

 

NIGHTMARE, n.  1. A dream without its close on. 2. The terrifying female counterpart of the no less frightening hubbiehorse.

 

3. A course of a different holler,

When, a hoarse of a different choler

(Joe Stud abed, at night),

Screams for the ghastly fright

But to see this nightly nag

Has many a saddlebag

For (oh, dear God!) what he sees

Is the female of the species,

Even longer in the molars

For its mane—done up in rollers;

Sees its muzzle—pure albino

(God! “a purebed…pal o’ mine—oh!”)

He sees each dreadful night

That mare turns on the light,

And his fright grows all the larger

To see that “it’s…a charger!”

And, trembling now he’s said it,

Not to hers, God, but his credit!

Sees the hair rollers all in place

And the cold cream on her face,

And, seeing it, of course,

He screams himself more hoarse.

 

And for ‘all’ the stud he is

She screams to study his

Which, in the mane’s, so piebald,

’Top a muzzle so unribald,

That, for ‘all’ their nuzzled melding,

Might as well be on a gelding,

For lack of equine juice;

Of nightmarish cayuse.

 

So each quakes in their thorough bed

To gaze at their thorough-bred,

And tremble for their fright there,

Dark hubbiehorse and nightmare,

Dreading how much they will shake

When it’s worst of all—awake!

“God, to think,” (they do, each scream)

“That it started out a dream.”

 

OLIVE BRANCH.   1. A branch of an olive tree universally regarded as an emblem of peace. Traditionally, one extends the olive branch to a foe or adversary as a peace offering. When he with whom you would like to bury the hatchet meekly smiles and extends his open hand in acceptance, custom then dictates that you seize the advantage and, in the spirit of friendship, proceed to whack him atop the head with the propitiatory branch as many times as it takes to make him holler Peace! PEACE!—and while you’re at it, graciously reciprocate by giving the stricken fool a damned good piece of your mind.

 

2. A peace of would that grows upon

   The fruitful olive tree

And oh! the bitter fruitwould spawn

   It grows (pity!)fully;

One many a one has come to grieve,

   When comes such fruit to fall:

This would (each soon comes to believe)

   Is not a would at all:

 

The olive branch, for all its would,

   Is from the tree ill-got:

Is, for all its unpeaceful good,

   One twisted, dense would not:

One sees, for all its vaunted peace,

   It has no pith, no heartwould;

Is, such is its would-not caprice,

   Not in its smallest part would,

 

And thus can have no sap within

   (A truth one wants to shout)

But oh! the constant flow (chagrin)

   Of endless saps without;

Who yet still crave the bitter fruit

   For all their want of wits,

And, being saps—of every root—    

   Pronounce its fruit the pits.

 

Yet each, fed up, is so spellbound

   That not a one would see

It’s, knoturally, a branch knot-found

   Within the family tree

Whose bitter fruit they eat, and blanch,

   All hungering for a peace of

That family of manly branch

   (God knows it isn’t all-love).

 

PARROT, n.  A disreputable bird capable of mimicking a few rudimentary speech sounds if the imprecations are repeated often enough. Its inherent nature, however, is to squawk loudly and raucously about anything and everything—and when not squawking, to be otherwise relieving itself, at its tail end, of a similar odious load. For this very reason many fanciers who may be seen carrying one around on their shoulders swear that it is not so much a bird as it is a tremendous burden for all that it squawks in their ear while simultaneously dumping on them; furthermore that, despite their continually getting themselves in a great flap over one thing or another, they, being burden lovers, have effectively had their wings clipped, and are thus quite certain they will never ever get away from them—especially seeing that the only thing these tremendous burdens are capable of flying off, on a regular basis, is their universal perch commonly known as the handle). Consequently, having closely examined all the evidence, ornithologists are now convinced beyond a certainty that the topical parrot is of two distinct strains (Pollyannes squawkus and Paulyanus rawcus, commonly mistaken for lovebirds), which, despite, or rather because of their tendency to flock together, as burdens of a father—and let us not forget mother—are wont to do, is nonetheless seen to be a most singular burden. Man, is he ever burdenwatchers concur. [From Old Anguish pairrot after their tendency, when paired up, to rot one another’s socks continually, thus remaining eternally topical and the squawk of the town.]

 

RANCH, n.  A little piece of God’s green backacher  (see HELL’S HALF ACRE) which, in order to qualify for FHA (Fool’s Housing Authority) financing must contain, at the very least:

 

1-pure-bred donkey naturally good at making an ass out of himself.

1-mule-headed jenny specially designed to make certain he does.

1-pigheaded billy goat constantly butting his head up against adversity. 

1-all-the-more-headstrong nanny goat in the shape of hardship, difficulty, 

   danger, and misfortune to encourage him to keep up the good work.

1-gander whose goose is pretty much cooked.

1-goose who’s legendary at gettin’ her gander (his dander) up.

1-underdog capable of, and boneheaded enough, to work like one.

1-overmastering bitch to make damned sure he does. (Note: It’s not

   necessary the bitch be in heat since she’s certain to be hot under the 

   choler.)

1-horse’s ass (rest of animal is optional, but he might just as well forget 

   about ever getting any).

1-“tonight”mare who instantly becomes a nightmare upon marrying a

   certain horse’s ass.

1-crashing boar with just enough of the ham in him to bring home the

   bacon and sundry other pork-barrell politics.

1-very sooweet sow who’s pigheaded enough to make certain

(a) her betroughed is constantly boaring.

(b) has always got enough oink in his pen to cut her yet another  

      check for a trough of sower cream or similar pig-out.

(3) that there’ll never be a problem getting rid of the damn slops.

1-ram too sheepish to even think about butting a hole in that damn, let alone 

   contemplate exercising his free wool.

1-purebed ewe (made of 100% ‘virgin’ wool, naturally) who’s got the wear-

   with-all to pull ‘it’ over his eyes each morning before sending him

   off to Wool St.

1-male duck—who knows how to do just that whenever a certain matter hits 

   the fan.

1-female duck who swears she’s his biggest fan, though admittedly not

   nearly so much as he does.

1-cock-of-the-walk who struts around the place as though he actually had

   one.

1-chick who’s got the balls to shoot this bull down and make sure the cock-

   sure bird-brain regularly utters his characteristic Cock-a-doodle—do   

   WHAT, dear?

1-castrated bull.

1-udderly dominant cow

1-genuine registered cat-napper (of either gender) so that the bull will at least

   get to see what sleep looks like—even if he never actually gets to

   experience it. (Warranty void if cat is not awakened periodically so the

   bleary-eyed somnambullist can see what life looks like as well.)

 

Since interest rates on FHA loans* tend to fluctuate wildly between two polarized extremes  (her interest is fiduciary—his simply rhymes) prospective ranch owners should shop around for a rate of interest they can live with (if not each other) for a ‘good’ number of years. (Coincidentally, the precise definition of ‘good’ tends to fluctuate as well—rather frigidly at times—between two equally polarized ex-friends.)

 

*All loans come complete with 1-extremely hardbacked copy of Animal Farm by George Oh well! While suppliants last.

 

TRIAL AND ERROR.  Our modern system of jurisprudence in a nut’s hell.

 

Jurisprudence, the two ‘go’ together,

   As perversely as ‘man and wife,’

A most Awk!(see MORONIC) tether

   Of a like come-pairable strife

That is perfectly synonymous

   (And, too, if you’re not in a hurry

Is equally pseudonymous)

   With the ludicrous ‘trial by jury.’

 

But the coupling of ‘trial and error,’

   Which pair so compatible seem,

Man, they must be the work of The Pairer

   Who mated (sweet!) peaches and cream

Oh! nothing—what pair could be fairer?

   What coupling could ever be purer?

Especially when one sees that ‘error’s

   How the Law has always spelled ‘juror’;

 

Synonyms so unparadoxy,

   Which pair so doubly err,

Why, in all juris‘prudence,’ what oxy-

   moron could ever come-pair?

Man, each juror is such a dumb ox he

   Is the judging body do jur,

And when twelve form a body, what oxy-

   moron could ever so err?

 

URINATE, intr.v.  To do what a person does in those odd moments when he or she is not genuinely pissed about one thing or another.

 

VALEDICTION, n.  A common species of leave-taking (Seeya later!) such intimates as are exceptionally close to one another sooner or later become hopelessly addicted to uttering, typically one of the stock ‘goodbye’ edicts such as “See you around.” “I’m outa here!” “Hasta la vista, Baby!” or the dislike. So powerful is this universal addiction (so called because, having learned the hard way, one verses it but moments before the about-to-be devastated party has a chance to) that leave-takers  virtually always split without leaving any forward valedictory address other than “I’ll always be there if you need me”; “I just need a little space of my own”; and finally (when the one they want to split from just doesn’t want to let go) “Hey look, I gotta move on in life.”

 

One rehearses the valediction

With cold leave-taking conviction.

   One’s about to orate,

   But—oh God—too late!

One’s crushed (“Bye!”) their cruel malediction!

 

WEDDING DRESS.  A thousand dollar bill cleverly designed to resemble a woman’s wedding gown*. Said legal tender, or trousseau (in which everyone tells her she looks just grand) is customarily worn once for every thousand dollars up to its fool face value, then stored in a phew! scents worth of mothballs. This, in the time-honored fashion, has the general effect of totally inuring the groom-cum-financier-to-be (for whom the dress is really designed) to any and all such future extravagances, howsoever characteristic of a wife, till the death of them do part. Small wonder then that every fool-figured married woman considers it to be the best investment her father ever made. And of course he (mercifully relieved that another father figure is about to assume total fiscal responsibility for his precious liability) is quite certain it’s the grandest for-figure investment he ever made as well. As tradition calls for, the groom (typically a young buck) figures he neither looks nor feels anything close to grand.

 

*As found on quite the lowest of bargain racks. Realistically, every father figure can reasonably expect the grandiosity of it all to increase in direct proportion to the multiples of thousands he will fork out for the habit she has designs on wearing but wants. 

 

 

 

 

Until Satireday then.