SCROOGE

Yesterday's post was written by my fever; do not even try to understand it. Anyway, I return to you rich in all three seasons of DuckTales, the highly-regarded cartoon documentary about the rich duck who swims in money. Do you know him? My feeling for his stout and sturdy duck body approaches the erotic; this is especially true when he is wearing his miniature striped bathing suit. Let us examine the theme song lyrics, which are fine poetry:

Life is like a hurricane
Here in DUCK-BURG
Racecars, lasers, aeroplanes
It's a DUCK BLUR
Might solve a mystree
Or rewrite histree

DUCKTALES, aWOO-OO
Every day they're out there makin'
DUCKTALES, aWOO-OO
Tales of derring-do, bad and good luck tales

D-D-D-Danger lurks behind you
There's a stranger out to find you
What to do, just grab onto some

DUCKTALES, aWOO-OO
Every day they're out there makin'
DUCKTALES, aWOO-OO
Tales of derring-do, bad and good luck tales, aWOO-OO
Not ponytails or cottontails, no DUCKTALES! aWOO-OO!

Did you enjoy that? Here is a Money Bin for you, go swim in it!

There Was a Danger

In the airplane aimed at Indianapolis, I read the term “glide path” and thought, “Oh yes, one of those tracks that enables toy ducks to sail smoothly over the surface of toy lakes.” This is not what it means, and in fact, no such toy exists. Unaffected by my ignorance, the plane landed safely.

HOME

I'm up yesterday on RealPoetik, babies!

She Is Still a Person

I disappeared like a rabbit into a party-hole, and my journey lasted a week! This is all you need to know about it:






















Jealous? We set out to buy the most facially deformed piñata that currently existed in America. Mission accomplished, I think! It did not take us long to murder it and to gorge on its innardly candy, which was Rolos.

Golden Wavy Boy

Whenever I'm in a used bookstore, I check to see if they have any old Time Reading Program Special Editions lying around. In the sixties and seventies, Time put out a number of books with strange, nauseous, beautiful covers, many of which were designed by Leo and Diane Dillon. (Here's a great Locus interview.) The Dillons are a husband-wife illustration team who rose to prominence largely on the merits of the sci-fi covers they designed for Ace Specials back in the day (gallery #1, gallery #2); these covers earned them the 1971 Hugo. They later won back-to-back Caldecotts in 1976 and 1977 for their work on Why Mosquitoes Buzz in People's Ears and Ashanti to Zulu. I first encountered their art when I inadvertently stole a Time Edition of The Member of the Wedding from my high-school library when I was a teenager; its cover was a sort of thickly-textured seasick tapestry that I found completely mesmerizing. Anyway, today was a lucky day; I found their 1964 edition of H.M. Tomlinson's The Sea and the Jungle. The cover was designed by the Dillons and is comprised of four panels of a woodcut--that is, it appears to be; I'm not really sure how it was accomplished:

Isn't that nice? I'm obsessed with it. Here's a few more--I don't know if they were all designed by the Dillons, as information about these books is a bit lacking on the internet, but I believe a majority of them were: The Immense Journey; All the King's Men; Logbook for Grace; The Horse's Mouth; The Treasure of the Sierra Madre; A Coffin for King Charles; Poet's Choice; Notre-Dame de Paris; Mister Johnson; The Forest and the Sea; and The Natural--this last one appears in a blog post actually making fun of it.

It's So Much Worse Than That Piss Christ, Barry Blitt I Am ON TO YOU

The offensive cartoonist "Barry Blitt" is at it again, I see! His latest New Yorker cover depicts Barack Obama crouching in vague potty fashion while interviewing dogs,

while in the background, wait a minute, hold on, how can this be...

That is clearly Hitler. Note the moustache, the beady eye, the forelock that manifests in moments of high excitement--for what would be more exciting to Hitler than helping Barack Obama choose a dog? Perhaps only looking at facts about Berlin, as last week's New Yorker revealed:

Hitler's reading yields few new insights, and some of what Ryback dredges up is merely peculiar: between the pages of an early acquisition, a guidebook to Berlin, is "a wiry inch-long black hair that appears to be from a moustache."

My first thought was, "Naive reviewer, how did you manage to overlook the pubic truth?" The cartoon moustache that stared me in the face this morning, however, has repented me. Look at those tremendous facial pubics. May they hold a place in the book of your mind.