Hunting The Yankee Waddler

Tags: deer season, duck season, Yankee Waddler, factotum, fearmongering, media, viral video, hysterics, gun control, jarvis

Hunting The Yankee Waddler
by Jolie Blond
03/21/01

Hysterics and fearmongering!
Hysterics and fearmongering!
The TV people
don’t want you to own a gun,
because if you look too closely
at the fall lineup,
you might be tempted to drive over to the station
and shoot them.

I saw this on the news tonight:
According to some wizard of statistics,
the number one cause of infant death
(in Maine or Massachusettes
or some other yankee state)
is the murder of their mothers.

Someone is running around
shooting pregnant women
on a grand scale.
Funny that I’m just now hearing this shit.

Deer season,
duck season,
first, second and third trimester
mother season:
doesn’t seem much sport
in shooting a slow-moving, big-breasted
yankee waddler.

This hysterical tidbit
on the tv news
was delivered with wide eyes and a solemn tone,
a ‘something must be done about this’ tone.

It seemed a thinly veiled
anti-gun propaganda thing to me,
but I could be wrong.

The overall feeling of the piece
was that if you owned a gun,
you were probably a baby killer.
Details at 11.

Tags: ragtopped, Mongoose, impeccable, gung foo, gangbanger, ho, hoes, big assed, crackheads, passing through, factotum, viral video, jarvis, prose, marquisdejolie, sheriff, glass pipe, crack, crack motel, tweeker

Holding Back A Big-Assed, Angry Tigress
by Jolie Blond
02/12/02

I heard screaming outside my crack motel room door
and poked my head out
and saw that seven or eight other motel inmates
had poked their heads out their doors,
not that screaming is so unusual here,
but being 4 in the afternoon,
it’s a little early for the crack motel screaming.

Down the hallway
past the locked swimming pool
that is used as nothing more than a giant, wet ashtray
past the courtyard
that is used quite often as a staging area for sheriff’s deputies
(and then later on as a gathering place for crackheads to share a glass pipe),
almost out in the parking lot
were two women screaming at each other,
their men holding them back from mutual combat.

The young, thin one was hopping around like a mongoose
as she screamed her insults at the older, fatter one with dayglo orange hair
trying, it looked to me, to find an open space between the barricading men
to land an overhead blow on the orange-haired lady.

The older lady’s big bubblebutt ass jiggled like jello
every time she stomped her foot down
and from forty feet away
I could see the mad dog saliva spraying from the older woman’s mouth
as she called the younger woman a ho.

You a ho.
No you a ho.
No you a ho, bitch.

The discourse was not particularly illuminating
as to why the women were fighting.

Then the younger woman’s man got into the argument
as the younger woman jumped back
and displayed several sweeping, mongoose, gung foo moves
she had apparently seen on TV,
one of them I recognized as ‘The Crane’ from "The Karate Kid."

She don’t have to be no ho, Mongoose’s man yelled,
I takes good care of my woman
she don’t have to work a lick if I don’t want her to,
we doing good, real good!

Then why you live in this dump you doing so good?
the older woman asked
and I thought the logic was impeccable,
unassailable,
but Mongoose’s man,
a sturdy-looking rag-topped brother
surprised me
when he shot right back
We jus passing through ch’ere,
but you’ll be hoing outta this motel come the next millennium.

Lord, gawd amighty!
I heard the older woman’s man exclaim
because I knew that he didn’t want to have to tangle with the ragtopped kid,
probably a gangbanger,
and I knew that he knew that if he didn’t
after THAT insult
that his orange haired woman
would make life hell for him for weeks to come.

The older man was puffy
and pot-bellied from too many years on the couch.
He was in no shape
to tangle with any hotheaded gangbangers today
or tomorrow,
or the next day,
but his salvation came at the whim of the mongoose woman
who twirled away on some half-remembered appointment
drawing her ragtopped man away with her,
leaving the old man metaphorically holding
the still-smoldering tail
of his dayglo orange-haired tigress.

Trying To Think In Russian About My Own Runaway Train

by Jolie Blond
02/09/02

Watching Andrew Tarchovski's art film,
a dark film,
in Russian, with English subtitles,
a film that looks like there was no money in the budget
for a light man,
a film about gray people standing around in the dark
talking about the virtues of grief
and the hopelessness of hope . . .
good grief, this movie is not film noir;
it's life noir.

Good grief.
This dark, hopeless Russian movie
makes my worst day of American homelessness
(the day in the stolen port-o-john,
the day of the attack of the property owners)
look in comparison
like a day at Disnetland high on X.

Can't figure out what the Russian fascination
with maudelin grief is all about,
of course, because I am an American,
a man of action, any action . . .
any action is better than standing around
yakking about grief,
an American:
I've got the optimism
of Jon Voight's 'Manny'
in "Runaway Train", who said,
"You do what you have to do,
I'll do what I have to do.
Whatever happens, happens."

You tell 'em, Manny,
tell those grieving, philosophizing Russians
how we do it in America,
with or without subtitles.

Where Will All The Vietnamese Cat Killers And Orange-Headed Crackheads Go?

by Jolie Blond
02/18/02

Construction workers arrived at the
vacant Voodoo Lot
next door to my crack motel
early this morning
to rebuild the emaciated chain link fence
that never succeeded
in keeping anyone out
or anything in.

Kimmee, the Arco manager,
tells me that the lot’s owner
(same guy who owns the adjoining Arco gas station)
has rented the lot out
to some construction company
that wants to park some tractors and equipment there.

Where will all the Vietnamese voodoohead
cat sacrificers and crackheads go
now that their habitat has gone the way of
the Spotted Owl and the Stripe-backed Frog?
How will the gods of Uru, Shasta
and that orange-haired crack dealer
be appeased?

Oh, I sense trouble
when they start parking
vehicles of industry
over the carcasses of crack pipes
and cats.

Measuring The Night In Sanctuary

by Jolie Blond
02/24/04

I am holed up
in my homeless veterans’ shelter dorm room
like a bank robber.

Here I sit
in my seedy warehouse district hideout
as if on the lam from the cops.

There should be the flashing neon lights
of an across-the-street all night diner
blinking into my fourth floor window,
but there’s not.

Across the street from my window
is a trucking warehouse
and a troubled teenager re-education center,
both highly fenced
and daylight-only concerns,
so there is no blinking neon
to measure the night for me.

There is also
no ever-present roommate
to measure the night for me here
any more.
No Ant
playing his beloved Civilization Playstation game
in between airings of The Simpsons,
muttering under his breath
that the Zulus
or the barbarians
or the Romans
were out to get him.

I spent a fair amount of time on the internet last night
looking at recent photos of the New Orleans Mardi Gras
trying to spot him in the crowds.

I know he’s down there somewhere,
having his New Orleans
hobo adventure . . .
and I could’ve gone, too,
leaving this Inglewood sanctuary
to add the New Orleans Mardi Gras
to my own long list
of hobo adventures . . .
but I’ve stayed behind
and now I must find new ways
to measure the night in sanctuary.