Fiddling Bird : Pome Crush

Pal heard. Followed. The dalliance with the Franco-‘razzo that bloomed into nuptials. The cuffs at the border. Brief crash in the cooler. Pokey. Jugging in Texas. Plunked for the hay. That harris. No flutter bum — more a hub cap? She? Always Dolly. Radioactive.

Pal. Pa. The cube. Forevermore.

When the Pawn Hits the Conflicts He Thinks like a King What He Knows Throws the Blows When He Goes to the Fight and He’ll Win the Whole Thing ‘fore He Enters the Ring There’s No Body to Batter When Your Mind Is Your Might so When You Go Solo, You Hold Your Own Hand and Remember That Depth Is the Greatest of Heights and If You Know Where You Stand, Then You Know Where to Land and If You Fall It Won’t Matter, Cuz You’ll Know That You’re Right.


Plenty of middling quarterbacks in the league. Decent. Mediocre. Ordinary. Think … Chock full o’Nuts coffee.

Eli Manning is one of them — in spite of his two Super Bowl rings, and the portable peroxide playboy.

Kirk Cousins of Washington, another. Jay Cutler. Matt Ryan. Flacco.

Pal says the man who beds Olivia Munn (with Brady “in the weeds”) is the exception.

Learned some new tricks…

A video posted by Olivia Munn (@oliviamunn) on


Pal says buying the cap a year ago was funny. At the time, a goof. Now, who knows? He tells the clowns over and over, however, that more than anything he’s exhausted with “him”. The pork boy in the orange hat (which, in almost Matryoshka doll style is, itself, wearing that aforementioned red hat) he says, is annoying. A predictable villainous algorithm of a man. A child in the corner. Squawking. Without end.


“This guy picked up the guitar one day and for him, it felt like this fat fruit. A large citrus acorn, but in that axe form. And with the rind on it. Tough — not too tough. The outside layer. When you scrape it, you get that zest. But inside, was juice. He knew it, too. Just squeezed the shit outta it for years and years,” Pal said.

“Chuck Berry punched him in the face. Decked him. Took it. Look at his face now, you can see it. In between the crannies. Then he got arrested on LSD and thought the cops were dwarves in suits. So he tried to hug them. Got arrested. ‘Jumping Jack Flash’ was a gardener he knew. Jack Dyer. Think it was Redlands where he tilled and all that. The place with that roof. Moat, too.”


Pal thinks Madonna, in talking about how she got into music, *nails* what it’s like to be raised Catholic:

Because in Catholicism you are a born sinner and you’re a sinner all your life. No matter how you try to get away from it, the sin is within you all the time. It was this fear that haunted me; it taunted and pained me every moment. My music was probably the only distraction I had.

Crap Line/Pretty Girl

The clowns had Howard on when this aired and Pal couldn’t believe this “crap line”, as he called it, worked — eventually — on Wilde.

“The guy didn’t bag her with the this and the this. He threw her ego in the egg mixture, fried it. Cutlet. Drenched it in that stinky cheese. Turned her into Jessica Fletcher. She wanted to live on Cabot Cove.”


When Pal was younger, his pop’s buddy snuck them both down to the catacombs of the Meadowlands’ Brendan Byrne Arena during a Nets-Bulls regular season game. Two life-changing things took place in those tunnels that linked the locker rooms.

Mookie Blaylock defied the rest of the lowly Nets’ team and introduced himself AND Michael Jeffrey Jordan (*does the sign of the cross*) walked by him — mere inches away — on his return to the court for the beginning of the second half.

A few times a year, in the shop, Pal reminds the clowns about the experience, and how it wasn’t at all like seeing a normal person in person. It was almost … religious. Almost.

Funny, because over the weekend — while giving his Hall of Fame induction speech — Allen Iverson described his original encounter with MJ similarly.

In a rare fit of magnanimity, Pal said the former Georgetown Hoya did a superior job in articulating the “corona” that enveloped him.

Écno Yeb

Pal had four or five vodkas and Beyoncé came up. Must’ve felt loose and conversational because he laid it on thick.

“I’m not a fan of everyone’s girl, yeah? The world kisses her ass on a regular basis and like, methinks most of it is outta fear. What happens if you trash her? You get yer legs split? Zeus feeds you bolts? Don’t get it. She gets treated like she’s fugging Mandela and all she ever did was sing decent.”

Howard, Robin, Artie & Stevie

Pal has this one tabbed for all time. He says to give it up for Howard, because he’s hanging out with Stevie just calling out tunes and Stevie thinks the scene’s righteous enough to play along with it.

“He’s Stevie Wonder. He certainly didn’t have to if he didn’t wanna.”

Also, had to play this in full (you hear the snippet in the interview and are left with a robust desire to hear the whole thing):


According to the internet, prison wine is made from the following ingredients: fruit cocktail, candy, ketchup, sugar, milk, breadcrumbs and sometimes sauerkraut. Put it in a sock, run some hot water over it, and wait.

Or, read Jarvis Masters.



Pal can’t grasp. “There’s millions of people in this country who want to watch this guy, and, they won’t give him to ’em.”

One of the clowns brought up the part about the National Football League/Major League Baseball being — more or less — merit-based organizations. Pal put his hands atop his head and answered (very measured and steady, though) “go recite your fortune cookie bullshit somewhere else.”

Re: the Loud Juicy Citrus Horizon

Last Thursday Pal said he entered a fantasy league. Football. Said it was around the corner and that he didn’t know who the quarterback for the Rams was. We told him they moved from St. Louis to Los Angeles this season. He wasn’t aware, but said he wasn’t surprised. He hates their “red baseball team” and didn’t think much of the city itself. “If it were so great I would’ve been there already”, he told us.

We threw the name “Jared Goff” at him — the starting QB for Georgia Frontiere’s old team.

He shrugged and said he wanted a Snapple. Then left the shop.


Pal hates this. We know because he told us. He also mentioned, to the entire shop — the clowns, etc. — that he loves how much furious compassion and sympathy Jones has (or is acting like he has) for the fish people.

Gonna Need a Bigger Bowl

goldfish photo

You know what Irishmen say in Japan. Don’t flush the terlit, let the terlit flush you. The jacks.

Pal’s driving to Atlantic City at the moment. Said he found a coupon for a nighter when he was walking in the morning. Looked like a scratch-off that had already been scratched and tossed aside (a loser) but no one in the shop said a thing. Think we could all use a break from his “this and this” for at least a coupla days.

By the way, one of the clowns found this jumbo goldfish picture here. Said it was taken in Australia.



Pal said he’s seen a lot of PGA Tour pros, like Dustin Johnson, wear this color pant. When he said “pant” the clowns in the shop made him stop from going any further. Accused him of being a dilettante. Before one of them could finish piggybacking off the initial allegation Pal was already out the door. The whole place heard his golf spikes clatter the surrounding sidewalk cement.

Didn’t Feel Right [UPDATED]

Pal loved this Timothy Burke Deadspin piece on the burial of the long jump — a once primetime Olympic television appointment now represented by a couple minutes of highlights. Catharsis? Gutted.

Its significance lopped off like the promise of a fifty-first state.


It’s unfortunate that these spineless leeches are from New Jersey, but no matter. This video brings Pal’s already warm blood to a thick, bubbly simmer, and the shop got to hear all about it. At first, the clowns laughed, but stopped when Pal pumped the second track of New Miserable Experience over the system, and sang along.

Pal says that when you set out to make popular music, then wake up one afternoon years later and it’s made and out there but very few people give a shit about it, you become bitter and criticize those who accomplished this — what you couldn’t.

Pal went on:

“Walk into any bar with a jukebox. Find the thing. Throw a few nickels in there and then try and play a fucking ‘Cymbals Chew Music’ song or whatever the fuck. Yeah? Can’t right? Can’t find it. It won’t be in the damn machine. Blossoms though? I’ll cue up one of their numbers in the time it takes you sip.”

If only Pinfield subscribed to this szmata.

Pal Never Knew This

Pal read about these Italian scientists who found that spaghetti doesn’t make you fat, it’s eating too much of that … ?

He told the clowns in the shop it’s bullshit. He then brought it up hours later and added “pure” to the conclusion. “Pure bullshit.” He said he eats spaghetti and knows it makes him heavier. He said if he’s eating it, it’s because he craves the weight — the “power” — and can’t wait to throw it around.

When the clowns asked him if he knew why the hole was in the spoon he ignored the question, and immediately changed the subject. Brought up Kathy Ireland, of all people. He said she and the dog with the eye patch used to nip at one another’s heels.

Sea Food Differently

Pal brought up butter. The edible fatty stuff. He told the clowns that “milk must look up to butter like … ?”

“Let’s take a roadie. On the road. He sees Axl Rose — pretend this is the 80s, okay? He sees Axl and all he sees is a burlap sack full of diamonds. Only, the burlap ain’t burlap. It’s his skin. His bandana. Sunglasses.

“He’s the caterpillar. And Axl is the moth.”