David Raffin

Sarcasm is poison, Friend

No honorable person has ever snickered. Chortling is unseemly. Tittering is obscene. Need I go on? – The war of words.

The end result of the war of words was different than previous wars. For in the end, all that was left were the grunts. 

All the highfalutin words fell. Shattered to syllables. They could not be put back together. Especially not by the king’s horses. What the hell was he thinking?

Neigh. 

A skilled humorist uses the sounds of laughter to muffle the screams. It’s a foundational skill. 

“The play was OK, I guess. It ended abruptly. I am afraid, other than that, it was not very memorable.” – Mary Todd Lincoln, answering a rude question.

Sarcasm is poisonous to the soul. 

I’m sorry I did not point this out sooner, many tragedies could’ve been prevented!

The fundamental problem with topical humor is that while the short shelf-life requires constant replenishment, the underlying situations never change. 

man in yellow protective suit
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Fascists sing out of tune

A song of the fascist insurgents
Who flow in like a stream
They ransacked the capital
Living that wild dream
Happy they are
Happy they be
What’s in the future?
Who can foresee?
In defense of lawn order
With jockey statuary to match
They got all tore up
In that dang briar patch!

Just like that bluebird of happiness
A purchase in the tree
Who sings that catchy song
Called “Woe is me! Woe is me!“

They sing like canaries
Trapped in a coal mine, it’s a living
And the stool pigeons back it
Because those bird brains there
Haven’t figured out it’s all a racket.

A feast of the unknown

Please enjoy this festive jingle, a little song set to the music of that other song about the feast of Stephen’s. And have a lovely new year.

— DavidRaffin.com —

John Wayne Gacy Was a clown
Who had a love of Chil-dren
What he charged For sir-vices
Was well within his Rea-son.
Considering his efforts great
He put forth every Sea-son
Morning, noon, and eS-pec’lly night
But Sundays off for grie-ving.
Hmm.
To keep your act Fresh These holi-days
Use citrus fresh de-greaser
In powder, li-quid or handy wipe
For any Gosh Darn rea-son.
Hmm.

Sleep tight. Clean thoughts.

What is. That is. What is.

Soren Kierkegaard was a great Dane. Once one knows this, philosophy can never be quite the same. It is true platonic philosophy never runs against the grain. However, wherever Heidegger lifted his leg he always left a nasty stain.
Friedrich Nietzsche cocked his head, as many mammals do, smiled and said, “That’s quite a refrain, I have written many good books too.” Jean Paul Sartre wandered out to ponder upon the city zoo. He was also interested, very, in what was what and whether or not it any of it was true.
“Who’s to say?” cried Ludwig Wittgenstein, “And-further who can know? The experience which each one gets when each does stub thine own toe?”
My experience with old Lao-Tze has more meaning than you could ever know. I sometimes cite his poetry whilst pissing in the snow.

The rise of biscuits

When I went to the grocery store
I didn’t come for biscuits.
In the aisle near the door,
there was biscuit on the floor.
And all over his mother screamed,
Removing her face mask
come what hell brings.
“Biscuit!” she shouted out loud
Sputtering her sputum
into that hot crowd.
“Biscuit!“ she did shout again
Because repetition to her
was no grievous sin.
“Mama!” Biscuit shouted in return
He ran through the store
Like a fever does burn.
I’m sorry I don’t know how
This story ends,
But I hope I survive
To come again.

Sticky buns

Buddha’s Own Nature

Walking, minding one’s own business, running into a figure asking for change.

Explaining one has no change, the figure suggested, “become the needed change in the world.”

One looked at the figure and realized it was the Buddha.

I don’t know why it took this long to see it, it was surely the Buddha.

Without any change.

Our Social Structure is Artifacting

persons hands with rainbow colors
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When I was young I learned about life from watching television. I thought when I grew up I would have an affair with my secretary. This is the grown-up thing to do. So much a part of socially accepted society, it becomes a popular in-joke around the office and at home. Almost always this results in a positive audience response.

I assume this situation is because something is lacking at home. Though on the surface it is hard to say what. It is a loving family, though my children don’t respect me, always trying to get the last word; and my wife seems to like nothing better than to milk any minor conflict for comedic purposes. Whenever I hurt myself, falling over an ottoman or walking into a glass door, people laugh. I smile to hide my hurt. Embarrassed and ashamed. 

man and woman drinking milkshake
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My affair becomes a running gag. This is why I keep bringing it up, and when I do people take a drink. A matter of small talk which comes up again and again. But I blame this on the fact that it is socially acceptable to say any outrageous thing these days, as long as the audience approves, and thus this behavior is reinforced through a complex social conditioning. This is why my kids crack wise. This is why no one respects me. This is why I am a laughing stock. Held up to ridicule. Robbed of my dignity.

And even my secretary. Always pestering me about my wife. When will I leave her? Don’t I know my wife doesn’t respect me? My children mock me behind my back, and worse? But now she sounds just like my wife.

And even my wife. Always pestering me about my secretary. When will I leave her? Don’t I know my secretary doesn’t respect me? My subordinates mock me behind my back, and worse? But now she sounds just like my secretary. Like bringing work home with you. So tiring.

And maybe it’s because we have separate beds. I never understood this. At night I read the latest issue of Playboy while she studies up on witchcraft and we make smalltalk about the Mars probe. That’s as intimate as we get. And I feel lucky when I can get it. 

My secretary I never get out of her nightgown. And it is often the same one. There is no color to it, maybe it is different, but I only experience color in my dreams. Like anyone.

adult art beauty black and white
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My best friend is named Harry and he is a pilot. He attracts women like a magnet. I go out drinking with him and he always makes me look weak. It’s like he has this whole other existence which I suspect is better than mine and in which I am a bit player. Someone they laugh about while in the cockpit. 

It’s that laughter which rings in my ears. I know they are laughing at me. The situations I get into and fail to get into. Even the circumstance. The situational setup. Existence itself. A misunderstanding. An artifice. 

After a few years, things will become routine. One can get used to anything. They say I am behind the times. A social artifact. Little do they know I always was. I know what I am. A social artifact. This is when Harry invites me to a beach to “Jump the shark.” There is a falling off of quality after that. The end will finally come, long after I long for it. I will be cancelled. People will say, is that still a thing? No. Please, change the channel. I beg you. 

the end text on tissue paper
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