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This podcast is so important I recorded it on my phone.

My apologies to those I have yet to offend.

No apologies to those I have re-offended.

To those I have pre-arranged a future offense for, I await payment.

“Someone Else’s Memories” from the album “The Politics of Desire” by Revolution Void licensed under Creative Commons Attribution License 3.0.

Winner Winner! by Kevin MacLeod
Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/4630-winner-winner-
License: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license

Fuzzball Parade by Kevin MacLeod
Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/5044-fuzzball-parade
License: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license

Grateful acknowledgment thereof.

A notice from Mr Raffin regarding his availability at this time

Let’s face it if you’re here it means only one thing you were caught in a filter. And yes those filters are only there because we are surrounded by highway bandits. I know they don’t look like what you’re thinking of when you think about bandits. For one thing they don’t wear bandannas. Nobody transports money by train anymore. And bullion is just a soup. Like lentil vegetable. Or peanut brittle. Melted. And they don’t wear hats because hats went out of style my friend. Wide brim. Narrow brim. Stove top. Pork pie. Headband. Beanie. We’re in too deep.

Beep.

Remember, I am available to entertain at gala balls, union rallies, and nudist resorts. My material, as always, is high class, proletariat, and without shame. You will laugh so hard you tinkle in your pants. If that is appropriate attire in venue.

Writer crampout

And thus Mr. Doutry
Read all of us present
His sparkling poetry
Which he’d been composing
Four years.
And thus Mr. Doutry
Read all of us present
His sparkling poetry
And brought that whole room
Two tears.
Due to his station
they’d’ve given an ovation
But they’re awfully fond of
Sitting on their rears.
But it was a lovely reading
And now the evening is receding
And as they leave
They uncover their ears.
Cheers. Cheers.

Raise the barn

You are the third shiniest star. A dwarf planet. Seen by the naked eye. Warm. Body temperature, running hot. The ultimate coffee substitute. Rough grind. The only body double worth the trouble. Raise the barn. The intangible sparkle of champagne on a drunkard’s tongue, stimulating; The lime in the Jell-O, spiked; the stiffest police collar, hard; the bramble that produced the flower, presented; a dull nickel, undervalued; and surely that’s worth a quarter of a larger coin, if you are of the disposition. 


man in yellow protective suit

Photo by cottonbro 

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