http://thedailysatire.com Funny Spoof News, Social Satire, And Political Cartoons Tue, 07 Feb 2012 08:58:04 CST en http://thedailysatire.com/literary/book-review-nitt-witt-hill-by-sebastian-gibson/
Let me begin by saying what Nitt Witt Hill is and what it isn’t. It is not a heavyweight intellectual satire with cutting insights into the nature of society or political reality. It is a light-hearted, fun and easy to read novel with a funny line in pretty much every paragraph.

When I say that it’s not intellectual, I don’t mean that it isn’t intelligent. Although the whole story is given to you with a healthy dose of the absurd, you will find many of the big political players and movements of the day satirised in this book, and many readers will find the caricatures uncannily accurate. Also it does an excellent job of showing how ridiculous politics can be – by taking everything to the most extreme degree of ridiculousness – and of trying to inject just a little bit of common sense through its main character, who is often a lone voice of reason in an utterly insane world.

If you follow American politics then Nitt Witt Hill provides some timely light-relief from the serious issues of the day, bursting the bubbles of pomposity, self-importance and self-righteous outrage which so often surround these things. If you aren’t really that bothered about politics, you will keep reading to see whether bras really are to blame for all of America’s ills, and whether the women of America throw off their lacy shackles and free their breasts before the end of the book.

The story itself follows the adventures of an extraordinarily well connected political consultant and his groin sniffing companion (don’t worry – it’s a dog) as he tries to figure out what is wrong with America and what has been driving the country so crazy recently, and begins to discover that if it wasn’t bras, it may very well have been his fault.

Along the way he meets a whole host of characters, from political advisors to senators to bankers, who are disarmingly honest about the role they had to play in landing the country in its current mess. He uncovers conspiracies, accidentally becomes part of them, meets lots of drunken politicians, and generally tries to bring common sense where everything seems to be getting crazier and crazier by the minute.

Despite the constant threat of impending disaster and the collapse of civilisation which runs through the whole story, Nitt Will Hill is really a very positive book. The caricatures it paints, whilst making everyone look equally ridiculous, are never cruel, and its critique of American politics and culture is always given with whimsy and never with vitriol.

Ultimately that is probably the main message which Nitt Witt Hill conveys – that there is too much vitriol in the world already and that we all need to just step back and relax a bit. And with that message Nitt Witt Hill is the perfect antidote to 2012 election fever, and is bound to be the satirical novel of the year.

About The Author: Just go to his twitter profile and find out for yourself: @sebastianstuff

Look out for an upcoming giveaway on The Daily Satire to get a free copy of Nitt Witt Hill!
]]> Tue, 07 Feb 2012 08:58:04 CST TheDailyShadow Literary Satire 2 http://thedailysatire.com/literary/book-review-nitt-witt-hill-by-sebastian-gibson/ http://thedailysatire.com/literary/dickens-biographers-%E2%80%98lack-ability-to-understand-modern-children%E2%80%99/
With their ability to use tablets, smartphones and interactive TVs, children today are used to consuming several different types of media at once.

But while some children have managed to sit through most of ‘The Muppets Christmas Carol’ or have seen the Victorian writer appear in Doctor Who, fewer than 10% of Dickens biographers can describe what happened in the last series of Tracy Beaker.

Parents who have seen costume dramas about Dickens’ novels have some sympathy for their children. “We got guilt-tripped into buying Oscar the complete works of Shakespeare last term”, admitted mum Julie Francis.

“When we saw how big they were, we got our son to stick them straight back on eBay. No one should be forced to read anything thicker than Heat magazine.”

Francis tried forcing her son to read old books that English professors insist are more important than new ones. “Oscar tried thumbing through a couple of pages, but it was all ‘thousts’, ‘prithees’ and ‘lorksalordies’. It was almost as if the entire English language had moved on and left these relics behind, preserved for the sole purpose of elitist bullying.”

Children have offered to help Dickens biographers read something less than 200 years old, and have set up a charity to support people who have wasted their lives insisting the books they like are really important.

“Just £89 can buy a Kindle for a Dickens biographer, which could introduce them to books written since the 1800s”, explained 11 year-old Isaac Marshall.

“If we can persuade just one patronising book nazi to enjoy a bit of Harry Potter, then our work will have been a success. The next stage will be to get them to sit through a film, without claiming the book it’s based on is much- ooh, look! A squirrel!”



]]> Mon, 06 Feb 2012 09:28:32 CST Imp Literary Satire 2 http://thedailysatire.com/literary/dickens-biographers-%E2%80%98lack-ability-to-understand-modern-children%E2%80%99/ http://thedailysatire.com/literary/chinglish-found-in-translation-1/ Book Review

This book is funny, but it is also thoughtful, educational, and much more affectionate than you might think.

Basically it is a book full of funny examples of Chinglish - that strange Chinese version of the English language which occurs when the Chinese try to translate things from their own language into english. Mainly this happens when signs and public notices are translated for the benefit of tourists, and it can be pretty funny. Of course making a book about all these funny mistakes does involve poking fun at the people who wrote them, to an extent, but this book also includes many endearing examples, and features lots of commentary explaining where the mistakes arise from, which ultimately provides a great introduction to Chinese culture and language at the same time as providing a constant stream of laughs. ]]> Sun, 16 Oct 2011 06:43:11 CDT TheDailyShadow Literary Satire 3 http://thedailysatire.com/literary/chinglish-found-in-translation-1/ http://thedailysatire.com/literary/best-baby-satires-out-now-save-20/
Featuring the winners and best runners up from our short story writing competition, plus more, this 18 story anthology is sure to keep you laughing for hours.

With loads of thought provoking and witty social satire, some great spoofs / parodies, and a healthy dose of silliness, we are sure that this book presents the best collection of satirical short stories that you can buy.

Head on over to the Lulu website, who we have partnered with for our launch, and you can get a 20% discount on Best Baby Satires right now, but move fast because the discount is only a temporary giveaway to celebrate the launch of our first ever print publication!

And if you have a Kindle reader, or an iPad, or some other fancy piece of technology that you like to read ebooks on - then keep an eye out here cos we are planning releases for these formats very soon! ]]> Sat, 10 Sep 2011 14:26:30 CDT admin Literary Satire 1 http://thedailysatire.com/literary/best-baby-satires-out-now-save-20/ http://thedailysatire.com/literary/simply-idiotic-1/ A Short Story By G.S.Vasu Kumar

Once upon a time, in a tiny village in India, there lived Bholaram, the peasant and his wife, Seedhi. They were really simple-Minded.

“Oh! We seem to have overslept today. Has the sun risen ?” asked Seedhi, yawning.

“Wait! I’ll go and ask our neighbours.” Bholaram said.

Somehow, despite their foolishness, they managed to carry on. One fine day: -

“Dear Husband, we’re going to have a baby.” Seedhi said.

“Really? what kind ?” he asked.

“Er…I don’t know.” She said, scratching her head.

“Stupid woman! We should find out.” He said, annoyed.

Bholaram decided to consult a sage who lived in the forest. So, he went to the forest and reached the cave, in which the sage was meditating.

Ah! There he is meditating in his cave, He thought.

Bholaram bowed deeply before the sage and asked: -

“Tell me, o wise one, what kind of baby my wife is going to have?”

But the sage instead of replying, just closed his eyes for a long time:-

Has he gone to sleep or what? thought Bholaram.

“Hmmm!” murmured the sage, “you wife will give birth to a boy or a girl.” He replied, still in closed eyes.

“Oh! Thank You! You’ve solved our problem.” cried Bholaram, overjoyed and he rushed home pleased.

After a few weeks later, his wife gave birth to a baby, then: -

“Ah! A baby boy !” cried his wife.

“How right the sage was!” cried Bholaram.

“But, what should we name the baby ?” she asked, with puzzled look on her face.

“It is such an important decision! I must ask the sage about it.” Bholaram replied.

So, off he went to the forest once again to consult the sage. Then: -

“Tell me a name for my child, o wise one.” He asked, bowing before the sage.

“Come close! I’ll put it in your hand.” The sage said.

Bholaram stretched out his cupped hands to the sage’s mouth-

“Close your hands and run home quick!” The sage said.

“Yes, yes, I must not lose it!” cried Bholaram.

As he ran back Bhola saw some farmers tilling their fields.

“Why are you running?” asked one of the farmers.

“I’ve got it! I have got my son’s name!” he cried.

As he looked up to answer them, he tripped and fell down on the ground. Then :-

“I’ve lost it! I’ve lost it! It’s your entire fault!” he cried.

“Come on, we’ll help you to find it.” One of the farmers said coming towards him.

“What did it look like?” asked the other farmer, coming towards him.

“How do I know?” he said, “I didn’t see it.”

“Anyway, let’s search.” The third farmer said, coming towards them.

So it was that the five men were groping on all fours on the road. Just then a wise old woman happened to pass that way, then:-

“What are you looking for ?” she asked, looking at them curiously.

“His son’s name,” One of the farmers replied, lifting his head up and looking at her.

“Name? What did it like?” she asked.

“We don’t know?” said the other farmer.

“All we know is that it was in my hand and got lost when I fell down.” Bholaram said.

“Hah! It’s simply idiotic!” cried the old lady, laughing and went away.

“Thank you!” cried Bholaram, pleased.

And that is how Bholaram and Seedhi’ s son came to acquire his name.

“Simply Idiotic ! come and have your lunch!” cried his mother, Seedhi from the kitchen.

“Yes, Mama.” He cried from outside.

The End
]]> Thu, 25 Aug 2011 04:13:04 CDT gsvasukumar Literary Satire 3 http://thedailysatire.com/literary/simply-idiotic-1/ http://thedailysatire.com/literary/david-scott-tv-star/
David Scott pointed his Aston Martin DB9 into the TV18 studio car park. He could have easily taken the car that was normally sent for him in the early hours of the morning to appear in the studio for his early breakfast show.

He smirked whilst manoeuvring into his allotted VIP slot in the underground staff car park as he knew that his car was so very much better than the CEO’s and way better than what his nemesis Michael Noudle on the other main channel’s rival programme.

By driving his car in he would be able to impress Hilary Linley the film star that was appearing on his programme that morning as she had agreed to go out to breakfast with him after the show and he would drive then to the specially booked restaurant.

Hilary Linley was a beautiful film star direct from Hollywood who was appearing to talk about her latest released movie and then spending a few extra days in New Zealand to relax.

It was said that she could be difficult and a bit of a diva, but he, David Scott was the cool and very experienced man who knew how to tame women.

He entered the building through the VIP entrance, this door was especially allocated to him, and not even his co-host Lena Parker had access to this entrance.

David Scott entered the dressing room where his make-up artist and assistant awaited his presence ready to prepare him for the day with make-up and notes.
The two minions preened and prepared him, making him look especially gorgeous as he had requested with Hilary Linley attending today.

He received his call to enter the studio and having been prepared with his mic, he entered with a last minute puff of powder to his forehead.

The show began and he turned on the charm, the two previous minions had now disappeared to have a quick breakfast before they completed the next VIP; Miss Linley.

Lena Parker smiled her way through the broadcast yet again, despite each time the camera was not on her she looked quite miserable.

David Scott knew he was ‘the star’ and played on this, he got each and every camera angle he wanted, even though Lena was the prettier of the two.

The news was read by Chris Mann who delivered the news with a face of serious intent. He covered the recent storm damage around the country, the dollar sinking lower against the greenback, a protest about climate change and intellectually handicapped kids on an arts project and then began the tie up.

David Scott made a quip about the lowly individual who had been interviewed about their protest on climate change and they all duly laughed on cue.

Throughout the programme Lena carried on smiling at the same time as wishing him dead, she did not miss a beat though. David Scott when not in shot sat back bored and contemptuous but when the camera was on him he presented himself as the worldly and disarming guy the wanted the public to see.

In his earpiece the producer now told him that Hilary had arrived and at the very first opportunity; during an ad break he ran out of the studio.

He swaggered to the dressing room allocated to the film star and knocked on the door. The door was opened promptly by a studio assistant prepared to get rid of the intruder but on seeing it was David Scott opened the door wide to him.

Hilary Linley looked as good as she did on the big screen, the most perfect figure; slender waist, big breasts and oh- so long legs, her long brown hair was cut to frame her beautiful glowing face. David Scott thought ‘what more could a man want?’

On first sight she saw a middle-aged, reasonably dressed man, pale and possibly interesting but most striking was his behaviour; he appeared to be like a puppy with its tongue hanging out and talking non-stop.

David Scott introduced himself; she was wary of him so stood back and proffered a handshake. He had wanted to at least (what more may come later) kiss her on the cheek, but she stiffened her arm so as to keep him at that manageable distance.

He had to run now back to the studio and reminded her of the arranged breakfast. She frowned, but she would keep to her word.

During her interview with him he smirked and primped himself. He laughed uproariously when she said anything remotely funny. He felt he was in his element although missing a few puzzled brows around the studio.

Miss Linley was gracious and complied with the pre-set questions and when he finally signed off he could hardly wait to whisk her away.

Driving along the beach front he pointed out the luxurious place they were to eat breakfast, set on the edge of the beach surrounded by palms, overlooking golden sand and the blue ocean he knew she would be impressed. Only the very rich came here.

They ate their breakfast with David Scott exemplifying his career to her in glowing terms and when she spoke it appeared he hung onto her every word whereas really he was thinking how he could get more out of this date.

His passion for money via his career must surely be boosted if he too could get some contacts in Hollywood and as for the sex; well he was ready and willing.

She spoke of her son who had come over with her to travel a little around the country, she spoke of her charity work and where her career was going in the movie world.

Finally they drank the last of their rooiboss tea and finished the egg white omelette when she settled back into her chair, relaxing he thought into his clammy clutches.

A small noise made them peer through the greenery display in the restaurant where they could see a young man pushing an unwieldy wheelchair with an equally unwieldy child, David Scott’s lip curled.

He could see them now trying to get into the restaurant itself and there appeared to be some problem with the front of house staff not letting them in.

The child hands were deformed and stiffened and was trying to reach up to his face, his eyes rolled in his head and the dribble was running down from his mouth.

‘Eugh,’ said David Scott “Those kind of people shouldn’t be allowed in here! They should be sent off to McDonalds.’

Miss Linley nodded enthusiastically, ‘I agree’ she said and began to stand up, he was pleased with himself, his score tally was getting higher and higher he thought.

“I’ll be off then”, she said turning from his puzzled face. David Scott thought she’d be coming with him.

She walked towards the child in the wheelchair and bent to kiss him, and then taking over the control of the chair she pushed it to the reception and asked loudly for a taxi to take her and her son to McDonalds.

David Scott left alone.

END. 1187 words.
]]> Wed, 10 Aug 2011 20:29:25 CDT juhar Literary Satire 4 http://thedailysatire.com/literary/david-scott-tv-star/ http://thedailysatire.com/literary/remembrances-of-things-that-happened-to-me-at-an-earlier-time-in-my-life-a-memoir-1/

by Cliff Parnell




***

…I recall with great clarity the Blizzard of '78. I was fourteen, full of the hopes and dreams of youth, and eagerly anticipating the lifetime of experiences that I sensed was waiting for me, patiently yet ambiguously, in the lifetime that awaited me. I was young, yes, but I was also immature and inexperienced, in an innocent and underdeveloped sort of way.

As the snow fell, inexorably and incessantly, seemingly with no end, I rose from my bed, like Phoenix from the ashes of Arizona, and wiped the dried saliva from the crusty edges of my mouth. My dog, Blizzard, lay at my feet, his cold, motionless body rigid yet lifelike, like a Republican. The pungent smell of a hearty breakfast wafted up the stairs from the kitchen, where Mom hovered by the stove, singing TV themes and college fight songs, as she did every day during my youth.

Dad was gone by then, of course, which made me very sad. I thought of him often, his absence a constant, palpable ache, like a recurrent blow to the head with a flat piece of wood. Mom would do her best to comfort me, with a reassuring, “Don’t worry, son. First shift gets out at 3.”

I dressed quickly, yet smartly: lambs wool sweater, slim-fit jeans, chenille scarf with embroidered accents. There was much to be done…


***

…In those days, the milkman would leave his bottles in a metal box by our front door. I remember how the snow would pile up on top of that box, little by little, until it formed a pyramid like those of ancient Egypt, only much smaller. By the time he came back out of the house, the milk would be frozen into large ice shapes made of milk, formed in the shape of a bottle. As I waited by the door, I would once again regret not putting on my shoes, or a woolen hat, before his truck pulled up.


As the emerging sun began to melt my brother Tom, Mom would pack me a lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches, tossed salad with a zesty vinaigrette, and fruit punch, and I would head off to the neighbor’s yard to shovel off Mr. Hannity. Later, when the sun had begun its steady descent behind the munitions factory, I would head for home, satisfied that I had put in an honest day, but keenly aware that I could not feel my face.

By then, Dad was home, and the house was filled with the familiar smells of oak, cheese, currants, freshly-cut grass, Pine-Sol, whipping cream, hand lotion, scabs, mushrooms, and milk. Mom looked lovely in her clothes, and Tom was leaning against a wall. A feeling of warmth, of security and comfort, washed over me, as I ran to the bathroom…


***

…When I was seventeen, my family drove cross-country in a station wagon. It was myself, my Mom, my Dad, my brother Tom, and my sister (I believe her name was Mary). It was fun, mostly, but there were also alternating periods of boredom, frustration, fear, uncertainty, nausea, awkwardness, self-doubt, self-loathing, loathing, paranoia, more awkwardness, and then fear again. Dad drove the car, and Mom sat next to him in the front seat. Dad was a good driver, in both forward and reverse gears. He made good use of his side-view mirrors, even the one on the passenger side, which I have always thought is a grossly underutilized driving aid. He was also a strict proponent of the “10 o’clock and 2 o’clock” rule, which to this day I still try to follow, at those exact times every day. Tom, Mary and I sat in the back seat. We put our luggage in the “way-back,” as we called it, although, regrettably, we also put some of our luggage on the roof.

We saw many interesting things along the way, and stopped the car to look at several of them. My favorites were the Golden Gate Bridge, and trees. Tom’s favorites were gas stations with clean bathrooms. Dad swore at us a lot, and Mom did not seem to enjoy the trip much at all, and when we finally arrived back home, Dad got his own house. We lived mostly with Mom from then on, although we visited Dad every other weekend and every third Tuesday. Mom developed a moderate drinking problem, and twice was arrested for calling Dad’s girlfriend too many times in the same night. Tom started speaking again after several months.

I don’t really know what became of Mary…


***

…When I was five, the doctors told my mother that I was somewhat tall for my age. Mom took the news well, I remember thinking at the time, and she never let it affect my upbringing…


***

…As a sophomore in college, I experimented, as did many of my peers, with mind-altering chemicals which we, in our youthful frivolity, had hoped would alter the normal state of our minds. At the small, Midwestern military cooking school that my high school guidance counselor, Suzanne Somers, had strongly recommended (she had read a favorable article about it in the U.S. News and World Report), we did not have access to all of the popular drugs then in vogue at the more urbane private schools attended by what my mother liked to refer to as “the kids who are much smarter than you.” Instead, we dabbled in some of the lesser known and therefore more readily available substances, which we found we could “score” with little fear of reprisal from the nuns who patrolled the hallways of our dorms. I remember one “trip,” as we liked to call these adventures, when I ate two and a half shiitake mushrooms and cannonballed half a glass of saline solution. I swore off all forms of fungus and contact lens cleaners that night, as I kneeled before the “Porcelain Princess”, who, I can assure you, did not appreciate me vomiting all over her…


***

…At the age of seven, I asked my mother if I could take figure-skating lessons. She was very supportive, but my father, in a fit of rage, insisted on equestrian…


***

…My father’s older brother, Gerald, fancied himself something of an inventor, although to my knowledge he never had anything patented. He specialized in kitchen gadgets and general household time-savers, with an emphasis on food preparation. One of his favorites, which he gave us every year as a Christmas gift, even after my mother asked him to stop, was a gadget designed to remove the little stickers from fruit without breaking the skin of the fruit. For example, this gadget (I don’t think he ever gave it a name, which I suspect hurt its marketability), would, at least in theory, peel the sticker off of a peach without tearing or ripping the skin of the peach. Similarly, it would have, if it had ever been perfected, taken the sticker off of a tomato, again without tearing the skin of the tomato, which, in fairness to Gerald, is very thin and tears easily…


***

…I am told that I was named after my maternal grandfather, Herbert Scott “Randy” Farnsworth, whom everybody in the family called “Steve,” and whose friends all called “Todd.” I have vivid memories of him visiting us on holidays and regaling us with war stories at the dinner table. It didn’t matter to us that none of the stories were true; we weren’t really listening. He was a cruel, thoughtless man who never liked children, and who admittedly preferred the company of railroad men and dance hall girls. We called him “Grandpoppy,” and made a game of tying his shoelaces together as he dozed in our living room. Grandpoppy hated us, and tried to kill us on several occasions…


***

…One hot summer’s day, in the autumn of my sixteenth year, my father announced that it was time for him to teach my brother Tom and me to fire a gun. It was, he told us as he hung his apron on the hook by the stove, a “rite of passage into manhood.” Dad did not own his own gun, and in fact had never fired one before. He took us out back, and taught us to hold our hands in such a way as to resemble a pistol, with our thumbs raised and our index fingers extended toward our target, which was in fact a souvenir dish Mom had bought at the gift shop at Knott’s Berry Farm. It took some time for us to obtain the proper firing sound, which Dad insisted was more of a “bang” than a “pop.” Tom caught on faster than I, but then he always had a greater aptitude for things of a military nature (more on that later). The souvenir plate from Knott’s Berry Farm, fortunately, emerged unscathed…


***

…My first girlfriend, or the person to whom I liked to refer as my girlfriend, was a shy and exceptionally slow-witted girl who sat next to me in eighth-grade spelling class. Her name was Mary Tyler Moore, and she had auburn hair, pale blue eyes, and webbed fingers. She also was missing part of the lobe on her left ear, had an extra toe on each foot, and could not pronounce words with a double “L” in them. She was allergic to latex, and therefore had much difficulty blowing up balloons. She ate raw lentils for lunch everyday, and voided every forty-five minutes. She lived in a second-floor apartment above the laundromat owned by her father, where she worked every day after school, making change. Her bedroom was decorated with posters of popular singers and movie actors of the day, although it was difficult to make out their faces, as she kept her curtains drawn most nights…


***

…I studied diligently in college, and upon graduation commenced a thorough employment search. My first job was in the plus-sized ladies delicates department at J.C. Penney…


***

…My Aunt Flora (my mother’s younger sister) was in the publishing business. In those days, the publisher filled many roles: publisher, editor, copy editor, writer, reporter, writer-reporter, printer, assistant editor, co-editor, co-publisher, engineer, conductor, male nurse, and assistant to the printer. Although she loved to write, and was an excellent typist, she eventually was forced to limit her publication to an annual edition, which deprived her loyal readers of exposure to her vast talents, but which also managed to create a sense of anticipation and an acutely heightened interest among those loyal readers, whose anticipation and heightened interest were duly rewarded when they finally received their annual edition of Aunt Flora’s publication each year.

It seems, in my memory, that the publication would arrive by mail around the holidays, and would be accompanied by a brief missive, wishing her readers a happy holiday and a healthy new year. The missive would be adorned with a colorful yet secular rendering of a holiday scene, and my mother would place it on the mantel, where it would remain until she later took it down.

The publication itself would be filled with short stories and humorous anecdotes, primarily about herself and her children, which typically would fill sixty or seventy pages, and which we never seemed able to finish before my father threw it out…


***

…I regret that I did not get to know my father as well as I would have liked. He died at the age of fifty-eight, an age which at the time seemed to me much too young for someone who would not get to live any longer. We hadn’t seen much of each other in the last few years of his life, my mother having insisted on a strict enforcement of the visitation schedule arranged by the lawyers, and Dad (to my considerable bewilderment) never having raised the point that my brother Tom and I were by then well into our thirties.

After my parents’ divorce, my father seemed, by all appearances, to have lived a lonesome, cheerless life of transiency. For the first few years, Tom would receive the occasional postcard from various dismal-sounding locales: St. Maarten, St. Bart, St. Croix, Las Vegas, Florida, Europe. Tom would sometimes let me look at the cards, and Mom would lovingly support my theory that mine were most likely lost in the post: “Yeah, I’m sure that’s it, Clifford.”

For my twenty-first birthday, Tom received a money order for one hundred dollars, and an autographed picture of my Dad with Walter Mondale, which appeared to have been taken on board a motor yacht off the southern coast of France. I tried to make out the inscription, but Tom stepped on my neck before I could wrestle it from his grip…


***

…I believe I may have mentioned that my brother Tom enjoyed a pronounced advantage over me when it came to things of a military nature. Accordingly, he was eager to serve our nation when Saddam Hussein invaded Canada in 1991. Since he was medically ineligible to enlist (he was born without any knuckles on his left hand), he chose instead to serve, as many patriots have in our nation’s history, in the clandestine world of “propaganda.” With so many years having passed (he had sworn me to secrecy at the time), I feel comfortable in assuming that I breach no obligation of homeland security when I now disclose Tom’s true role in what has since come to be known as the “Golf War.”

Although it was never publicized in the mainstream media at the time, Saddam Hussein was, in fact, an avid golfer. He played to a two-handicap, had a deadly accurate short game, but tended to push his long irons to the right whenever he over-swung. Tom’s role, in the plan brilliantly devised by his friend, mentor, and co-worker at the Gap, Bob Newhart, (a plan at once devious in its subtlety and beguiling in its futility), was to surreptitiously replace Saddam’s favorite brand of golf tee with a remarkably accurate counterfeit, ingeniously inscribed with a variety of subliminally morale-deflating messages: “Keep your left elbow bent through your backswing,” “Lift your head at impact,” “Swing harder, Saddam, much harder” and “Go back to Iran, Saddam, you’re not welcome here in Canada.”

My brother never spoke much about his role in the War, but it is said that General Norman Schwarzkopf, Jr., to this day, secretly credits Tom and his friend, Bob Newhart, for saving North America from the invading Huns. And it was no coincidence, I’m sure, that Saddam failed in his repeated attempts to qualify for the PGA Tour…


***

…My first foray into the merciless world of politics came in 1994, when I ran unsuccessfully for the congressional seat then held by Newt Gingrich, in Georgia’s sixth district. I had never been to Georgia before, and in retrospect that may have damaged my chances, but I was ambitious and passionate, and somewhat injudicious. Gingrich was a formidable opponent, and seemed well-versed in the law and in all things related to laws and documents and other official things.

He was, however, also a shrewd and calculating foe who would stop at nothing to protect his place in the imperial monarchy established so long ago by our founding fathers. He will deny it to this day, of course, if he is ever asked, but I am resolute in my conviction that he stole from me the idea of the “Contract for America.” He modified it, perhaps, enough to distinguish it, in form as well as substance, from my version, but there is no mistaking its fundamental origins. I had given mine a more populist title: “A List Of Things Which I Would Like To Do If I Am Elected And Which I Am Sure The People Would Like As Well,” but the basic idea was the same, or at least similar. Its underlying principle was the elimination of all taxes, and the institution in their place of a fee to be charged for the use of all public restrooms: $5,000.00 to check your make-up or hair, $10,000.00 for number one, $15,000.00 for number two, and $30,000.00 to rendezvous with a British pop singer or Republican senator.

Gingrich scoffed at my proposals, when I reached over the security ropes at a campaign rally and tossed my papers at him. In the general election, I lost badly, a result more directly related, I maintain, to the fact that my name had systematically been erased from every ballot than to the numerous restraining orders that prevented me from coming within a half-mile of any polling place…


***

…At an early age, I realized that I had a deeply-rooted and intractable aversion to canned vegetables…


***

…When my mother died, after a long and painful battle with chronic acid reflux (which she managed to overcome only after a succession of surreptitious trips to Juarez, Mexico for unorthodox treatment by a dyslexic Franciscan monk named Hervé Villechaize) followed by a shorter, but no less life-threatening bout with malaria (which she contracted during an ill-advised trip to the Belgian Congo with her book club), and then a brief attack of whooping cough, and successive dalliances with the Spanish flu, tuberculosis, scurvy, the grippe, cholera, and polio (she ultimately succumbed to a stray unexploded firework shell at the Fourth of July celebration on Coney Island), my brother Tom and I bore our grief in starkly contrasting manifestations. I was dumbstruck, and could not leave the house for hours. Tom was, as always, the valiant one; he handled all of the legal matters involved in settling her estate: arranging for the sale of the family homestead, opening the necessary bank accounts into which he deposited all of the proceeds from the liquidation of her assets (thoughtfully sparing me the details of that dreadful process, including the name of the bank, and the country to which he diverted all of the life insurance proceeds), and, finally, arranging for my institutionalization…


***

…My brother Tom had, at the relatively advanced age of thirty-eight, taken a wife, as well as two young children, from an unattended minivan in a Taco Bell parking lot, and moved to Springfield. Knowing that there were several cities of that name, I eventually narrowed it down to either Missouri or Illinois. I worried, initially, that these developments would have a chilling effect on our fraternal bond, and I made a determined, if somewhat obsessive, effort to maintain a relationship, or at least a correspondence, with my sibling. I received little help in this regard from our mother, who, by then, had suffered an early onset of dementia, which had considerably impaired her short-term memory and cognitive abilities. She also had obtained an unpublished telephone number.

Tom’s wife was a shrewish woman, with closely-set eyes, bowed legs, and poor penmanship, prone to extended periods of debilitating depression and occasional episodes of adult language and intense violence. Her name was Nora, or perhaps Cynthia. Tom had met her at a self-improvement seminar at the Holiday Inn by the airport, a three-hour program featuring Tony Robbins, Tony Danza, Tony Bennett, Carol Burnett, Tim Conway and Lyle Waggoner. The details of her past were then, and yet remain, quite sketchy: brief stints with the Navy Seals and the CIA, a profitable but ill-fated run on Wall Street, followed by three to five years in federal detention.

After a mysterious two- or three-year gap wherein she appeared to fall off the proverbial grid, she resurfaced in Vegas doing three sold-out shows a night at the Flamingo. When she ensnared my brother Tom, she was working as a fold-out bed at the 34th street Y, and moonlighting as Bob Saget in the off-off-Broadway production of “Full House- The Musical: C.J. Takes a Lover.” There were, as I mentioned, two children, who, at the ages of 9 and 11, respectively, had yet to master the art of polite conversation, or eating with utensils. Nonetheless, my brother Tom was irreversibly smitten…


***

…My occasional flirtations with various organized religions have been well-documented, most notably in the psychiatric profile filed by my brother Tom in conjunction with his application to have me committed, against my considerable will, to a purported mental health facility run most inhospitably by a wholly-owned subsidiary of the National Rifle Association…


***


…I don’t remember 2003…


***

… The genesis of Merv Griffin’s ill-feelings toward me appears to be an interview I gave to Mike Douglas shortly after my first novel, Gone With The Wind, was picked up by Warner Brothers for production as a major motion picture starring Henry Winkler as Rhett Butler and Joey Heatherton as Eleanor Roosevelt. Merv, it seems, took umbrage at the fact that I had ignored his advice to cast his friend Connie Stevens in the role of Angie Dickinson. He would send me the most vile, obscene and hateful (albeit very well-written) e-mail messages, which I immediately turned over to Al Gore for prosecution. I am told that the investigation remains on-going…


***

…In my later years, when I was considerably older than I once had been, I developed a penchant for, or more accurately, a deviant obsession, bordering on the psychotic, with all things related to Mary Kay Cosmetics. I could say that it derived from a boyhood memory of my mother, or some similar nostalgic pleasure, but simply put, I liked the way they made me smell...


***

…In the winter of 1997, I was vacationing as usual in a quaint, secluded village three kilometers southeast of Trenton, New Jersey. My oceanfront villa looked out on the mountainous plains of the Serengeti. My Sherpa for this particular adventure was a delightful Puerto Rican lady with a very Hispanic-sounding name. She spoke an exotic, intoxicating language which I eventually identified as Spanish. She would come to my room each day, and diligently attend to her duties. When she had finished, she would wheel her cart silently down the hall to the next room. I will never forget her, although at the moment I cannot recall her name or her face or anything else about her.

After breakfast one day, I decided to spend some time relaxing in a chaise lounge in the shade of the maintenance shed, next to the parking lot. So I filled a large plastic bag with things I thought I might need: a chaise lounge, sunscreen, napkins, bug spray, a fur-lined parka (it being the winter of 1997), and raisins. I had just opened the latest issue of “Guns and Ammo” when I was approached by a young boy toting an aluminum baseball bat. He had forgotten to wear a belt that day, and his pants had slipped down to a point much lower than where I like to wear my slacks, and his baseball cap was askew. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, he struck me several times about the head with his bat (which, I can assure you, I was not expecting), and I quickly lost consciousness.

When I awoke, he was gone, as were my chaise lounge, my fur-lined parka, and my slacks. Fortuitously, he had left behind the raisins…


***

...I have fond memories of the Hurricane of ’38. My grandmother (before she died) would take us down to Fenwick every Tuesday and Friday to greet the sailors as they returned from their journeys through the Great Lakes. We would wave to Miss Hepburn as we walked through her backyard and picked flowers. She would yell something we could not quite hear, and then my grandmother would call her a funny name. The men folk in town are lined up at her backdoor, Grandma would always say. Apparently, everyone loved her.

In the summer of ’38, I was bathing in the salt pond with my sister (we were both in high school by then, so it was perfectly acceptable), when the big storm hit. I remember people running, and saying things, and there was a great deal of complaining. My sister and I grabbed our clothes and ran for cover in Miss Hepburn’s kitchen. She was a gracious host, I thought, but my sister (I believe her name was Betty) did not appreciate the salty language. When she pushed us back out the kitchen door, I thanked her, and Betty promised to come back with a gun of her own.

The last I saw of Miss Hepburn before the storm turned her house into a big pile of junk, she was perched high atop Spencer Tracy, way up on the widow’s walk, shaking her fist at nature’s fury with one hand and pulling Mr. Tracy’s hair with the other. I stole a car and drove to Middletown to wait out the storm. Grandma left town shortly thereafter, and was not seen around these parts for three to five years.

I don’t really know what became of Betty...


***







ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Cliff Parnell has written several book reports about American presidents and famous explorers. He has posted numerous comments on websites that do not require you to give your real name. He enjoys scrapbooking, power walking, radio-controlled helicopters, and e-mailing. His favorite TV shows are “Live with Regis and Kelly,” “That’s So Raven,” and “Nancy Grace.” His favorite books are TV Guide, and anything and everything by Mitch Albom. He lives in Michigan with two people who help him with his daily hygiene.

]]> Sun, 31 Jul 2011 12:14:32 CDT cliffparnell Literary Satire 3 http://thedailysatire.com/literary/remembrances-of-things-that-happened-to-me-at-an-earlier-time-in-my-life-a-memoir-1/ http://thedailysatire.com/literary/major-depression-to-hit-the-uk/
A large number of pretentious, anti-social students, which we have learnt to be "fans", have expressed their concerns over the band's decision to force listeners into paying for the album, after 2007's "In Rainbows" honesty-box technique. Demographically speaking, the depression wave is set to hit the most privileged areas first and foremost, with experts predicting glum faces all over the Oxfordshire area within the next two weeks. From there the wave will continue down towards the south-coast incrementally moving towards the north where it will eventually hit Scotland. Sources say that the Scots will be least affected, with one expert commenting, "this is the happiest thing they have heard in years".

An anonymous hotline offering free impartial advice to anyone suffering as a result of Radiohead's new record has now been set up. Please call in confidence on 0800-101010-101010.
]]> Mon, 16 May 2011 06:46:03 CDT LiamLid Literary Satire 4 http://thedailysatire.com/literary/major-depression-to-hit-the-uk/ http://thedailysatire.com/literary/the-book-of-dave-will-self-1/ Synopsis:

Dave is a taxi driver in London during Margaret Thatcher's years as British Prime Minister in the 1980's. He has a pretty screwed up life, is seperated from his wife and can't see his child. All he has left to cling to is his love of London and 'the knowledge' - the encyclopedic memory of London roads that all taxi driver need to have.

Dave writes a book. A book about his screwed up life, about the knowledge, and about his (pretty stereotypically taxu driver) right wing views. He buried this book in his estranged wife's garden.

From 1980's London the book then jumps 500 years into the future, to a time when Britain is an archielago due to rising sea levels, and where Dave's book has not only been found, it has inspired a religion...

My Limited and Ill-Informed Opinion:

I'm not usually a big fan of Will Self's writing as it doesn't seem to flow very well and seems a bit strained as if he is desperately trying to use big and clever words and intellectual sounding comparisons regardless of whethere or not they actually work. Although there is a bit of that in The Book of Dave it didn't put me off and I found this a very entertaining read.

Its a great satire on both religion and on the 1980's culture, much of which is still alive and kicking today. Its also a fun idea and a lively and interesting story.

I would class this as definitely being one of the top ten best modern works of literary satire. ]]> Mon, 25 Apr 2011 06:00:47 CDT admin Literary Satire 3 http://thedailysatire.com/literary/the-book-of-dave-will-self-1/ http://thedailysatire.com/literary/lamb-the-gospel-according-to-biff-christs-childhood-pal/ Tue, 15 Mar 2011 07:59:45 CDT admin Literary Satire 3 http://thedailysatire.com/literary/lamb-the-gospel-according-to-biff-christs-childhood-pal/ http://thedailysatire.com/literary/a-satire-on-regency-manners-1/
“Come away from there at once, child,” Lady Fizzlewickham – Daphne’s mother – sighed imperiously. “Whatever will Nicholas say if he comes? He’ll think you some kind of gargoyle.” The lady shifted to make herself more comfortable, her dress pooled around her; she was, at present, languishing on the chaise-long (and had been for several weeks, it seemed). As Lady Fizzlewickham sat up a little, four or five puppies wriggled out from under her skirt.

Daphne flounced away from the window and threw herself theatrically into a chair, her bouncing blonde curls taking several minutes longer to settle than the rest of her. “Oh, why doesn’t he come, Mamma?” she wailed. “He said he had something very important to ask me!”

“And he will ask it, my dear,” her mother consoled her. “But you must know that gentlemen have extremely demanding schedules with which to contend. You know, shooting some animal or other. He’ll have a good reason for his tardiness.”

“Well, I’d be worried, Daphne.” This was Daphne’s younger sister, Miss Xanthia Fizzlewickham; she was seated in the corner, sewing ribbons on to garments for the poor. (Miss Xanthia’s particular brand of dispensing charity meant that the unfortunates of the parish were less fortunate still, as the slums now resembled a very grubby May Day parade.) She went on: “I heard that Nicholas was paying court to Cecily Lemonfax at the Hardwickes’ ball on Saturday. Her father promised her they’d be married before the Season’s out.”

Daphne had begun to fan herself agitatedly – so much so that the fan flew out of her hands and bounced across the pianoforte, producing a series of dramatic chords to accompany this sudden revelation. Lady Fizzlewickham sat up straight to interrogate her younger daughter.

“And from what source, pray tell us, did you hear that nonsense?”

“From Honoria, of course,” Xanthia said ruefully. “She was there.”

Daphne interjected. “Do you mean Honoria, the half-sister of the daughter of the illegitimate son of the Duchess of Edinburgh’s lunatic cousin’s stable boy’s chorus girl mistress?”

“No, silly,” replied Xanthia. “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s Gloriana. I mean Honoria, the courtesan’s long-lost mother’s twin boys’ governess’s seamstress’s daughter, the one she conceived when she was abducted by pirates – or perhaps highwaymen, I can’t remember which…”

Before either Daphne or Lady Fizzlewickham could reply to any of this, Tarquin, the butler, opened the door. He had the manner of one exposed to so much triviality in his lifetime that he had acquired something of an immunity to it, and so he barely flinched as he tripped over a pile of thirteen new parasols and two caged parakeets at the doorway – the result of the morning’s shopping trip. Daphne gave a small gasp, salvaged her fan from the floor, and flung herself back into position, fluttering it coquettishly in front of her face.

“Mr McVillain to see you, ma’am,” announced Tarquin. Lady Fizzlewickham looked as though she had not the strength to receive anyone who was not carrying food, and Daphne pouted audibly. Tarquin continued, “And Lord Nicholas with him.”

“Lord Nicholas!” cried Lady Fizzlewickham. “We hadn’t been expecting you this early. How lovely it is of you to come. You will take a seat, I hope? Tarquin, fetch some tea, if you please…” Tarquin left obligingly.

“Thank you, your ladyship,” Nicholas bowed so low that his wig almost fell clean off. “Actually, I had hoped for a moment alone with Miss Fizzlewickham – if that would be possible.” Daphne held her breath.

Propriety, of course, dictated that an acquaintance between a man and an unattached young woman must be overseen by at least five other people. As the relationship progressed, the number would deplete to three, then two, then one, until, finally, four years into marriage, the couple would be permitted to go on unchaperoned. Lord Nicholas’s request was therefore the very height of scandal.

Lady Fizzlewickham looked as though she were thinking hard for a moment. “Well, Lord Nicholas,” she said slowly, “since you have asked so politely, I do not think two or three minutes in the garden with my daughter would be too outrageous. Off you go, Daphne.”

Daphne rose to her feet, lowering her eyes beguilingly to Lord Nicholas, and leading him from the room. Lady Fizzlewickham sighed contentedly when they had departed.

“Oh, it really does make one so incandescently happy,” she declared. “My own dear daughter, off to reject her first marriage proposal! It really is too much for me sometimes. Pass me my laudanum, Xanthia – I feel a fit of the vapours coming on…”

Xanthia did so, exclaiming, “You don’t mean she’s going to refuse him? I thought she was in love with Lord Nicholas!”

“Well, of course she is, my dear,” her ladyship said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “But you don’t expect her to accept him the first time, do you? I quite despair of you sometimes, Xanthia. Don’t you agree, Mr McVillain?”

Lucifer McVillain had come into the morning room as he did every room – with such an air of malevolence surrounding him that only the tragically insipid and the monumentally stupid could fail to notice. As such, Lady Fizzlewickham thought him a decent fellow and liked him exceedingly well. He was Lord Nicholas’s uncle, and the protector of the young aristocrat’s wealth and estates. McVillain was the sort of man who made people’s lives difficult for fun, terrorized his subordinates, and occasionally kicked puppies. He wore a monocle and carried a cane – the sort of cane with his family crest on the top and some description of sword concealed inside, which he liked to whip out impressively every so often. McVillain was not a very scrupulous person, and there was only one suitable place for him.

“I’m in the House of Lords now,” he smirked at Lady Fizzlewickham, “so it’s Lord McVillain, I’ll thank you.”

“How did you manage that?” Xanthia asked, somewhat rudely. “You’re so incredibly wicked and depraved!”

“Exactly. I fit in perfectly.” McVillain leaned forward conspiratorially. “You say your daughter is going to refuse my nephew, Lady Fizzlewickham. You’re quite sure about that?”

“Oh, quite, quite sure, Lord McVillain. Daphne has been well-tutored. I have absolute faith in her ability to manipulate the poor man’s heart. It’s a trait of Fizzlewickham ladies – why, I turned down no fewer than seventeen proposals before I married. It’s the done thing.”

“A man with any pride at all oughtn’t to propose more than once,” remarked Xanthia. “I would wish my husband to have some degree of dignity. I’d accept him the very first time, at any rate.”

“Oh, Xanthia, darling,” Lady Fizzlewickham said pityingly. “All things considered, you can’t really afford to be picky.”

“What do you mean, all things considered?” Xanthia demanded.

“I suppose as well you want to go and reform some iniquitous rake, and take him as your husband,” her mother said, shaking her head wearily. “Quite a commonplace business now. Rake-reforming, I mean. Some say they do make the best husbands, but I’m surprised there are any left to be reformed at all. If they’re not bundling girls into coaches they’re romancing them in libraries, or winning them in card games, and all kinds of twaddle. You know what I always say, Xanthia; you can handle a rake as carefully as can be, but it will invariably spring up and hit you in the face at some time or other. And that’s a good philosophy for gardening, as well.”

Lucifer McVillain was sitting back, barely listening to the conversation, with a satisfied smile on his face, as he took out one of the seven or eight bejewelled snuff-boxes secreted about his person, and inhaled it absentmindedly. (The snuff, not the box, you understand.) The weather outside had clouded over appropriately, as it was wont to do, and McVillain let out a low, chilling laugh that – typically – went completely unnoticed.

Out of doors, Daphne and Nicholas were walking aimlessly in the garden. Lord Nicholas Winnibale-Ashton, of the Twimmingate Winnibale-Ashtons, was one of the most eligible bachelors of the ton that season; in fact, he had enough eligibility to fill several tons. He was handsome, good-humoured, and wealthy. He owned several properties in the country and two in town. His family tree was almost flawless. He wore his breeches to the knee, and not a jot higher. In short, he was everything a woman could want in a husband.

“Forgive me, Miss Fizzlewickham, for my shocking audacity,” Nicholas began, in a heartfelt murmur that thrilled Daphne as much as a kitten swimming in chocolate might have done. “I certainly hope it doesn’t rain, for it has darkened rather since we came out…”

“Has it?” Daphne replied silkily. “I hardly noticed.” She sat down on the bench at the end of the garden, and pretended to be distracted by burying her nose in the roses growing near it. “I just love flowers; don’t you?”

Nicholas took up the seat next to her. “It is not flowers that I love most, Miss Fizzlewickham – I must tell you that.”

“Oh, please – do call me Daphne.”

“Daphne, then.” His hand brushed her elbow tentatively, as though afraid it might burst suddenly into flame at his touch. “Oh, darling Daphne. Have not you realized how ardent is my affection for you? How I have come to admire, respect, and even love you?”

Daphne placed a hand gracefully over her bosom in a façade of utter surprise. “Oh, Lord Nicholas! These things you say – I am quite undone!”

“Oh, dear; I do apologize. Shall I avert my eyes?”

“No, I mean…” Daphne looked with wide, expressive eyes at her suitor. “I mean to say, I simply had no idea, and it has quite taken me unawares! Are you perfectly serious, sir?”

“I have never been more serious in my life, Daphne!” Lord Nicholas sank down on one knee and snatched her hand. “I implore you, my darling girl – will you make me the happiest man alive? Will you be my wife?”

Daphne closed her eyes, and looked away, as though trying to conceal overwhelmed tears from him. “Lord Nicholas, this is all so sudden, and I must not forget myself. I thank you for the honour and flattery your proposals have afforded me…” Her voice gave an artificial wobble. “…but I fear I must decline them. Good day to you, my lord.” At this, she uprooted herself, and set off towards the house at a histrionic run. (Her passions were not so great that she failed to raise her skirts so as not to be stained by the earth, but it was, overall, a convincing performance.) Nicholas threw his head into his hands; he allowed his wig to slide off this time – such was the magnitude of his distress – and it slithered on to the ground, the soil tarnishing it, as the rain began to fall miserably. The young lord walked away, leaving the wig where it was – stained, pathetic, and a sorry metaphor for his desolate, wretched heart.

Daphne had, upon returning indoors, pirouetted across the hallway, her cheeks pink with exhilaration. It had been a little chilly outside, and yet she felt warm. She was confused, and yet her thoughts had never been clearer. She felt human – and yet, in some ways, not quite human at all.

She burst into the morning room once more, and immediately ran to embrace her mother. “He proposed!” she cried, clapping her hands like a demented seal. Lady Fizzlewickham was too completely paralytic with joy to get up, she declared, so Daphne grabbed the nearest person and skipped around the room in ecstatic circles. (Tarquin resented this somewhat.)

McVillain was smiling vindictively at the Fizzlewickhams’ triumph. “And you rejected the offer, did you?”

“I did, I did!” squealed Daphne. She crashed down into a chair, breathless with excitement. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Well,” McVillain said, his lip curling, “that’s the last you’ll see of Lord Nicholas, I’m afraid.” Daphne froze.

Lady Fizzlewickham was incensed. “What on Earth can you mean, you beast, McVillain?” she demanded. “Of course Lord Nicholas will return! He’s too besotted to take no for an answer, you mark my words…”

“Nicholas will not be permitted to marry Miss Fizzlewickham, I fear,” McVillain explained unkindly. “His father’s will, you see, stipulates that he may marry of his own choosing before his twenty-first birthday. If he fails to do so, he weds my own daughter, and the management of his estates falls to me.” Here he laughed, though for the Fizzlewickhams it was no laughing matter.

“Your daughter?” her ladyship inquired fiercely. “Who is she?”

“Miss Annabelle McVillain, Lady of Questionable Birth.” Lord Lucifer smirked at them.

“When does Nicholas turn twenty-one?” Daphne whispered.

“Three days’ time.”

“Then why,” Xanthia said cynically, “has he waited until the last moment to propose to Daphne?”

McVillain laughed wickedly. “You said so yourself, Miss Xanthia; I am a twisted man. Nicholas was informed of the contents of the will yesterday. He’s not had much time to gather his thoughts.”

“You villain!” shrieked Lady Fizzlewickham. She sat up so abruptly that the ornamental ostrich feathers of her hairpiece almost took Tarquin’s eye out. “And why was Daphne not to know any of this?”

He smiled wryly. “My dear lady, this is the Regency. Do you think life would be as interesting if anyone actually knew anything?” And Lucifer McVillain, the unsuspected fiend, left. Another dramatic chord was played as an abstracted Xanthia sat on the pianoforte.

Lady Fizzlewickham had dissolved into tears; but Daphne, suddenly empowered, stood up with a flourish. “I’m going after him.”

“Yes, do; and put a bullet in his head while you’re at it,” muttered Xanthia darkly.

“Not McVillain; Nicholas,” said Daphne. “I’ll win him back – I’ll do anything! He is my sole reason for being; the fruit of my passion; the love of my girlhood; the fire of my loins – “

“Yes, all right,” sniffed Xanthia. “Will you go now? Wait until the rain’s eased, at least…”

“The boundaries of my love are not dictated by mere weather,” asserted Daphne, before she saw the rain tipping down in sheets out of the window. “Although I shouldn’t wish to catch my death…”

“You shall wait, Daphne!” Lady Fizzlewickham had regained the power of speech. “McVillain mentioned that Nicholas is travelling to Oxfordshire this evening. You shall wait until he is arrived there, and then you shall travel across the three counties on a devoted pilgrimage to see him! On horseback, I think…or perhaps even on foot, that might be better…”

“But Mamma,” Daphne protested, “his estate is only a twenty-minute carriage ride from here. Wouldn’t it make more sense to go now?”

“Sense?” Lady Fizzlewickham gasped. “How have I brought you up? This is your love story, Daphne. There is misery and bliss; there is love and loathing; there are heroes, and there are villains; there is money, property, secrecy, and deception; there will be blatant concealment of the unsavoury aspects, and barefaced exaggeration of the favourable ones; there will be overstated performances of devotion, frantic and improbable chases, and impossible feats enacted. There will, with any luck, be a happy ending. This is your Regency romance, my dear, and there will be many things; but I assure you most wholeheartedly that sense, to be sure, will not be one of their number.”
]]> Sat, 12 Mar 2011 17:07:14 CST amidala Literary Satire 2 http://thedailysatire.com/literary/a-satire-on-regency-manners-1/ http://thedailysatire.com/literary/self-help-satire-how-to-kick-your-own-ass/
The Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands by Laura Schesslinger- Get a dog and read a puppy manual. It's easier and basically the same rules apply.

and

How To Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie- A Wiki leak guide used by politicians, along with "How To Deceive People Without Them Knowing" and "How To Ruin THe Economy Without Taking Responsibility".

It a big list with plenty more funny stuff, so follow the link at the top to check it out. ]]> Fri, 11 Feb 2011 09:10:32 CST DeanWalsh Literary Satire 1 http://thedailysatire.com/literary/self-help-satire-how-to-kick-your-own-ass/ http://thedailysatire.com/literary/an-x-rated-essay/ By Gene Twaronite

Writers of erotic novels are always looking for creative new ways to describe the sexual act. Ultimately this is a losing proposition, since most of the interesting possibilities of the human anatomy have long since been exhausted. Beyond the human species, however, lie vast worlds of fruitful intercourse. With millions of different kinds of plants and animals from which to choose, each with a unique sexual story to tell, the literary possibilities are endless.

Of course what is erotic to one creature may not be so to another. And how would does one convey the sexual desires of other life forms to human readers more familiar with the usual panting and groping activities of their own species?

But there are ways to depict erotic behavior that are less subtle and more direct. Take the flowering plants, for example. So innocent and lovely, they flagrantly and fragrantly advertise their raw sexual needs to every passing insect. The boring sameness of human flesh tones is no match for the bold gaudiness of many flowers, whose stamens and stigmas entice so shamelessly. Anthony Huxley wrote of a plant called the Persian zungeed that “has a fragrance once thought so intoxicating that Persian men were wont to lock up their women when the tree came into bloom.”

The very shapes of some flower parts are almost pornographic. Especially is this true in certain members of the family Araceae, whose phallic resemblance so titillated the Victorians in their gardens and hothouses.

It gets even worse in the animal world. The male peacock, for instance, has no need for dirty words or pictures. His iridescent tail feathers, spread in all their glory for any passing hen, leave no doubt of his lascivious intentions. Male sage grouses are even more direct, with their brazen strutting and baring of inflatable air sacs. Animal behaviorists have not been able to determine as yet if any peacocks or grouses find such actions offensive.

The insect world has its own brand of chemical pornography. Through the secretion of minute quantities of substances known as pheromones, certain female insects send lewd and clear messages through the air over many miles to potential male partners. I sometimes wonder, late at night, what crazy pictures may form in a male moth’s head.

For sheer novelty in form and function of sexual appendages, the human body pales in comparison to those of other creatures. Just imagine what an erotic writer might do with the copulatory arms of the squid. Or the dozen “love darts” carried by certain African naked snails. While the things that some worms do should not be mentioned in mixed company.

There is even what humans might call sexual sadism in some creatures. Female scorpions and praying mantises can never get quite enough from their mates: so they end up eating them piece by loving piece. Talk about your sex objects.

On second thought, I may never get around to writing that great sex novel. Out beyond the street lights, in the darker recesses of woods and fields, life plays out its little bedroom games on a scale too shocking for human sensibility. Shakespeare wrote in Hamlet “that you o’erstep not the modesty of nature.” Modesty, indeed. Mother Nature, you’re one hot mama.

]]> Wed, 26 Jan 2011 10:57:19 CST Gene_Twaronite Literary Satire 2 http://thedailysatire.com/literary/an-x-rated-essay/ http://thedailysatire.com/literary/a-history-of-pakistan/ Wed, 24 Mar 2010 04:15:49 CDT onlyme Literary Satire 1 http://thedailysatire.com/literary/a-history-of-pakistan/