Tuesday, May 31, 2005


A new addition to the Big Book of Bunkum:

hogeusse (n.) one who throws a stylish swine and cheesy chuckle party just for the heck of it

e.g. A tipsy-topsy, limelight-grabbing childhood spent in a picturesque, hole-in-the-wall country school in Community Punch Bowl, Alberta prompted Sheena Sno-Glow's decision to live the next phase of her life somewhere else -- yup you guessed it -- in Square Butt, Montana ...as a half-corked hogeusse, a part-time gourmet cat food chef, a casual zombie nurse and a celebrated pulp cinema vampire extra in a hugely popular, colorless classic piece of schmaltzy schlock purported to be a 16 mm B-horror flick (with a tight, deep-dark comedy theme, badly dubbed hand-sync'd sound, long-winded if not hard-to-appreciate German sub-titles, translated into broken English and American Sign Language for the hard-of-hearing) as "Hogwash, Ginger Snaps & Trouser Accidents" (and directed by the late Joe-Bob Bigfoot, owner of a modestly priced, little-known, back-water movie boutique referred to in the trade as "The Weeping Waters Film Studio" -- situated in the heart of beautiful downtown Burbank, California).

Contributed by: Ms. Ganges Mondovino, a shy, simpering silent-movie script-writer and twittering tightwad whose last known whereabouts are said to have been something to do with sipping a dry martini while being draped haphazardly over a chaise longue in a rather garrish pink flannel nightgown purchased for $15.00 from "The Cat's Meow Clothes Closet" in of all places, HooHoo (West Virginia)


Illustration by Sophie Blackall for Meet Wild Boars by Meg Rosoff (Henry Holt, 32 pages) recommended for ages 3 to 7, or anyone who enjoys TUSK TUSK, STOMP STOMP and other dirty, smelly, bad-tempered and rude not to mention very scatalogical stuff.

Wednesday, May 11, 2005


A new addition to the Big Book of Bunkum:

carnibore (n.) a monotonous minced meat-eater with no axe to grind or for that matter any redeeming feature worthy of mention in a pathetic piece of paltry prose, a perfunctory yet pithyless performance appraisal, or last but not least ... a short-shrift yet self-aggrandizing obituary

e.g. Chuck Tripe was a tad difficult to fathom unless you had time to casually flip through the Preface to Terse Tales from the Titanic, assiduously pour over the End Notes to Twenty Thousand and One Leagues Under the Sea of Serendipity, or glance at the Acknowledgements and Bibliography in How to Build a Fish Tank That Won't Leak for Under $25 -- all of which may give you a hint about his floundering lifestyle as a closet carnibore, his penchant for yelling "Cowabunga" at every opportunity, not to mention his favorite pastime (clog dancing in the buff), and more to the point, why he received a non-refundable, one-way ticket to Cloud-Cuckooland (presented by his former lactose-intolerant, clotted whole milk colleagues who were called upon to organize his hastily planned, early retirement party from the highly-esteemed Centre of Udder Rubbish Research at the “Cornish Cream Institute” in Devonshire).

Contributed by: Ernie Cloudberry, a cloying clubby sort who enjoys the perks of being a bookworm buffoon and wild wallflower in Teakettle Junction, California

Monday, May 02, 2005


A new addition to the Big Book of Bunkum:

gremlint (n.) the annoying, invisible ingredient in cotton fuzz that ensures permanent adhesion to any dark item of clothing in spite of vigorous brushing accompanied by a healthy does of blasphemy, followed by a futile fine tooth combing, and last but not least...pathetic plucking of one’s hair out by the roots

e.g. On the eve of her sixth decade, the raunchy ragamuffin bid a fond farewell to her lifetime companion, (a two-timing tipsy tatterdemalion with a hint of gremlint on his jolly holly jodpurs not to mention pinchbeck piety on the brain), and set out on a Sagittarian sojourn, or perhaps it was just a salacious safari, with her new-found deadpan friend and gallant admirer, Eureka Wink (a casually-festooned fop with a penchant for far too many faux-pas and utterly crass “mots justes”, wimpy French fries with salt and malt vinegar, plus a piscatorial hankering for gaudy, glow-in-the-dark boudoir jewelry).

Contributed by: Handel Rocker, (an undercover go-between and former press secretary to Prince Pottifer of Panderingham), who now enjoys sultry afternoons in Hoop and Holler, Texas at the standing-room only Friendly Cactus Grogshop & Pit-Stop Watering Hole, replete with monosyllabic chatterboxes who on occasion are positively staggering with poise when not being called upon to do half-baked impressions of a pie-eyed politician