THE CHINESE HAVE THEIR SIMPLE WOK

The Chinese have their simple wok.
The Germans have their cuckoo clock.
The French have all that savoir-faire.
The British have wool underwear.
Brazilians have their sugar cane
and Indians their monsoon rain.
Hungary has got the gypsy.
Vino makes Italians tipsy.
I don't know who had Attila
but Japan has got Godzilla.
Argentina has their gaucho
and we Yankees love our Groucho.
May the land that you inhabit
breed more joy than wanton rabbit.

ZIPITOR

ASK YOUR DOCTOR ABOUT ZIPITOR TODAY
IF YOU HAVE ANY OF THE FOLLOWING
HEALTH PROBLEMS:

Yeast or West Infection.
Trouble spelling 'conglobulate'.
An adder in your bladder.
Colitis, entritis or bursitis.
The whim-whams.
Fainting spells after ten martinis.
Marthambles.
Jeepers without the creepers.
Difficulty retching at Mel Gibson movies.
Sweet tooth gone sour.
Dutch elm disease.

ZIPITOR IS DOCTOR-TESTED AND GUINEA PIG APPROVED! FIVE OUT OF FOUR PATIENTS TREATED WITH ZIPITOR REPORT RESULTS WITHIN TEN YEARS. NOW AVAILABLE IN BUS STATION REST ROOMS!

Side effects may include insomnia, pink elephants and death.
Do not take with steroids, milk products, solid food, alcohol, chocolate, water, liver & onions, or any type of licorice.
Pregnant women should consult a physician since a few thousand studies indicate there is increased risk of birthing a giraffe if you even get near the stuff.
Use with caution if you are bigger than a breadbox.
People with allergies should shut up about them already.
Tell your doctor about the following:
Mickey Mantle.
Anwar Sadat.
The War of the Austrian Succession.
Star Wars.
Why Harry Potter is still a virgin.
Who should take Zipitor:
Hillbillies.
Latvians.
Neocons.
Fans of Don Knotts.
Pixies.
Can I take Zipitor with other medications:
What do we care as long as you pay for our stuff?

Zipitor is a registered trademark of the Hanna Barbera Studios, along with the Flintstones and Quickdraw McGraw.

LIMA BEANS

Why do they have lima beans?
They taste just like old window screens.
They're mushy & green
and bring out the mean
in parents at unpleasant scenes.

THE ORPHAN'S MOON

Nobody talks about this event and those who actually participated in it claim they don't remember it or that it never happened so-shut-up-Torkildson-and-stick-to-writing-limericks.
But it did happen and I aim to tell-all. First, though, you need some background on circus publicity.
Now Ringling left no stone unturned, no clown undisturbed, when it came to promoting itself. The publicity department would send an elephant over Niagra Falls in a barrel if that could glean just a photo in the newspaper. The big circus stars knew all about this and consequently had it written into their contracts that they had final approval of all publicity stunts concerning themselves. If they didn't like the idea they could veto it. Period.
Not so the lowly clowns. Our contracts specifically pointed out that we were on call 24/7 for any and all ideas the publicity gurus might come up with for us. This wasn't neccessarily a bad thing -- it got me on the Tonite Show, on Phil Donahue, and even an appearance on Sesame Street. But it also meant that I had to get up at ungodly hours to put on my makeup and fly around some metropolis while the pilot did a traffic report. Don't ask me why the publicity department wanted a clown on board during a fly-by traffic report at 7 in the morning -- but they did, and I was the unlucky wight picked to do it. I nearly lost my Barnum's Animals when the plane went into a stunt dive.
The clowns were always being asked to give up their precious free time to go visit hospitals, nursing homes, libraries, schools -- anyplace that might garner some free media coverage. But the media was getting jaded with Ringling Brothers. They'd seen it all before so they stopped covering a lot of our clown appearances. Naturally this sent the publicity boys into a tizzy. They had to come up with something new that would get the flashbulbs popping and the videocams rolling or face having to find honest work somewhere else.
We got word of their latest brainstorm in Raleigh, North Carolina, on closing night. Our next stop was Baltimore. Clown alley was looking forward to the long, leisurely train ride up there so we could catch up on our sleep. But Charlie Baumann, the fearsome German Performance Director, spoiled our dreams by striding into the alley to announce that all clowns must take their costume and makeup with them on the train that night and be in costume and makeup the next morning at eight o'clock sharp as the train slowly went past the largest orphanage in Baltimore. The publicity finks had arranged for all the adorable little orphans to be out by the tracks as we went past and the clowns would be waving madly from the vestibules and windows. The media had been alerted and, sensing enough schmaltz in this thing to grease even a Congressman's palm, they had responded enthusiastically. It would get national coverage, not just local coverage!
A low mutinous murmur went round clown alley, but no one dared contradict or argue with Herr Baumann. Sullenly we took our things with us back to the train that night.
Most of us clowns lived in one car, which we affectionately nick-named the Iron Lung. There were twenty roomettes in it, just big enough for a sink and a murphy bed. As the train moved out that night we kept our doors open to grumble across the hallway to each other about this raw deal. The more we grumbled the madder we got and the madder we got the thirstier we got. Many bottles of beer had to be downed to quench the outrage. By the time the train creaked into the sunrise near Baltimore we were a pretty happy bunch, glad to use our god-given talents to brighten the lives of those poor little orphan kids with no momma and no poppa -- god bless 'em! The swaying of the train made us a tad unbalanced as we applied the greasepaint and stumbled into our baggy pants.
Then, just as the train slowed almost to a standstill someone, I can't remember who, had a brilliant idea. Instead of waving at the poor little orphan kids, which is not something they'd remember very long, why don't we moon them? They'll talk about that the rest of their poor lonely lives! In our crapulous state this appeared as sheer, unadulterated genius.
So we did it. As soon as the poor little orphans hove into sight we dropped everything covering the southern hemisphere and stuck our fannies out the windows and vestibules. It was chilly work that raw spring morning, but it was all for the poor little orphan kids -- god bless 'em.
True to their word, the national media were out in force. After a quick double-take they began recording this truly historic circus moment. I'd swear on a stack of AA manuals that I heard them licking their chops and baying like wolves in delight.
Mission accomplished, we straggled back to our rooms, washed off the makeup, and, most surprisingly, everyone decided they needed a nice long nap after breakfasting on aspirin and Pepto Bismol.
That evening one mad German came storming into clown alley to put the fear of god into us. Almost speechless with teutonic rage, Baumann finally spit out that by heroic efforts the media had been dissuaded from using any of its priceless footage. The scandal had been averted, but heads, clown heads, would have to roll. He demanded to know who the ringleaders were. We gazed back at him, not exactly as innocent as angels -- more like hungover dimbulbs -- and honestly answered that we didn't know, we all thought it would be kind of a good idea. He snarled and brandished his whip (he was also the tiger tamer), then stalked out. Feeling too punky to worry about it, we finished our makeups and got on with the show.
Strangely enough after that the clowns were not called on very often to do publicity anymore. I guess the publicity guys had run out of idea for us.
I keep my eye peeled whenever I'm on eBay for some of those photos to show up. Some day they will, and I bet the bidding among circus fans will be astronomic.

THE EXPLOITS OF BRITTENY SPEARS

The exploits of Britteny Spears
keep well-oiled the media's gears.
We can't get enough
of that sordid stuff --
which certainly makes us her peers.

SOMALIA (a prose poem)

Ricky Scott wanted to borrow
forty dollars from me.
What for? I asked. He
said take a taxi out to
my daughter's in Edina for
Christmas Day. She's still sore
at me for missing her law school
graduation. That was five years ago
I said. Yeah, he said, I figure no
one can turn their own father away
on Christmas day.
I'll drive you out myself
I told him. I doubt
there'll be any cabs about
on that day -- even the Somalis take
it off. Notice how many they
drive now?

You wouldn't catch me behind the wheel
of a cab having to deal
with all the nutbrains out there.
Now about that forty said Ricky.
I'll drive you, remember? I'm not picky
what I do Christmas day. My kids
are scattered and gone down the street
like leaves. What time should I meet
you?
But now he was stuck on Somalis. How
they honored the marriage vow
and they had no nursing homes to
put you away in. Listen you,
I nearly yelled, everyone's dead
over there from civil war I read
in the paper. The survivors are all
over here, driving our cabs and
cleaning every school in the land.
The husbands get five wives each.
Hey, said Ricky, that's pretty neat.
Five wives working and I'm not a deadbeat
anymore.

Then he started again: if you can't swing
forty how about thirty? Anything
would help. If the buses run I'll get
her a present, see, and I bet
we'll be pals again like when she was little.
She always liked peanut brittle.
I paid for her gold fillings, dammit.
I offered you a ride not money
I told him. Y'know it's funny
you never see Mexicans drive
cabs. Ricky said they're all illegal
but Somalis respect the law, they're regal
the way they carry themselves -- ever notice?
They're all descended from kings so their pride
is intense. I grabbed his arm. A ride,
do you want it or not? I ask one
last time. Let's have lunch,
my treat he says. We hunch
against the dirty cold wind
outside his efficiency in St. Louis Park.
Your treat my ass I bark
at him. You'll stick me with the bill
as sure as the grass is green.
He says there's a Somali place I've seen
over on Lake Street. Saffron rice
and goat meat. Let's go there.
At this point I don't care
about Somalia but I say hop in
and we go over to the place
on Lake Street. It's got lace
curtains but no table clothes.
The rice is outstanding. We eat our fill.
It's cheap enough. I pay the bill.
I drop him off at Walgreen's.
With my forty bucks.
He waves and then ducks
inside to buy Rogaine.
He's such a mooch, that Ricky Scott.
And he still thinks he has a shot
at the girls.

IF COLLEGE IS YOUR CUP OF TEA

If college is your cup of tea
then grab every loan you can see.
It is a sure bet
that your student debt
will lead to a fine bankruptcy.