The Calf-Path

One day, through the primeval wood,
A calf walked home, as good calves should;

But made a trail all bent askew,
A crooked trail, as all calves do.

Since then three hundred years have fled,
And, I infer, the calf is dead.

But still he left behind his trail,
And thereby hangs my moral tale.

The trail was taken up next day
By a lone dog that passed that way;

And then a wise bellwether sheep
Pursued the trail o’er vale and steep,

And drew the flock behind him, too,
As good bellwethers always do.

And from that day, o’er hill and glade,
Through those old woods a path was made,

And many men wound in and out,
And dodged and turned and bent about,

And uttered words of righteous wrath
Because ’twas such a crooked path;

But still they followed — do not laugh —
The first migrations of that calf,

And through this winding wood-way stalked
Because he wobbled when he walked.

This forest path became a lane,
That bent, and turned, and turned again.

This crooked lane became a road,
Where many a poor horse with his load

Toiled on beneath the burning sun,
And traveled some three miles in one.

And thus a century and a half
They trod the footsteps of that calf.

The years passed on in swiftness fleet.
The road became a village street,

And this, before men were aware,
A city’s crowded thoroughfare,

And soon the central street was this
Of a renowned metropolis;

And men two centuries and a half
Trod in the footsteps of that calf.

Each day a hundred thousand rout
Followed that zigzag calf about,

And o’er his crooked journey went
The traffic of a continent.

A hundred thousand men were led
By one calf near three centuries dead.

They follow still his crooked way,
And lose one hundred years a day,

For thus such reverence is lent
To well-established precedent.

A moral lesson this might teach
Were I ordained and called to preach;

For men are prone to go it blind
Along the calf-paths of the mind,

And work away from sun to sun
To do what other men have done.

They follow in the beaten track,
And out and in, and forth and back,

And still their devious course pursue,
To keep the path that others do.

They keep the path a sacred groove,
Along which all their lives they move;

But how the wise old wood-gods laugh,
Who saw the first primeval calf!

Ah, many things this tale might teach —
But I am not ordained to preach.


by Sam Walter Foss

Stuart Smalley's Hell

I never feel I'm...

...Smart, Funny, Fast, Organized, Strong, Thoughtful, Informed, Connected, Relaxed, Pithy, Observant, Creative, Quiet...

...Enough!

What About Butter?

Bread

For bread the merchant labors long and late; 

For bread the beggar goes from gate to gate. 

For bread the sailor loses hearth and home,

A thousand, thousand miles bread-seekers roam.
 

For bread the wild birds fall in nets and gins;

For bread do men commit a hundred sins.

For bread the soldier dies in seige and fight;

For bread the minstrel carols day and night.

For bread men study all that man may know.

The house that wanteth bread is filled with woe;

For bread unites the family as one,

Its lack divides the father from the son.

For bread are weddings made and sermons said;

Of all good things, the first and best is bread.  

-- From Lyric Laughter by Arthur Guiterman

My People

It doesn't seem to matter where I am, I'm always here.

Rooner's Spevenge or Tips of the Slongue

Some days it seems the English language and I aren't speaking. Hard to take when so much of your life is spent being neurotic AND verbal. Those days just add to the neurosis.

But there are days when this problem amuses more than confuses me. Those are the days of the plannel flaid shirt. Rev. Spooner would understand. He was notorious for mixing his words (and credited for more babbling blunders than he actually said).

In a selfless act of archiving (you know, for history's sake), I began to keep a running list of my spoonerisms. It amused me. Besides, I figured if someone could write 14,000 Things to Be Happy About and make money, I could one day publish this list and become rich. This is still my retirement plan.

For now, I offer these for free. Enjoy, and consider it advanced advertising for my upcoming book. The bracketed initials signify it wasn't me.


Plannel flaid shirt (and so it begins)
Spack pare clothes
Tee and flick collar [KY]
Pleck of daying cards
Yoke your peye out
Dear neath experience
Up pose and clersonal
Drainy and rizzly
Moke and smist
Rount Mushmore
Aarrots and capples [AW]
Soroughly thoaked
Chocolate chovered cerries
Pa and skunk
Bailish Iries cream
Vears a bague resemblance
Coly-potton cloth
Meekend wail [SD]
Hunson Boneydue
Smodding and niling
Sooves the sathage beast
Fales sigures
Eak and steggs
Plannel flants (I have a hard time with flannel)
Slies and lander
Plown brain wrapper
Munch loney
One sell foop
Blutter bob
Musty ruskets
West vile nirus [AW]
Herribly tideous
Scarting pouty
Piny wouty face
Explays & dishibits
Wocket patch
Flank Royd Wight House
Acon & beggs
Snuck in stow
Ounger and yolder
Ben Parklin Frankway
Grown bravy [PH]
Robster lavioli
Carm and fow country
Linking is dregendary [MH, without the linking]
Little Ford Lontleroy
Row load
Stane and sable
Lead at reast
Shrab and crimp
Muss or plinus
a tree fial
a vizzled greteran
a poke of smacks [RB]

So Long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen...

My world just got smaller.

Ya, Ich Spreche Deutsch

German. This blog's title and my pseudonym are German. They translate as "ship of fools" and "fool" respectively.

Just thought you should know what you're getting yourself into.

I Offend Myself

I hate blogging. I originally created this account so I could post my ridiculous comments to a friend's blog. But sitting here in East Jesus (go east until you cry, "Jesus, where am I?" and you're here) I find myself with the three basic ingredients for a blog: time, thoughts, and boredom.

So despite my blogging aversion, here I am. Blogging. I even hate the word.

Now my ridiculous comments may be read by all.