In the mid-20th century the so-called Shrine circuses became both popular and numerous. A Shrine circus is a specially contracted group of circus acts brought together by a promoter or booking agent, usually to appear in an arena-type building. Sometimes the group will be contracted for a full season to play a series of cities, in the manner of the tent shows. Frequently, however, the acts and performers are assembled only for one city’s exhibition; these shows are usually known by the names of the local organizations that sponsor them, often Shrine clubs. When referring to any specific show, showpeople are likely to call it by the name of the sponsor, but when referring to the entire field of such exhibitions, they usually call them Shrine shows.
Xenomanes the navigator was a Barbarian by birth, although there was Greek on the spindle side and a Roman on the distaff. He was always scratching his head like a monkey with cirrhosis and babbling under his breath like a crustacean. Yet here was the man who in proud liege to King Knute learned to ski with a toboggan on each foot. And by the king’s daughter in holy wedlock sired the man who first put his head into a lion’s mouth and saved a shilling on a barber. When he, Xenomanes, returned to north Africa, he barbecued a slug of wildebeests in homage to the three fates, the four farts, the five senses that are thereby aroused, the six packs, and the seven maids a-milking.
Xenomanes was Apache on the spindle side. His father was Tarsands the carboniferous man. His mother was Queen Jane for a day and a half.
Wonder Woman was his sidekick, to go back to primeval days, his mate, his date, his funraiser in times of need, his kneader of daily bread, his breeder in butter times.
He had laid aside some buffalo chips for when the shit hit the fandolear when out of the blue said shit did hit. That put a big hole in his background story.
She got up on on her stump. With a huff and a puff she blow your man down.
They were true nobodies like in days of yore, and nobody could deny.
Those who command resources always need more. It’s in our own best interest, according to their lawyers. It’s an odds on favorite, according to the bootlickers. It’s the end of the line, according to those who execute the code.
All the advance thinkers agree on one thing, but they don’t know what it is.
Agents of the electron freedom foundation showed up at the port last night. You couldn’t see them until you looked at ’em, they might be double agents, dopplegangers. They were known only by the spin they could put on the tale.
I almost felt some words coming on that I would write down, as my mother used to say.
Is this the man? Is this the man who shook the earth and made kingdoms tremble?
“To plow is to pray; to plant is to prophesy; and the harvest answers and fulfils.”
The Truth Seeker
THE LEADING FREETHOUGHT JOURNAL OF THE WORLD.
Largest, Cheapest, Best.
“The Truth Seeker is to-day the strongest foe with which Superstition has to contend.”
I am tired of cursing the Bishop, (Said Crazy Jane)
Nine books or nine hats
Would not make him a man.
I have found something worse
To meditate on.
A King had some beautiful cousins.
But where are they gone?
Battered to death in a cellar,
And he stuck to his throne.
Last night I lay on the mountain. (Said Crazy Jane)
There in a two-horsed carriage
That on two wheels ran
Great-bladdered Elmer sat.
Her violent man Cuchulain sat at her side; Thereupon’
Propped upon my two knees, I kissed a stone
I lay stretched out in the dirt
And I cried tears down.
Man and manatee, woman and wombat, landed in gentry, christened in combat, there’s a crack in the esprit d’armor.
Millie made muffins for the multitude but jesus got all the credit. Credit where credit is due, by gum.
Pepe popped in to the peep-o-rama but it turned out he was in his cups and the pope got the coats of the many coloureds and those of the rug riders. He pulled the rugs out from under them. That’s the way things go during the decline of the umpire.
Forgive me for poisoning your well but it was all in the spirit of jest.
As, jest you wait until I get ahold of you. Then we’ll see who’s the cock of the robin and who’s a ward of the state. You got to have balls to become a bowler. You got to have the shits to become a plumber. You got to have your head examined to become a shrink
the lady in waiting had a quilted foundation and the garment of a gamin a profusion of profundities poured from her pudendum holy mackerel and clams for us all at the coquille saint jack
My grandfather told this story to me, then he died laughing despite the pain of the stone.