Wednesday, June 30, 2004

The Breakfast of Champions: Non-Vonnegut-Style

Lemme assure you about something there, Eunice--and I should know since I'm considered a bit of a Breakfast Food Czar by the cats down at the bait shop in the off-season-- "Poached Eggs" aren't "poached" in the sense of "poaching" a wild animal and I know for certain there ain't no such thing as "Pooched Eggs," dig? What the Hell would "Pooched Eggs" be? Something passed through the dog and served with toast and bacon?


Tuesday, June 29, 2004

Pills of a Feather...

Hey, guess what?
There's this blog TIPTONE PRESENTS
There's pills called TIPTONE CAPLETS

They're more populary known as Dramamine; which are used to prevent and treat nausea, vomiting, dizziness, and vertigo associated with motion sickness.

I kinda get the feeling that my lil' almost-daily musings may have just the opposite effect on my small readership.

For that...I am sorry.

If I had only known this years ago when I chose the nom de plume Tiptone I might have reconsidered and gone with ITALIAN GRAV (a nickname created by my friends in honor of my younger-husky-dago-self's inability to get airborne).


Monday, June 28, 2004

Come Here Often II: Non-Electric Boogaloo

Another collection of search terms that brought folk to my lil' blog...and, more than likely, vexed them to no end:

"Women with Peg Legs"
Proving, once again, that Sly Stone was right when he sang, "Different Strokes for Different Folks." Whatever turns you on, ya Piratanically-Aroused Plank Wanker.

My fascination with Hobo Culture (Hobohemia?) draws another into my web.

"Portrait of a Sicilian Sheepherder"
Ahem...while I found myself simaltaneously baffled and oddly flattered by this, I can assure you that I've never held a crook nor tended to anything remotely resembling a flock...ewe-y or otherwise.


Thursday, June 24, 2004

Time to buy someone a thesaurus

An actual exchange I had today with a prospective student:

Me: Do you reside in Minnesota?
Gal: (a puzzled pause) I don't know what that means.
Me: (an even bigger puzzled pause which included a choked off chortle) Do you LIVE in Minnesota?
Gal: Yes.

Paging Roget.


Wednesday, June 23, 2004

One Thing Leads to Another?
with apologies to The Fixx

The latest Rolling Stone had a blurb mentioning that Eric Clapton is auctioning off a bunch of his guitars for charity; which is a Right Nice thing for him to do for Two reasons:

One: The money raised will go to a good cause
Two: Fewer guitars in his possession on which to record more dreck (akin to, essentially, the last 20 odd years of his so-called's too bad we can't get the rest of them away from him, too...but I digress)

The article also specified songs that some of the axes were played on; one in particular was his recent ditty MY FATHER'S EYES.

I may detest most of the last two/three decades of EC's record catalog but I am not immune to an ear worm or two (ear worm is a term to describe those songs that get stuck in your head)--even from Mister-Artist-Formerly-nicknamed-God-- and by merely reading the title of the song above it became firmly implanted in my grey matter. It wasn't long before I started 'singing' the chorus (essentially the title itself) BUT, for whatever reason, I was singing a slightly modified version; namely:


Over and over again (to the collective chagrin of my wife and dog).

This continued off and on for the remainder of the evening until I happened to catch a bit on the news about Casey the Gorilla.

As it turns out, Casey isn't the least bit interested in mating. The zookeepers (up to this point flummoxed) are now showing Casey simian porn (video of other gorillas getting it on) to activate his libido get it.

Into my Monkey's Arms, INDEED.


I think not.


Tuesday, June 22, 2004

Come Here Often?

Thanks to that little counter off to the right of the screen I can see how many people have visited my little part of Blog Space and How they came to pop on by. Some folk drop by directly (via my web addy) and others stop on by for a moment or three via a Search Engine when Tiptone Presents appears in the amassed hits that match their search criteria (a la the content of my articles...a term I use loosely to describe my jottings/missives).

Tis the latter that gives me pause.

Here's a recent assortment of phrases that have welcomed people to my neck of the Net (and I promise that these are all real and not made up by this author):

Gain Weight Flab Balloon (say what? Is there such a thing and how did it come to exist in my Blog? Are there people out there interested in packing on the pounds via this so-called Flab Balloon?)

You Jingle Your Change (this is a lyric from the Zappa tune BOBBY BROWN GOES DOWN and, thus, doesn't surprise me as I am an avid fan of the late great Frank)

Narwals (oops...I must have spelled this incorrectly at some did the searcher in nice)

Asian Pissers (this is very disconcerting and I can assuredly state that I have never written a word about this of life/sexually arousing whatever-the-hell-you'd-call-it)

Erik Estrada Magazine (he has one? This former CHiPs star has his own fanzine? The Hell?!? Well, I s'pose there must be a niche for this sort of thing if there's one for folk interested in Asian Pissers. Can I assume that 'Estrada Urinating on a Narwal whilst Jingling his Change inside his Flab Balloon' as the next search to bring people by?)

I shouldn't complain. Anything that brings in new readers is okay by me. Keep 'em coming.*

*Not THAT way, my Asian Pisser Afficianados...keep that thing away from your monitor.

Monday, June 21, 2004

Close Encounter of the 3'3 Kind

Last Friday evening looked promising; a friend was having a group of folk over to hang out, enjoy a few (too many?) beverages, and shoot the breeze. Prior to arriving I made a quick stop at a nearby liquor store (Steiner's, on the corner of Rice and Maryland) in order to arm myself with beer. I was in and out in mere minutes and got back into my Jeep for the short jaunt over to my pal's abode. Pulling out of my parking spot my sorely sub-par peripheral vision (curse this lazy eye!) caught the peep of SOMETHING/SOMEONE darting in front of my accelerating vehicle. Although it may not be the most trust-worthy I thought it best (in this split second) to heed the vision and slam on the brakes. As I screeched to a halt my goo-goo-googley eyes confirmed that they had, in fact, spotted something and I HAD made the right instantaneous choice to grind to a stop. The figure only glanced back for a peek and kept moving. Anger rising in me now as my eyes and brain got together to decipher what the Hell had just happened. The Almost Squashed was small...real small...but not a child. Definitely not a child...and my mouth decided to skip politeness and bellow out the following when the proper identification pinged in my grey matter:


By the time this curse left my lips, the little person/potential speedbump was scurrying across the street (and jay-running, I might add) and, in what was surely a mild hallucination, I could have sworn that she was trailing shimmering pixie dust as she beat asphalt (this illusion could most certainly be explained as a result of my coming so damn close to killing someone and the resulting adrenaline fuzzing up my already questionable sight...unless, of course, she has some sort of mild magical abilities...although now I suspect I am simply making an ill-advised midget-as-sprite Ha Ha). In another moment, she had already entered a home and was gone; all the while I was still sitting in my Jeep, shaking from the almost vehicular dwarf-slaughter I had nearly partaken of.

Wouldn't have that made for a fine and dandy headline in the morning paper?

JEEP CREEP KILLS LIL' UN: Local Lollipop Guild Vows Revenge


That evening I dreamt of burning stilts in my frontyard...

To top it all off, the midget in question is also known in the city as a prostitute (having made several appearances on the local police web-site) and graduated from the same High School I did. So, if a splat had happened I could have also expected a retaliation by her pimp AND lots of awkward moments at my next High School Reunion.

(To cop--heh-- a line from Hill Street Blues, 'Be careful out there')

Friday, June 18, 2004

Booya Math: Anagrams

Due to the unexpected popularity of Booya Math I give you some new tastiness a la anagrams for the term:

A Ham Booty

Swine Ass has proven to be a popular porcine delicacy around the world year in-year out.

Omaha Toby

An infamous rail-rider, this transient once challenged Iowa Blackie for the Crown of King of the Hoboes...a unsuccessful coup repelled by the timely appearance of Slipshod Ernie and his Pea Soup Posse.

A-HA Tomboy

Any number of boyish gals with an undying adoration for the popular Norwegian Pop-Act/Export.

A Boat Homy

A dear chum that accompanies you on your watercraft.

Oh, Yam Boat!

A declarative oft-heard along the shores of many rivers throughout the country when this Vegetable's barge/transport is first spotted bringing a harvest into port.

Ham Oat Boy

A character from the first season of SESAME STREET remembered for his obession for a rare breakfast dish (hence, his name) and the inability to remember the alphabet in the proper order. After testing poorly with audiences he was written off the show via a skit that involved Cookie Monster mistaking him for a sentient Snickerdoodle.


Wednesday, June 16, 2004


In response to a question about my previous entry:

As a fan of Robert E. Howard, I can confidently state that his character, Conan the Barbarian, did NOT have a mortal enemy by the name of Booyamath, the Nefarious STEW-ard of Supperia...although I really wish he had.


Tuesday, June 15, 2004

Booya Math

As I've learned of late, there are a lot of folk around this neck of the woods that love their booya. In fact, there was a recent article in the local newspaper that noted that, at a booya-gala over the weekend, 300 attendees consumed 400 gallons of the stuff in roughly a three hour period. In other words, each patron chug-a-lunched 1.33 gallons a pop at a rate of 133.33 gallons per hour, which, I'm positive, kept the volunteer ladlers very busy in appeasing the appetites of the assembled booya-ites (boo-yum-yums?), eh?

What I really want to know is how many POUNDS of booya that is.

Now, One US Gallon equals 8.3453 pounds of water. However, each liquid has a different density. Since I wasn't present for the fete nor do I feel like whipping up a batch of my own booya, I'm going to use that figure realizing that the results would ACTUALLY be greater.

400 Gallons of Booya
X 8.3453
Equals 3338 pounds
divided by 300 boo-yum-yums
Equals 11.12 pounds of Booya per slavering maw/stuffed gullet.


That's sounds a helluva lot more impressive that way.

"Hey, Lois! I pounded down almost 12 poundsa booya at the park today."
"That's nice, dear. I guess we could say that, with this feat under your belt (heehee), you could consider yourself an honorary member of the BOOYA Tribe*."
"Damn URP straight...and I ain't even Samoan or nuttin."

*The BOOYA Tribe were(are?) a rap act comprised of six Samoan brothers from Los Angeles and a Sumo Wrestler cousin (no joke) and, if they had attended the Booya-Fest, would have surely pushed the total of Booya consumed well over the 800 gallon (6676 pounds) mark with just the addition of the seven of them.

Monday, June 14, 2004

Stone-Cold Wrong
A Dialogue from last night during Game 4 of the NBA Finals

Fellow: What kind of ring is that you're wearing?

Me: It's a replica of of Hal Jordan's Green Lantern ring; y'know, the comic book character? I'm a geek like that.

Fellow: Oh. Heh. I thought it was a Mason's symbol.

This misidentification might go a long way to explaining the strange things that happened to me at an area Menard's on an errand to purchase a new trowel; A clerk offered to take me into the backroom and show me the 'real nice ones...Ceremonial-caliber ones' that typcial buyers aren't allowed to purchase.* I declined (confusingly) and insisted that a regular everyday trowel was fine for me and my forthcoming mortar-smearing endeavors. Not one to take no for an answer (and, apparently, really feeling the need to give me some kinda 'deal') he insisted that he'd throw in a free robes and cowl combo if I planned on purchasing any cover-alls, utility pants or waders. A second denial from me almost brought him to tears so I DID finally agree to take the coupon for a 25% discount on my next blood gutter installation.

So that explains that, eh? A lil' Freemasonry misunderstanding (masonderstanding?).

If anyone is interested in said coupon I can be reached through this blog.


*Either that or he wanted to seduce me in the privacy of an empty crate he's converted into a 'bang box' or some such nonsense.

Sunday, June 13, 2004

Casting Call
Or: What are you trying to tell me?


I don't fish.

The only time I have was well over twenty years ago at a friend's cabin where we utilized hotdogs as bait to coerce sunfish out of their aquatic domain (only to be set free immediately as I have never had a pro-poisson palette, regardless of my early-years-girth which might belie this fact; i.e. that I'd eat any/everything).

I'm also pretty certain that I have never sleep-fished (a la sleep-walking), sleep-fish-shopped, sleep-haggled/bartered with local fishmongers or any of these same activities in a non-sleep-but-inebriated-state.

I don't DEAL in fish in any capacity; the smell of such cuisine is unbearable to my olfactory senses.

Are you following along (follow my LINE of reasoning...snort)?

All of which led to my utter surprise on discovering a stash of fish piled in the easement behind my backyard (found by the keen nose and uninhibited hunger/gullet of the resident english bulldog after days of my wondering why the hell he had taken such an interest in the easement after years of ignoring it); in no uncertain terms was it possible for ME (or him, for that matter, unless the canine has taken to his own food acquisitions) to have been responsible for this cache of rotting flesh.

So what the fuck was a horde of a dozen or so fish doing decomposing back there?

The nearest lakes (Loeb, Como, McCarrons) are all about a mile away from my homestead; thus, it's not like some layman fisherman-sort 'accidentally' dropped their fishy booty there on their way home from a long day at the city lake (furthermore, cutting through the easement--an unfinished alleyway for those unfamiliar with the term--is no REAL shortcut to anywhere). It also seems unlikely that this clump fell from the cockpit of a low-flying seaplane or helicoptor owned and operated by a fishing afficiando (a-FISH-ianado, eh?) and a clutch of his buddies after a weekend excursion upnorth casting for next week's noshing.

Nope...none of these scenarios seem possible by any stretch of the imagination.

In other words, I strongly suspect one of the following:

1. Some little neighborhood shit (and possibly his/her assembled compatriots) is/are trying to send me a warning and/or sign but failed to give me the means in which to decipher the code (as it were).

What the hell does fish in the easement mean?

That I will soon be SLEEPING WITH THE FISHES? Are there young wannabe-Mafiosos lingering in my area that have a beef (well, that's the wrong flesh-term, eh?) against me? Are they pissed at the dirty looks/sneers I shoot their way when they gallavant by my property? Could it be in retaliation to the many times I have scolded their teeming masses from using my yard as a playground/shortcut?

Is someone trying to stick it to me (or, should that read, STINK it to me)?

Have I ever avowed an anti-fish-agenda in public that could result in someone protesting my views in this fashion? Maybe whilst aslumber or in a non-soberized state?


2. I have unintentionally come across a sacrifice to the God(s) of the Easements/Alleys.


Could it be that ALLEY is/was the younger brother/sister of Allah? Holy Shite (heh), I wouldn't want to piss my area Muslims off by desecrating a ceremonial offering of theirs to one of the lesser gods of their religion. What would have happened to my dog if he had actually consumed some of it?
No 70 virginal bitches in his afterlife, no doubt.


3. The area feline-population have collaborated in turning my easement into their very own pantry.

Never did like cats either, dammit.

One way or the other I plan on getting to the bottom of this long as the BOTTOM in question is not the lower depths of an area pond and my travel accomodations to said destination do not involve lead shoes, eh?


Thursday, June 10, 2004

(Insert Deep Purple's SMOKE ON THE WATER opening riff Here)

Do you have:

A self-proclaimed 'keen' ear for riffage?

An unsated need to pay homage to, say, Ted Nugent?

Excitable digits and flailing upper extremities that would (finally) make Yngwie Malmsteen hang up his axe and, by proxy, his ill-fitting leather trousers?

Low-grade Mime skills?

No shame/pride?

The inability to actually play the guitar?

If you've answered YES to all of the above I know exactly how you should be putting these qualities to good use:


(Air Amps and picks not included)

Tuesday, June 08, 2004

Pondering the Pate of Little Steven Van Zandt

Throughout his professional career, either as a musician or an actor, I have often wondered what lurks beneath Miami Steve's head scarves/bandanas and/or horrible Silvio rug (a la his Sopranos role).

A lush expanse of flowing tresses that he's deemed of such a grand nature that the public should never espy them?

Maybe a white-man's fro akin to Lindsey Buckingham's enormous head-hedge in the 70s?


A knotted and lumpy hairless scalp as a result, perhaps, from a phrenological exam gone horribly awry?

Do you hide your head because of an offhand and unintentionally hurtful comment from Clarence Clemens? Nils Lofgren? Your father?

It couldn't be a second face, could it? The face of a twin sibling that you overzealously 'absorbed' during your shared womb-time? One that you could duet with? Imagine the press!

"A new release from Little Steven Van Zandt and even Littler Steven Van Back-Face: ONE HEAD, TWO VOICES."

So, y'see how your gypsy-esque wraps and Mafioso toup tease; reveal the truth beneath!

(really hoping for the second face)

Monday, June 07, 2004


A follow-up to my June 3rd post; it appears that either Hassel the Hoff is working either working on his 'street cred' prior to the release of his Ice T produced hip hop album OR that KITT's not covering for the former 'Michael' anymore.


Friday, June 04, 2004

Embracing Change

was the title of the mandatory-attendence-required seminar I went to this morning. Being a team player I amused myself with coming up with a list of different ways one could have titled the meeting other than EMBRACING CHANGE. Here's what I have so far:

Clasping Adaption
Clinching Metamorphosis
Grasping Modifications
Embosoming Transmogrifications
Grappling Transformations
Throttling Alterations
Bearhugging Mutations

How's that for a CHANGE, buddy?


Thursday, June 03, 2004

Soundtrack to the Apocalypse Revealed

And it was so that the once mighty Tracy Marrow deemed it necessary to one-up the sheer madness of his previous recording career and/or sweep the legs out of whatever credibility he has remaining by bringing forth unto the world that which he christened Hassle the Hoff.

It was loathsome and, by its very existence, made the original Four Horsemen appear
like unto a quartet of pantywaists astride animated weiner-steeds in its utter vileness.

The Earth shuddered to a Hip-Hop beat and collapsed beneath the lyrical avalanchian flow of the former Michael Knight.

And so it goes.