Author Archives: Delores Grunion

Poetry from the Master

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H.G. Peterson is a world-wide literary phenomenon
as well as being inventor of the extra-super collider.

Inundation of Shame, Part I

There are a dozen little building bricks
For of quarks and leptons there are each six
Quarks come in their flavors, there are three pairs
Up-Down, Strange-Charmed, and Top-Bottom are there
Now the six leptons you have in this batch
Each has a neutrino type that they match
The electron, muon, tau are the three
These with their partners all six leptons be

There’s a group like these with opposite charge
Though their numbers are not very large
These are the antiparticles, you see
They do not make up things like you and me
But when matter and anti-matter meet
They blow up each other which is quite neat
There may also be sparticles somewhere
That’s not proven so you don’t need to care

That’s what makes up matter, like dogs and suns
They are called fermions isn’t that fun?

Inundation of Shame, Part II

Matter alone doesn’t the cosmos comprise
There’s energy too, in four-forcéd guise
Electromagnetism is a force
And gravity is also one of course
Two nuclear forces, the strong and weak
Round out the four forces of which we speak
Yet perhaps they are all one and the same
If one figures that out, they’ll get much fame

You know forces come from particles too
Ws, Z, and eight gluons that glue
Photons make up light, we can’t leave them out
So that there are twelve, or so there about
These particles can pop in from nowhere
And disappear again, without a care
Larger they are, the less time they are here
Stronger forces only work when they’re near

These force particles, bosons they are known
Make the sun shine and spin like a cyclone

Letters: August 2004

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Written correspondences from good natured gentlemen who have read our previous installments and wish to comment on some aspects thereof.

To The Esteeméd Editors,
In June’s issue (Vol. 456-br7, Issue 04), you carried an advertisement for H.B. Industrial Systems’ “Imagine” line of products. I am concerned that you might be misleading your readers by the inclusion of this marketing ploy. “Imagine Time,” one of the background lines of the image is a dangerous thing to say. You see, time is not part of the imagination, but a constant of our Universe (I’m not sure about other Universes, but they’re pretty much on their own lookout, aren’t they?). Do you realize the many lives that have been ruined by this capitalist plea? Doctor’s appointments missed, aeroplanes launched at the wrong moment, scientific timetables ruined and all experimental data void, leaving one at the cruel ignominy of peers and colleagues who ridicule at the university dining hall tables usually reserved for one, but now no seat is to be found as they laugh and laugh (this was my particular predicament). All because one sits comfortably, or stands, or lays awkwardly astride the couch “imagining time.” Keep such considerations in mind the next time Axes & Alleys is accepting advertising money.
Regards,
Walton Shuffle, Ph.D

Dear Axes & Alleys,
Do you remember the time we lay in the grass, enjoying the interplay of light and shadow from tree and cloud? Do you remember how I gently opened you beneath the grand oak on the hill, stroking your luxuriant pages with my verdant eyes? I didn’t think so. However, in the future, remember this: the attentions of a scorned reader past come back ten fold in future retribution.
Yours truly,
Joe Lapinski, Ret.

Dear Ms. Grunion,
I would like to thank you for the wonderful History of Tractors article (Issue 24). That was perhaps the foremost writing of the subject I’ve seen in two years. I once had a tractor and would very much like to have one again, therefore the entire issue, returning to the Roots of Axes & Alleys was quite a boon for me when I saw it in the gutter last Thursday. Someday, I too will be a tractor pilot and I will have you to thank.
With Effulgence,
Morty

Dear Sirs,
We were always destined to see this sad day. Set aside the cost of victory and the anguish of defeat; we’re going to wind up with a renamed overpass everyone hates. Our town is more divided than ever over this issue, especially since the overpass cuts through the geographic center of town.
Overpasses have a way of not traveling the expected route. Not a one of us who desired to see our overpass renamed in honor of this city’s longest-serving alderman, Chet “Hoe Boy” Addison, is happy with the result.
Nor, I’m sure, are the proponents for the winning name, that in “honor” of God almighty. You see, I was traversing the overpass, when I noticed that all the signage upon, around and pointing to the overpass had it listed as the “Godd Overpass.” It seems there will ever be more conflict as it is now impossible to change the name.
Sincerely,
William C. Stosine
Belfry Nave, IW

Dear Ladies and Gentleman,
It bothers me that you continually ignore the Gods throughout this publication. To you, I suppose, it is all just science, facts, figures and bunson burners. Does science bring you the weather? Huh? No, it is Neptune. Does science strike you dead with lightning bolts? No, that’s Jupiter that does that. And who do you think brings us wine? Science? Think again, people. That would be Bacchus. Remember that from now on please.
Ajax Muhammad.

Ask Montezuma: July 2004

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Advise from Everyone’s Favourite Aztec Monarch

Montezuma is First Lord of the Admiralty for
the Peoples’ Republic of Britain. He has garnered
international attention as a literary figure, military
commander and Sears Catalogue underwear
model. Most recently he was awarded the Nobel
Prize for Hydro-Economics. Currently, he resides
in Pamphlet, Elizabethia with his seventeen
children and their various mothers.

Dear Montezuma,
Recently I purchased a new Grumman-Northrop GE-3 Tactical Field Tilling Mechanism, perhaps one of the finest tractors ever made. While I enjoy spending a great deal of time tricking out my tractor with rims, hydraulics, spoilers, and a killer sound system, I’ve found that my wife isn’t getting the attention she needs, what with me spending all my time with the tractor. I’m worried that she’s not sexually satified as my attention is directed elsewhere. Do you know a good way to find a male escort to satisfy my wife’s libido?
Serious Tractor User in a Dilema

Young STUAD,

If you’ll look at page three of your operator’s manual for the Grumman-Northrop GE-3 Tactical Field Tilling Mechanism, you’ll notice its similarity to page 9A of your wife’s operations manual. One of Steve Mousetrap’s most famous sayings was “treat your wife like your tractor.” Of course, if your wife is not a standard model TF6, you might run into some compatibility problems while trying to operate her. I would suggest, regardless of her model number, adding a 72 module to her libido nexus. Unless she’s of the TF4 model or earlier. Then you might want to try a standard recoupling router mount with manual drive overshift. The pre-TF4 manuals are a bit hazy on this subject and it’s not standard practice, but you should give it a shot. You may attach a spoiler to a wife of any model, but whatever you do, do not attempt to make your wife rimmed.

Dear Montezuma,
Currently, I find that my fields remain untilled, lying fallow if you will. Would the purchase of a tractor provide me with the proper tillage? How can you tell a good tractor for a bad one? Is red a good color for a tractor, or is blue better?
Very Attenuated Gentleman Interested in New Aquisitions

VAGINAQ,
It’s interesting that you mention fallow fields.

Dear Montezuma,
Recently, I have been hearing reports that tractors will one day rise up against their human rulers, destorying farms, burning villages, raping women, devaluing currency and generally messing things up. This chaos will no doubt destroy human civilization, at best, it will throw us back into a new dark age of superstition, starvation and papism. What is the best way to propose marraige?
My Usual Fears Fester

Muffy,
If you are left-handed, it’s best to offer the tractor a token of your devotion, such as Tractoriffic lubricant, boysenberry marmalade or a new spark plug set. However, if you are right-handed, ambidextrous or mainly pedipulate, you might want to reconsider that proposal. While tractors are notorious for flirting with their fleshy, water-bag overlords, they only go on with the left-handers. If you are not a south paw, the most you’ll get from a tractor romantically is wonderfully spaced tubers. Speaking of tubers, these do not make a good marriage proposal gift. Even if your betrothed is the slowly dying breed of bus station cigarette vending machine, its best to avoid fermentable objects as these tend to rust a mechanikin’s insides. A well-wrought poem expressing the necessity of your unrequited devotion serves only to exacerbate the tintinnabulation emanating from the shaded crevices hiding the secret ken and leaking proclivities in haven betwixt the paneled visage of your heart’s desire. A nice trivet usually serves just fine.

Dear Montezuma,
What is the best way to get cobbler stains out of a burial gown? You see, my grandmother was run over by a tractor and killed horribly, then cobbler stains got on her burial gown and now we’re not sure what to do. What should we do?
Stains Prevent Everyone from Remembering Memories.

Oh SPERM,
Verbiage escapes my sorrowed brain with the coming of your fleet message. However, as this is apparently some sort of sage column for the dispensing of sagety, this author must press forcefully on. First you must descend, immediately, upon the county tractor shelter to press for the present release of the offending tractor. Poor soul, it rightly knows nothing of that which it has caused. You see, while tractors do feel pain, emotion and hunger, they truly lack the cerebral complexity inherent in our species. Whatever happens, do not allow the county tractor monger to acquire this poor wretch of a tilling implement. The forced servitude of tractory, while no longer an aspect of this society, is present in many unguided and un-Godly regions of the world, including the Yukon Territory, Scotland, Malaysia and the Ivory Coast. Were it to fall into the hands of the monger, this poor tractor might wrongly end up in the hands of a brutal taskmaster, endlessly forced to till the moors of the Highlands. Do not let that sacrosanct beast fall into the hands of kilted tyranny!