Letter to the Editor: Trombonist Monthly

(We at Lincoln’s Trombone are proud to present this editorial and honored that our forum was chosen to break it first!)

Dear Ed:

I am a charter subscriber of your magazine. In fact, I can trace my family roots back to possession of the original Gutenberg edition of “die Holzblasinstrumente bumsen!” (Literally, **** the woodwinds) We have been loyal throughout the life span of the various publications that has become to be known as Trombonist Monthly (including “Sousaphone and sassafras”, “Trigger, the magazine for women trombonists” and more recently, “Slide Greasers”. It’s been a long and rewarding journey, UNTIL NOW।

I was incensed beyond reason to read your most recent editorial “Times be a changin!; Love a fellow woodwind”. The very thought of the words in this article bring bile to my throat (causing me to miss a high “C” when playing Moonlight Serenade at the local monthly karaoke and tuning meeting) It is simply too preposterous for words, but I shall persevere. It is a common belief, and has been since the invent of brass, that woodwinds are of lesser nobility (if at all noble), and good for only one thing (and I think you know what I mean). These ‘skirts’ of music provide much needed recreation and refreshment between sets. They do what they are told, they are subservient in all ways to us. In earlier days, dare I say it, they were ‘indentured’ to the brass.
The notion that they should be equal is ridiculous enough; the idea that they are to be equally loved and cherished is heresy। I caution to take care with your words. The last time this ‘notion’ was forward, it ended ugly in the spit valve incident of ‘53. I don’t think any of us want to return to that, do we? (I mean, for heaven’s sake, man, how do you compare fast fingering to the stroke of the slide?)

I have contacted the local 101st about this piece (of you know what)। Actions will be taken, up to and including CANCELLATION OF MY SUBSCRIPTION (yeah, you read that right).

I eagerly await your response in this space।

TROMBONISTS UNITE!

Jonas Slot

Blow Me: Lincoln's Mailbag

Dear General Fester: Love the name, bro, reminds me of an ex-girlfriend. I travel frequently around the world, recently in the UK. My question, specifically relates to British pop and something that bothers me (it nearly cost me the 5th set): Why do guilty feet have no rhythm? Signed: Roger F.

Dear Champ: Thanks for the props. (BTW, did anyone ever tell you that you look a bit like Quentin Tarantino?) Great question, the answer is quite simple, though. Consider the source of the song. Random gay sex with a variety of lovers makes for an awkward gait. Imagine trying to dance the samba with a fresh baguette inserted, proctologist style. Even worse, if you were cheating on your ‘baker’? I think you get my point. (PS: You are pronating your wrist on your forehand volley)

Dear General Fester: You’ve recently posted a thought provoking piece about Gilligan. You failed to answer the age old question: Ginger or MaryAnn? Signed: John Weekly

Dear Long baller: You are smarter than the average bear. In asking the question, you reference my picnic question, HERE. (And Yogi knows something about pic-i-nic baskets, if you hear what I’m sayin’...) Let me answer your question with a question: Do you prefer an expensive, but rare ahi-tuna from the finest restaurant in Hollywood? OR, Do you prefer the luscious sweet peach of a roadside stand in paradise? It’s easy, my friend; screw the tuna, eat the peach. (PS:Hope your sports gambling goes well!)

Dear Duke: I'm not sure what coagulation is, but I do have a personal health question. What exactly is Smegma? Thanks in advance! Signed: Michigan Wolverine

Dear M Go Goo: Perhaps this mental image will help: Think of the worst head cold you ever experienced. Now replace your nose with a foreskin.

General Fester: What the hell is a Yeat’s Beast? (Does it taste like chicken?) Did you vanquish the b*tch or does it still seek your blood? Signed: OJS Trojan

Dear Rubber: Very interesting notion. Have any tips for a rookie? (PS: Keep writing, you'll get it right one of these days.....)

Duke: You seem to have a high interest in romantic poetry. How do I talk to my girlfriend about public farting? Signed: S. Dakota Collegian

Dear SBD-sniffing SDC: It's the question that writers of love sonnets have been asking for centuries: What rhymes with flatulence? As others before you have found out, it's best to go with a synonym. Something like: That you are my gal makes me ever so proud/Except when you crank out a nasty-ass cloud.

(For more on Romanticists, see MUSINGS.)

Duke: Please discuss the influence of Jungian philosophy on monk candidates with cleft palettes hailing from Alabama. Signed: Dog-Eared Paul

Listen up, Dawwwwg: You may have me confused with someone else. I am wholly dedicated to helping those with cleft PALATES and could literally talk for hours on how Bahá'í theory alone built Mobile's best craniofacial clinics. But frankly, why monks would use split boards to hold their watercolors is beyond me.

CONFIDENTIAL TO LINDSAY L: His name is Thomas Mesereau

10 Festering Questions

1. Is this site finally finished with the Harry Potter crap?

2. Why is “ssssss” the universal sound effect for taking a leak?

3. Since Venus spins in a backward rotation, would defensive backs have the advantage there?

4. Hypothetically speaking, how well would a feral cat have to perform on an American Idol-type show if the judges were all bunnies?

5. Who would win a fart-off between students from USC (a lot of Mexican restaurants there), Florida (Cuban food), and Ohio State (with their Polish sausages and cheap beer)?

6. Is there no way the grammar police won’t do what their critics didn’t say they wouldn’t?

7. If Montana and South Dakota were one big state, would it be any less remote than New Hampshire?

8. Why do rock & rollers pretend they’re cowboys?

9. And who do they think they’re fooling?

10. Is it really 2 guys writing this blog, or 1 guy writing under 2 different names?

Rejected Harry Potter plotlines....

Harry enters a bordello, run by a certain Luna Lovegood, expecting the Friday night special. Instead, the Weasley brothers plant a sucking violet in the room. Harry gets blue balls and hilarity ensues!

Ron and Hermione decide to test her ‘blood purity’ in the broom closet. As Ron begins the test he realizes that he is stroking Mrs. Norris instead! (wrong pussy)

We meet Willie Widepecker, a famous Hufflepuff, who gave Moaning Myrtle her name.

Snape shows up to the Christmas dance in stiletto heels (LAST year’s design), leather bustier (fringed in feathers) and a smart, but sassy mini-skirt. He says that he has learned to ‘obey the dark lord’.

OJ is tried for the murders of Albus Dumbledore and Sirius Black. He is convicted and sentenced to watching Cagney and Lacey reruns.

Quidditch is banned from the school after the Slytherin team takes the field in the buff, and introduces a new maneuver; the reach around.

Erik Estrada becomes the next headmaster, showing that he knows more about mastering head than anyone on the planet, wizard OR muggle.

End of the Harry Potter franchise? I don’t think so!

Voiceover:
New on FOX this fall…

From the makers of Trapper John, M.D….

Orphan Jeffrey Number 655 learns the shocking truth: He is actually the illegitimate son of none other than the great Albus Dumbledore. Stunned by the news, he also knows that he has only one chance to live his own life. He must move out of England, away from the shadow of his famous father. Jeffery sets out to find his own fortune, landing in Tulsa.

This fall, Paul Rodriguez is…

Jeff Dumbledore, P.I.

He’s tough.

Scene: Jeff questioning a perp.

Perp: “Hey Brit-boy! Why’s your name sound so familiar? And what’s the deal with the wand? Hey, wait a sec—"

Jeff: “And why are you changing the subject, punk? I think it’s time I kicked your a**!”

Voiceover: He’s tender.

Scene: Jeff dining with a beautiful woman.

Woman: “I don’t know what—or whom—you’re running from. But I’m glad you ended up with me.”

Jeff: “Sure thing, hon. You want pepperoni on your half?”

He’s complex.

Scene: Jeff talking to a Tulsa street cop.

Jeff: “Why do you Americans say number 2 when every time you sit down to do both, you crap first?”

But most of all, he’s good…oh yeah…real good!

Scene: Two beat cops talking.

Cop 1: “Well, Dumbledore solved another one. I don’t know how he does it. It’s like he’s got something to prove.”

Cop 2: “The magic doesn’t hurt either.”

Coming to FOX this fall…

Jeff Dumbledore, P.I.

Check your local listings.

Trading Places, Part 1: Gilligan and Gil Grissom

An ongoing series, profiling the likely differences on TV shows when the lead characters trade places….

Gilligan has to resolve a work problem between Catherine and Sara; who’s picnic should he eat?

Grissom and the professor butt heads over who made the best centrifugal grinding mill using coconuts and banana leaves.

At a recent crime scene, Gilligan digs into the sand, looking for a vic, instead finds hidden treasure and Mr. Howell is dispatched to determine the rightful owner.

Grissom convinces Ginger that his “DNA Testing Rod” is used orally.

Gilligan is propositioned by a Vegas hooker, but opts for a fat chick that calls him “Lil Buddy”

Grissom is enraged to find that Mrs. Thurston J. Howell III is holding a white party after Labor Day.

Nick beats the sh!t out of Gilligan when he discovers that Gilligan has been using his hair wax to plug bullet holes.

Grissom is rudely awakened by a burning sensation in his bunghole. The skipper smilingly sleeps in the cot below.

Gilligan convinces the staff to take a short excursion to Lake Mead. They are never seen again.

Grissom escapes the island with Harold Hecuba, and stars in his new hit production: CSI: The Musical.

Ranking Nothing in Particular

What a difference 4.4 centuries make:

Top 5, July 18, 2007

1. Au jus from lightly broiled right fielder spleen
2. Electric balloons, up to and including the nubs who floss anywhere near them
3. Crayon-shaped pork in a downpour of rennin
4. Cleavage rangers and their assholier-than-thou attitudes
5. Mountaineers, Huskers, and Razorbacks who claim to be from Vermont-New Hampshire border towns, despite being seen repeatedly on the Montana side of the Dakotas


Top 5, June 5, 1561

1. Nostradamus’ recent prediction of OU 63 Whorns 14, whatever the hell that means
2. Mary, Queen of Scots: For my money, the finest piece of Scottish Royalty ass since Elizabeth Electress Palatine
3. That imaginary place where flicked boogers go to die
4. The excessive hype surrounding the Fourth Battle of Kawanakajima—hey, the third wasn’t exactly chopped goat turd!
5. Wondering why someone doesn’t hurry up and invent toilet paper

On Asterisks; A lost work of Percy Shelley

I found this on a bathroom wall, but we believe it to be authentic.

What the f*** is love? Ask the son of a b**ch who lives; what the he*l is life; who ‘s piece of s**t fu**stick brother ate my sisters **** raw (and left their spoon up my a**?)

I know not the **** size of other men, but I do know the little pe***r you call a tool. I haven’t measured it, to be sure, my love, but only small animals revel in its visage.

Thou demandest what is Love? It is that powerful attraction toward sticking your hard throbbing p****s into to the chasm of my waiting **** and if the mood strikes, into my proctologic*l zone. If we reason, we would be understood( that f***ing and su****g and the courtesy of a reach aro*nd are better than l*cking and fl*cking) If we feel, it better f***king make me shoot my j**ce . It is probably in correspondence with the law that the infant drains milk from its Mother (lucky *****). This is fu***ng love……(manuscript fades….)

Ask Mr. Meeting

Dear Mr. Meeting: I recently informed my task force that any outcome measures we derive would necessitate new pedagogy and are thus best reported within empirical support rubrics. My co-chair argued that a demonstration of multitasking relevant to the de rigueur substructure is intrinsic to our (or any) organizational strategic imperatives. I won the day but am now having second thoughts as to whether she was correct. Alpha Co-Chair

Dear Alf: Given the limitations inherent in the proposed alternative, it was appropriate to divert the task force toward rubric compilation. However, had Ms. Co-Chair used the phrasing “organizational strategic assumptions” (which, you’ll have to admit, may be what she had in mind), the correct response would have been to facilitate feedback toward long-range objectives.


Dear Mr. Meeting: While debating specific internal/external factors to include in the organizational mission statement, the committee chair assigned 3 of us to a subcommittee to explore the company’s vision vis-à-vis market instability, opportunities, directions, and competition. At the time, I didn’t think much about it, but now I’m wondering whether process development could be compromised by an executive action of this sort. What do you think? Associate Subcommittee Head

Dear AssSubHead: Such an assignment sounds more like a task force than a subcommittee, and thus any questions regarding process are secondary to the implementation of prerogatives. Openly question your chair’s ability to facilitate a supportive environment and watch how fast he or she pays attention to amending organizational infrastructure!


Dear Mr. Meeting: I have to confess: I hate meetings. Whenever I’m in one, I spend the entire ordeal checking and rechecking my watch and thinking about the portion of my life that doesn’t concern budgetary priorities, Robert’s Rules of Order, aligning goals to imperatives, or mechanisms for realizing long term outcomes. Please provide some feedback in order that I might facilitate a decline in the instability of my attention to task. The Master of “Meeting Be Hating”

Dear Master B’Hating: You just asked me for “feedback” to “facilitate” greater stability. In other words, there’s nothing to worry about: You’ll be one of the gang in no time.


Dear Mr. Meeting: During, say, the compilation of strategic planning initiatives, I like to wait for junior executives to express new ideas regarding prioritization of novel resources in ways the CEO terms “outside the box,” after which I roll my eyes, sigh, and say something like, “Why not just have a f****** hoagie sale, Mortimer?” In your opinion, how quickly will this strategy fast-track a promotion over these half-brains? A Whole Brain

Dear A-Whole: Please kill yourself. Then never write to me again.


Dear Mr. Meeting: After a recent meeting on updating service delivery options, a really hot female member of the sales force told me she’d “do anything” to be part of the revenue source research initiative. How much should I read into that comment? Married Guy

Dear Mary: If you’re asking what I think you are, allow me to point out that your thoughts are quite inappropriate, not to mention unprofessional. Now please excuse Mr. Meeting, as he suddenly feels an urge to visit the bathroom.

Jethro Tull’s impact on Sardine Production in Portugal: An Empirical Perspective

Do you ever crave a pilchard? Ever wrap your lips around a brisling or slid?

If so, you immediately understand the sensation of the tongue that only can come from a nice slid sardine uhmmm, ‘slid’ down the throat (packed in a bit of garlic!)

But this isn’t about that. It’s about a noble work by a noble band for a lesser fish from a lesser place.

On November 5, 2000, the aforementioned group (NOTE TO COWBOYS: Jethro Tull is NOT a person) played such a concert from which legends are borne. It’s said that Ian Anderson literally brandished his bouzouki in front of the throng, flailing upon it until streams of hot liquid rock magma erupted forth, delighting the entire crowd (other than the front two rows). Upon climaxing, he reached for his trusty concert series flute and tongued with the passion of Candy Loving. Were that not enough, in tribute to the flute legend, Mr. Ron Burgundy, he ‘gripped his tool’, made a wish and the fair ‘tuna’ in attendance swooned and passed out.

After that night, Portugal surpassed all countries in value of exports to the country of France. (We surrender, we surrender!) A fact, unchanged since that day.

While many of you think of this blog as ‘tripe’ (another fish, another day), it is our aim to inform of lesser known, though completely true stories.

Later this month: Troy Aikman licks his favorite philatelic fan……

The Lost Writings of Shakespeare

The Bard’s early attempts at coachspeak:


Strut your effort 110%
And failure ne’er we’ll meet.

We toil to take
What the defense bequeaths us.

When others cry havoc
Must you then dig deep.

Mine preference is for luckiness over goodness.

Rough-hewn this contest will unfold;
So strap it on and play nobly as hell.

Losing grandly is not a sin.
But neither is to win ugly.

Play flat and fortune’s fool shall you be.

Oft’ times ‘tis less the skill of the warrior
Than whose desire is greatest.

Aggression can be but a shadow of life.
Allow thus the contest to come to you.

Be not a coward in pursuing greatness,
But instead be all you wish to be.

Play together as a band of brothers:
Battle ye with alacrity
And chemistry.

Attempt not to grasp unreachable stars
Rather, play within thine own self.

Overheard on a cruise ship......

10 things, heard recently on a cruise ship:

1. This food is awful; and the portions are so small.
2. Do these stairs go up or down?
3. I wonder if the crew sleeps onboard?
4. Does the ship make it's own electricity?
5. Those toilets will suck your nuts right down to the ocean!
6. Al Kaline couldn't hold Willie Keeler's jock strap (a small scuffle ensued)
7. I prefer LeKinff to Tarkay (what the hell?)
8. But how do you KNOW they are Cuban?
9. Sexual frustration is simply a matter of personal preference, just ask any Cowboy goat owner.
10. You look something like Ajax the Greater, without the muscle.

A Surrealist Dog on a Family Vacation

Tuesday
Family loads car. Wag tail. Wag. Wag and prance. Wag, dammit! Want to go. Let me in. Letting me in!! Car going. Must push head outside window! Ensuing pain. Windows all closed. Lay down to sleep. Kids asking when we’ll be there. Trees rush by, their dander forming screaming scepters of meaningful depth.

Car slowing down. Jump up! Wag tail! Wag more! Let me out! Rest stop! Leash on, leave car. Pee here. Pee there. Pee again. Wonder how deviled eggs would fare against a jury of diseased cat carcasses.

Back in car. To sleep. Dream of granite tadpoles with the haunting accents of long dead languages.

Wednesday
Kids in pool. Splashing, yelling. I run. Must run. Circling pool, barking. Meat hooks travel, yet are no match in time for cigarette smoking ne’er-do-wells.

Dinnertime. Left in hotel room alone. Make squealing noise. Bark at jerkball pounding on wall. Still alone. Take dump. Wipe ass across carpet. Ideas become confetti for a missing dachshund’s wake.

Thursday
State park. Spend day on leash. Nature trails. Hot, all frackin day. Run some, but too damn hot. Wish for toilet to drink from. Splotches of calico are the train that grants destruction of Scottish pines.

Friday
City streets. No run, just walk and walk and walk more. Sniff public mailbox. OK to pee on. Man playing saxophone. Must pee some more. Kids run by statue I’d like to pee on, but leash tied to bench. Who wasn’t there when dripping definitions cast well-schooled humans wholesale from clavicular to fasciculus?

Saturday
Car ride to coast. Run from family when arrive. Take leak in sand. Drink salt water. Eat beach grass. Puke in car on way back to hotel. Puppies with ravioli selling their dreams to the city.

Sunday
Returning home. Sleep until car stops. Large dog at rest stop. Sniff butt, but detect no identifiable indicators. Arrive at house. Take dump in familiar lawn. Time for more sleep. If you’ve a Snausage for a thumb, gaze upon my testicles.