Friday, August 31, 2007

timerick

"Eat all that you want and lose weight!"
"Our prices today are cut-rate!"
I need not repeat
you are what you eat;
so suckers take all of the bait.
 


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Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Another Torkildson Classic Collage!


Sleep Aids

Why are there so many sleep aids?
We're up every night in brigades.
Eight hours of sleep
no longer is cheap
when nerves have been twisted to braids.
 


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Tuesday, August 28, 2007

timerick at Walmart

I'm in Cherokee, Oklahoma, today.  I have a few hours before meeting with the circus sponsor, and will use the time to regale you with a strange tale from Arkansas City, Arkansas, where I spent the past weekend.
Just as the rosy fingers of dawn tickled the landscape on Saturday I jumped eagerly into my Ford Taurus station wagon to drive around looking for photo ops.  As many of you know, I've developed an avid, probably unhealthy, interest in photographing the country as I travel through it.  What would this dusty town in the midst of the sun-baked prairie show me that I could add to my album?  Downtown was deserted at this hour; not even a tumble weed blowing by.  There were several murals that tantalized me, so I grabbed my trusty Kodak and snapped away.  Then went back to the motel in time to get the last hard-boiled egg and stale muffin at their free continental breakfast.  I know the history books say otherwise, but I think the old saying 'not worth a continental' comes from these meagre meals. 
Anywho.  After I'd finished flossing the pill bugs out of my teeth I set off for Walmart to have my digital photos developed.  At first all went well; there was no line waiting at the developing machine and my pictures were done in a trice.  Turned out pretty nice, too.  That early morning sun always does the trick.  So I took my photos to the photo clerk to ring me up.  She was a middle-aged woman, gaining weight and losing momentum, with long gray hair done up in a bun that threatened to unravel at any moment.  She peered at my photos over the lip of her glasses with a disapproving grimace, reminding me of the librarians I had to deal with in days of yore as a child. 
"Sir" she asked mildly, "are these pictures of our downtown murals?"
"Certainly" I replied heartily.  "Fine artwork, some of em'."
"I can't let you have these back."
If life on the road teaches you anything, it teaches you that the ridiculous is always right around the corner, with no lights or turn signal on.  So I merely stared at her, mute, waiting for the inevitable nonsense.  She obliged.
"The law clearly states that you cannot take photographic images of signed artwork unless you have the written permission of the artist."  She said it as if memorized by rote from a handbook.  I suspected this was not the first time she'd said it, either.
"But my dear woman" I remonstrated, going into Ronald Colman gear, "surely those lovely murals are for the general public to enjoy and take back home as photographic memories for their albums.  I have no intention of using those pictures for anything but a reminder of my visit here."
"No, I'm sorry.  I'll have to confiscate them."
At this point I was ready to shout: "Okay, lady, but I still got 'em on my SD card and I can make copies anywhere else I damn well please -- so there, nyaaah!"  However, I wanted to see just how far I could take this photo farce.  So I asked to speak to the manager.
A tubby fellow wearing black sneakers and an insincere necktie bellied up to the bar in a few minutes, inevitably asking "What seems to be the trouble?"
I explained the idiocy to him.  He feigned deep thought, rubbing his double chins until I thought the friction would set them on fire.  He then went to the back of the photo center to thumb through a spiral notebook that undoubtedly contained the Walmart Prime Directive.  I had to beat back a wild impulse to grab my contraband photos and make a mad dash for it, with all the attending hubbub and police cars chasing after me ala Dukes of Hazard. 
"Well . . ." he drawled, "I'm probably breaking the law here but you go ahead and take them.  Just leave me your name and a phone number where you can be reached."  And don't leave town, I thought he was going to add.  So I gave him a fake name and phone number and crept out of the store, slinking to my car, eyes darting hither and yon, like a registered sex offender near a playground.
   I admit I'm a tad nervous right now.  What if that manager found out it was illegal to take those pictures?  What if he tried to call me, found out he'd been duped, and has now contacted federal authorities?  I could be on America's Most Wanted any week now!  Better lay low for a while.  Maybe Mugsy and the gang will take me in.  If I don't make it back to Minneapolis, tell my children I love them . . . . . . .


A new home for Mom, no cleanup required. All starts here.

Saturday, August 25, 2007

Timerick and Ronald McDonald

Gather round, kiddies, while Uncle Timerick tells you a tale . . .
This is a story of hamburgers, secrets, and betrayal. 
 It's early afternoon on a warm August Saturday; I'm checked into the Best Western in Arkansas City, Kansas, and I feel like rumaging through my bag of Kansas stories to wile away the hours until something good turns up on Turner Classic Movies or the Cartoon Channel.  I spent the morning down in Ponca City, Oklahoma, cutting & pasting collages, which I have mailed out to some of you; the lucky ones will never know what I'm talking about . . .
Back in 1984 I was, to put it mildly, underemployed.  This is a chronic condition with me   I was working two part-time jobs in Tioga, North Dakota; janitor at the First Lutheran Church and graveyard clerk at the local Kwiky Mart.  How I came to this sad state of affairs is a tale for another afternoon.  Suffice it to say that I was as bored as Chef Emeril at a vanilla-tasting contest.  The winter was long and rude, with Alberta clippers rushing through every so often to turn the brittle snow into enough dirty slush to choke Moby Dick.  Then the bottom would drop out of the thermometer and everything down to the marrow in my bones would freeze solid. Then came the Twist.  Ever since I gave up night lights the Twist has occured about every four years; just when things have gone from dismal to utterly nugatory a Twist occurs that sends me spinning in a new direction that I could not have imagined even if I were Charles Dickens.
In this case an old circus friend called me to say he could get me a job as a regional Ronald McDonald, if I wanted.  I wanted.
I flew out to Milwaukee to meet with a personage known as Ay Jay, an old and unhallowed carnival clown who had somehow slipped into the ranks of executive pin stripes instead of an early alcoholic grave.  Ay Jay was corporate trainer for Ronald McDonald.  As such, he had his own minivan, with a driver, and the awesome responsibility of finding and training enough Ronalds to satisfy franchise owners across the land.  He conducted a searching pre-employment interview with me at a tawdry Chinese restaurant, where he sat drinking innumerable cups of wan fu, sweet Chinese wine cut with turpentine, while I squirmed like an octopus at low tide.  Was I funny, he demanded.  How does one answer such a question -- by blowing on a kazoo while spritzing water from a seltzer bottle?  I merely lowered my eyes modestly and said that some people in show biz thought I showed promise.  He grunted noncomittedly.  There is a twenty-five page handbook that all Ronald McDonalds must follow, he purred, his eyes mere slits; could I follow the handbook, hew to it as if it were the Decalogue?  I sprang to my feet and clicked my heels while shouting "Jahwol, mine Herr!" 
This seemed to satisfy him.  We began training immediately.  Back in my motel room Ay Jay had me put on the Ronald face -- not once, but a dozen times -- until he was satisfied I could apply the warpaint in the approved, corporate manner.  Then he showed me the Red Shoe Review, a 20-minute routine good for school assemblies and other pediatric gatherings.  The Review was a melange of hoary old magic tricks that went out with bloomers and buggy whips.  Things like the magic coloring book and linking rings.  This is stuff that puts all but the most cretinish child to sleep in a matter of minutes.  Meekly I asked if there was any room in the Red Shoe Review for a little improvisation.
NO! roared Ay Jay.  This is the only performance you are allowed to give while wearing the Ronald McDonald costume and makeup.  Nothing more, nothing less.  I gave a faint "yessir" and resigned myself to memorizing every bit of twaddle exactly as Ay Jay showed me.
     I arrived back in North Dakota with a fat contract in hand from Kansas.  I would be the state's new Ronald McDonald.  The Kansas franchise owners generously paid for the move to Wichita, where I and my family settled in nicely.
     We were welcomed into the local Mormon ward but found it awkward to explain my position at McDonalds.  Rule #3 in the handbook strictly forbade me from disclosing my secret identity to anyone outside the immediate family.  So I was vague; oh, I just do promotional work for 'em. 
This seemed to satisfy everyone but the Primary President, a saintly older woman who originally came from an Ozark shack somewhere in Missouri.  It pestered her, as she put it, that this good brother never said much about his job.  Everyone else in the ward would give novella-length descriptions of the trials and tribulations of their job, but not Brother Torkildson.
Well, at length she overheard my wife and I discussing something or other about the job in the hallway one Sunday.  She pounced on me like a panther.  Oh, you must do something for the Primary!  Dismayed at being outed, I tried to fob her off with one excuse after another, but to no avail.  Unless the franchise owners okayed it, I was not to don the sacred red and yellow jumpsuit.  I told her it couldn't be done, but you know these good LDS Primary Presidents.  She simply went over my head, straight to the franchise office itself, to ask that Brother Torkildson be allowed to appear at their next Primary activity. 
  Ah well, the job wouldn't have lasted much longer anyway.  I was already improvising my head off in the Red Shoe Review, playing my musical saw and performing a bit of pantomime here and there.
   The timing of my release was impeccable.  My wife and I closed on a house Thursday afternoon. Friday morning the doctor's office called to confirm that we had another bambino on the way.  Friday afternoon I got the word that MY Services Would No Longer Be Required. 
   But not to fear!  As faithful tithe-payers we were invulnerable to despair.  Something else would turn up, as, indeed, it did, the very next week.
KSAL Radio, up in Salina, Kansas, needed an assistant news director, and through channels that seemed both mysterious and miraculous at the time, they heard about my previous radio experience and that I was now "at liberty".  Would I like the job?  I would.  Another happy ending for little Timmy Tork and his growing family.
Yes, friends, I got the job with KSAL and kept it for . . . two weeks before being fired for insubordination.
    But that, too, is a story for another drowzy Saturday afternoon.


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Friday, August 24, 2007

Yogurt

Plain yogurt was never a treat.
So marketers said "make it sweet."
Then all the ad firms
said "Now it's got germs!"
'To help your digeston be neat."
 


Now you can see trouble…before he arrives

Thursday, August 23, 2007

The Smoke Alarm

The smoke alarm saves us from dread
that we will burn up in our bed.
We drift off to sleep
forgetting to keep
the batteries from going dead.
 
 


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A Coal Mine is not a Safe Place

A coal mine is not a safe place.
But owners will try to save face.
Whenever a slide
traps miners inside
they promise more than God's own grace.
 
 


Find a local pizza place, movie theater, and more….then map the best route!

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

Vick

There once was an athlete named Vick
who did not make dogs fetch a stick.
Instead he set up
paid fights between pup.
I guess football doesn't pay quick.
 


See what you're getting into…before you go there

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Feel Good

Now "feel good" is how they express
a movie you see in a dress.
There's flowers and sighs
and sweet-hearted guys
who nibble on damp watercress.
 
 


See what you're getting into…before you go there

Monday, August 20, 2007

glutinous grime

Cold cereal at breakfast time
is not a meal to ring my chime.
Eggs bacon and toast --
of that I would boast
and not some puffed glutinous grime.
 
 


Booking a flight? Know when to buy with airfare predictions on MSN Travel.

There was an old woman

There was an old woman
who lived in a shoe.
Her mortgage was subprime
and way overdue.
 
Her lender went bankrupt
and she got the boot.
She lives in a dumpster
with over-ripe fruit.
 
 


Puzzles, trivia teasers, word scrambles and more. Play for your chance to win!

Sunday, August 19, 2007

Got Torked!

Collages from Tim!

Saturday, August 18, 2007

A Voice in the Wilderness

A voice crying in the wilderness, that's me.  I know people find romance and money sometimes on the internet, but can a schmendrick like me find a job from advertising on his own personal blog?  Let's find out:
Here's the deal.  I'm currently the publicity director for Culpepper & Merrweather Circus.  Have been so for the past two years, with winters off -- and starving.  My previous work includes circus ringmaster, circus clown, Ronald McDonald, English teacher in Thailand, tax collector in Utah, telemarketer in Minnesota, pantomime artist in Mexico, and radio news director in Sheldon, Iowa.  Eclectic, to say the least.
So what kind of work am I looking for, hmmm?
Probably radio again -- I like the sound of my own voice.
Now we get to the tricky part.  How much personal information should I post on my blog so a potential employer can contact me, without leaving myself wide open to the nut-jobs that cruise the internet looking for goslings like me?  Tell ya what I'm goin' to do . . . I post my name, snail mail address and email address.  Anyone interested in hiring yours truly can write or email.  I'll respond to any legitimate query:
 
Tim Torkildson
PO Box 813
Hugo  OK  74743
 
Now, if you use my email please put "potential employer" in the subject heading so I'll know not to flush it immediately as spam.
 


Tease your brain--play Clink! Win cool prizes!

The White House is Losing its Staff

The White House is losing its staff;
the slightest breeze moves them like chaff.
I think it's a hint
not even a mint
will give the Right Wing the last laugh.
 
 


See what you're getting into…before you go there

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

In China They Like a Good Toy

In China they like a good toy
for each little girl and good boy.
They're full of lead paint
and magnets that ain't
exactly what give doctors joy.
 
 


See what you're getting into…before you go there

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

timerick

It's not the getting.
It's the keeping.
It's not the money.
It's the heaping.
It's not the city.
It's the smog.
It's not the fleas.
It's the dog.
It's not the plumbing.
It's the bill.
It's not the illness.
It's the pill.
It's not the headache.
It's the cause.
It's not the Congress.
It's the laws.
 


See what you're getting into…before you go there

Sunday, August 12, 2007

Sunday afternoon blues

No matter how much I may try
it seems life is passing me by.
My kids are all grown.
My passions have flown.
There's nothing but crust to my pie.
 
 


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Saturday, August 11, 2007

Subprime

A mortgage considered subprime
is labeled now as a great crime.
Your credit report
must be without wart
or bankers won't lend you a dime.
 


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Friday, August 10, 2007

diet pop

People who drink diet pop
at nothing too fiendish will stop.
They probably spread
tacks on their own bed
and listen to Christian hip-hop.
 


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Timmy's Collage

Via Mail

Framing

Put a frame on anything.
Anything at all --
a toenail from the bathroom.
A piece of rubber ball.
The frame must be expensive
and clean and truly square.
There's nothing worse than slapdash
when hanging this affair.
Then stare at it profoundly
until your face is blue.
It's Art, my boy, you're making,
and piles of money too.
The grants will come a-gushing
and critics will expound
on why you are a genius
and why they are profound.

Rupert Murdoch

The Journal that comes from Wall Street
will be Rupert Murdoch's next treat.
He'll swallow it whole,
digesting its soul
until it's a Fox News repeat.

The Promised Land

The Promised Land is a concept
that some people sternly have kept.
But promised to who --
to me or to you?
Perhaps that is why Our Lord wept.

Bush

Whenever old Bush gets the urge
to boondoggle with a troop surge
we all ought to say
"you just lead the way"
and that all our problems will purge.

NOTE: The Freedom of Information Act allows a private citizen to see if he or she has a file w/the FBI.  I recently requested such information & got a neat little postcard from Homeland Security saying that yes I do have a file, which was started about a year ago.  I am not allowed to see what's in it, but it's labeled Anti-War Poetry.  So, if any of you timerick fans are nervous about getting emails from me that might be traced back to you just let me know & I'll delete you from my mailing list.  Otherwise . . .I hear the amenities at Guantanamo aren't too shabby.  No snow to worry about, either.

Oil of Olay

Oil of Olay is a racket.
Wise women surely don't back it.
The trouble is when
it comes to the men
they never love ladies who lack it.

Linsay Lohan

I've never seen a purple cow.
I've never seen a dragon.
But Lindsay Lohan has seen both
when she fell off the wagon.

Feeling Tacky

The dewey-eyed morning has come.
My mirror shows the face of a bum.
Though showered and shaved
I feel like I'm paved
with gravel and old chewing gum. 

Cars

No matter how much it may cost
the love of our cars is ne'er lost.
Though upkeep and gas
take all of our brass
without one we feel double-crossed.

Wasps & Mosquitoes

Wasps and mosquitoes conspire
to make summer living quite dire.
There's not a picnic
they cannot lick quick.
Their buzzing is Satan's own choir.

Romance

Romance isn't something I crave
that once turned me into a slave.
Pursue it?  Hardly!
Let love look for me.
It only makes sane people rave.

Paris Hilton

Our Paris is going to jail,
where nobody cares if you're frail.
She might embarass
guards as a heiress
who pouts over every chipped nail.

---?---

A Marine cannot get a tatoo.
You can spit on the Red, White & Blue.
Porn is protected.
Children neglected.
So tell me just who can I sue?

Bridges

The bridge you are driving on now
is ready to do a kow-tow.
The money we spend
for war has no end.
But maintenance we don't allow.
 

Fat People

Fat people watching their weight.
Rich people pulling their freight.
Dumb people on scholarships.
Poor people leaving big tips.
Ugly girls curling their hair.
Babies in clean underwear.
Everyone wishing to hope
no noose at end of the rope.

China Olympics

Olympics in China -- a joke.
You get better air if you smoke.
The water is grey
with chemical whey.
The hygiene would make houseflies choke.