Dingleboy
Dancing on the volcano’s rim, criminal rhymes, Flint MacColl on ‘the plan,’ incident at Dingleboy
“Man’s going about in his Jack Peters, and I’m out here dancing on the rim of the volcano, baby.” — The Investor, William Stakely Pried (Penguin Underground, 1997)
Though the dump he took was massive The excuse he gave was mousey I say for stinking up the house, he Ought to receive eight or nine Rather mighty whacks Instead, they gave ovations For his noisome eliminations It seems nobody here gives even the slightest crap
— limerick, recorded by Cameron Adair, Lancashire, England, 1958
I understand that they rhyme, sir, but you have confused ignorance for confidence.
“Once they use you up at meaningless jobs and poorly thought-out procreation, they leave you to abuse your possibly younger, still-liberal neighbors as a low-boil-to-raging reactionary for the remaining twenty-five years of unaffordable illness their ‘lifestyle’ of booze, beef, and bullshit spectatorship has created for you. And this is the plan.”
Flint MacColl (from the Harvard Divinity School lecture, transcribed by Fabiano Marizziola, Cambridge, Massachusetts, 2002)
To will oneself not to prevent something harmful from happening to others is a coward’s form of murder. And suicide.
Farell: I’d just stepped out to meet the kid coming over from the Dingleboy. You like that Dingleboy over on the fifty-seven? They make a good bacon double burger. Damn right. I do like to have a few of them when the game is on. But the kid is going down the street, and I’m looking up, and the next thing I remember is that it’s like the whole scene—everything in my vision—goes ker-splat.
Coomb: Ker-splat?
Farell: Yeah, like it squashed down flat and looked like a whole scene were on an angle, like a picture on a tilted record cover. And coming up from that is this flat circle. Like a record lifting off the top of the record cover. If you get my drift.
Coomb: You getting this down, Ross?
Roman: I’m getting it all down, Ted. Flat disk lifting off a record cover. Ker-splat.
Coomb: What’s the next thing you remember, Mr. Farell?
Farell: Well, after that, I remember plain as day the ker-splat un-kers-platting. The flat circle’s gone. The image comes back to real life. Like the 3D got turned on again. And I’m standing out there on the front lawn, but it’s dark, and I’m just holding my darn Dingleboy in one hand. Except it’s cold. That darn Dingleboy gone cold as ice.
