Bad T'ings Mek Joke: Jamaican Humor

An elderly Jamaican man lay dying in his bed. While suffering the agonies of impending death, he suddenly smelled the aroma of his favorite Jamaican pastry, Gizzada, wafting up the stairs. He gathered his remaining strength, and lifted himself from the bed. Leaning against the wall, he slowly made his way out of the bedroom, and with even greater effort, gripping the railing with both hands, he crawled downstairs. With labored breath, he leaned against the doorframe, gazing into the kitchen.

Were it not for death's agony, he would have thought himself already in heaven, for there, spread out upon waxed paper on the kitchen table were literally dozens of Gizzadas.

Was it heaven? Or was it one final act of heroic love from his devoted wife of sixty years, seeing to it that he left this world a happy man? Mustering one great final effort, he threw himself towards the table, landing on his knees in a rumpled posture. His parched lips parted, the wondrous taste of the Gizzada was already in his mouth, seemingly bringing him back to life.

The aged and withered hand trembled on its way to a Gizzada at the edge of the table, when it was suddenly smacked with a 'dutch-pot' by his wife......

"Move yu back-side," she said, "Dem ya a fe you nine-nite!"

There is something quintessentially Jamaica in this joke that I suspect some North American readers, even if they got past the language, would not understand or even think was funny—it transgresses political correctness that attempts to shield us from harsh realities. Others would recoil in horror: how could the death of a spouse be funny? But the more I think about the joke, the more I howl and hold my belly—as I am sure many other Jamaicans are doing. For only a people who have endured the Middle Passage, slavery, and colonialism could have the resiliency to find humor in the dukkhas of life.

And isn’t that the essence of humor? As the Yiddish writer Romain Gary (somewhere there is a paper that should be written about the similarities between Yiddish and Caribbean literature) once said, “Humor is an affirmation of dignity, a declaration of man’s superiority to all that befalls him.” Or as we say, "Tek kin teet kibba heart bu'n"

Yet, this kind of gallows humor is not particular to Jamaica. In fact, in the Eastern Caribbean the comical banter, picong, that is played out in the streets and in calypsos frequently engages the fine line between humor and insult. (see Derek Walcott’s “The Spoiler’s Return”). And it is only a gifted comic, aware of the material and the audience, who can successfully navigate the boundaries (Omo ode, koni kosi Ibara ago, ago moyuba Eleggua Eshu Lona) or else become the butt of the joke with serious injuries!

In reggae, too, this awareness of the simultaneity of ecstasy and despair, the double-edgedness of existence is evident even in a seemingly innocent song about universal brotherhood, “One Love” by Bob Marley, which contains this apocalyptic warning:

Let's get together to fight this Holy Armagiddyon (One Love!),
So when the Man comes there will be no, no doom (One Song!).
Have pity on those whose chances grows t'inner;
There ain't no hiding place from the Father of Creation

But what nurtures this tragicomic (some would say macabre) view of life? As the dean of Jamaican comedic writing, Anthony C. Winkler, states in Trust the Darkness: My Life as a Writer: “Humour has an element of the absurd in it, but there is always also present an undergirding of logic” (381-382). Winkler knows this. He knows funny. His many books, which include The Lunatic and Dog War, share a common premise: a sane person in an insane situation. The insanity is usually manifested by an antagonist who follows a rigid code despite all evidence to the contrary that the system s/he supports does not work. Or as he further explains in Trust The Darkness, the difference between the Jamaica and American outlook:

I would point to the theatricality that dominates the practice of everyday business in America. The poor kid behind the counter cooking hamburgers is expected not only to do the job but also to reflect his employer’s corporate image with all its virtues. It is not enough to merely get the job, you also have to put on a uniform and act as if you have been transformed from an individual into a spear carrier in a corporate army…Tied in with this theatricality is a strong characteristic of the American outlook to see everything in ideological and abstract terms. Jamaicans, on the other hand, are more pragmatic than ideological (428).

In these kinds of situations, much like many circumstances that seem insurmountable, the only alternative, the only weapon of the powerless against the powerful is humor. (Nation Language and Anancy stories share this common root of resistance.) The protagonist refuses to succumb to the madness that surrounds him, no matter how logical it seems. And what was more logical than a system that needed enormous amounts of human capital in order to sustain itself? Or an immigration system that caused the kinds of dislocations that Sam Selvon wrote about in “Waiting for Aunty to Cough”?

Writers such as Selvon, Winkler, and Naipaul (before his wit became savage) have long discerned the secret of humor: there is an undeniable bond and truth in laughter. If your oppressor laughs with you, then s/he has recognized the human connection. None of the guns, rockets, and IEDs can eradicate that link, and the opportunity for change becomes apparent. You can't laugh and curse in the same breath. And even if the oppressor is as implacable as death, humor asserts that it is how we live our lives--joyously and fearlessly--that matters.

If death is the closing parenthesis on the fiction of every human life, then humor is the asterisk that proclaims the dignity of human life despite the many absurdities. It produces the kind of humor that my history teacher at Jamaica College, the late James Carnegie, reveled in as he punished us: “It hot, but hush” [trans. “It hurts, but hush”]. This is humor that heals.

***

This post is part of a group write project “What I Learned From Laughter” at Middle Zone Musings and Pamela Mordecai’s post, “Writing Out of the Culture.”

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• A conversation with Derek Walcott (poefrika.blogspot.com)
• Introduction to Derek Walcott @ CABA: Carole Boyce Davies (geoffreyphilp.blogspot.com)
• Derek Walcott @ Caribbean American Book & Art Fair (geoffreyphilp.blogspot.com)

Geoffrey Philp for President!

Follow the Link Below to Vote for Geoffrey Philp!

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Junot Diaz @ Books and Books, Miami

Junot Diaz seemed relaxed last night as he flipped through the pages of his long awaited novel, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, and began his reading to a capacity audience at Books and Books with two simple questions, "How have you guys been? It's been like what, ten years?"

Junot laughed and the audience enjoyed his light banter with a group of University of Miami graduate students, seated in the two front rows, as he talked about the craft of writing, influences, inspiration and rewriting, "I realized I was really going to be a writer when I found out that that this book was going to take at least ten years." When he was pressed by a member of the audience about the intervening time span, he responded, "Some books come easily and some books come hard. This one was carved out of me."

The first excerpt that he read was from the "Wildwood" section of the book, written in second person, about Yola, the protagonist's twelve year old sister, and her relationship with their mother, Belicia. After giving the audience a few minutes to recover, Diaz entertained a few more questions.

Many in the audience were well-acquainted with the novel and one reader admitted to having read it through in one night. She said she came to the reading to get an explanation about the many footnotes in the book. Junot attributed the use of footnotes to the influence of Martinican author Patrick Chamoiseau, and when he faltered with the pronunciation of Chamoiseau's name, he called upon his friend, Edwidge Danticat, to help him and she obliged. He explained the use of the footnotes this way: "The idea of writing footnotes was to create a counterpoint to the coherent authoritative story. The novel frequently falls into the trap of the persuasive story without opposition. The footnotes by undermining the narrative become the opposition."

Diaz then read an excerpt from the first chapter which lays the groundwork of one of the themes of the novel--a counter-history that challenges the conceit of the authoritative text and a challenge to the "official" narratives based on Antillean insights and the mysterious Fuku: "They say it came first from Africa, carried in the screams of the enslaved; that it was the death bane of the Tainos, uttered just as one world perished and another began…Fuku americanus, or more colloquially fuku--generally a curse of doom of some kind."

The reading, which felt more like a homecoming, drew a capacity audience in the larger east wing of Books and Books, which is celebrating its twenty-fifth year as an independent book seller in Miami.

For more pictures of the event, please follow this link: Junot Diaz in Miami.

Ariel Gonzalez (Miami Herald) reviews The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao.
Vamos! article on Junot Diaz
(via Counter Balance)
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junot diaz

The Caribbean Writer (2008): Submissions

The Caribbean Writer is currently seeking submissions for its 22nd (2008) issue. The Caribbean Writer has published the poetry and prose of Opal Palmer Adisa, Kwame Dawes, Zee Edgell, Kamau Brathwaite, E. A. Markham, Carolina Hospital, Willi Chen, Fred D'Aguiar, Cyril Dabydeen, Garfield Ellis, John M. Figueroa, Lorna Goodison, Merle Hodge, and Edwidge Danticat; visual art from the Caribbean and the Virgin Islands and book reviews by an international gathering of critics and intellectuals.

Manuscript Submission Guidelines

http://www.thecaribbeanwriter.org/submit.html

The Caribbean Writer is an international literary anthology with a Caribbean focus. The Caribbean should be central to the work, or the work should reflect a Caribbean heritage, experience or perspective.

Submit poems (5 maximum), short stories, personal essays, (2 maximum not to exceed 15 pages each), and one-act plays. Only previously unpublished work will be accepted. (If self-published, give details).

Follow this procedure for submissions: Put title, name, address and other contact information on separate sheet. Title only should be on manuscript. Include brief biographical information and mention previous publications, if any.

Type (double-spaced) all manuscripts.

All submissions are eligible for these prizes:

The Daily News prize for best poetry ($300)

The Canute A. Brodhurst prize for best short fiction ($400)

The David Hough Literary prize to an author residing in the Caribbean ($500)

The Marguerite Cobb McKay prize to a Virgin Islands author ($200)

The Charlotte & Isidor Paiewonsky prize for first-time publication ($200)

Please note that manuscripts will not be returned unless accompanied by a self-addressed stamped envelope.

Authors of accepted work will be notified.

Book Reviews

Persons interested in reviewing books should contact the editor indicating areas of expertise. Include sample reviews if possible.

Please mail submissions to:

The Caribbean Writer

University of the Virgin Islands

RR 1 Box 10000

Kingshill VI 00850-9781

Email submissions are accepted qmars@uvi.edu OR submit@thecaribbeanwriter.org

Next submission deadline is November 30, 2007.

***

On a personal note, The Caribbean Writer published some of my earliest work, and they also published my first book of poems, Exodus and Other Poems.

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Caribbean Issue of Sable Lit Mag

Spotlight: InterSong with Kamau Brathwaite: MaKing ConnXions

Special Feature: A new and original short story from Edwidge Danticat

Essay: The Poetry of Louise Bennett and the Creolite Movement by Leola Dublin

Essay: Publishing Caribbean authors by Katherine Verhagen

On My Bookshelf: Geoffrey Philp

Poetry: Kay Swaby and Esther Phillips

Fiction: Ana-Maurine Lara

Raw Talent: Christian Campbell

In Celebration: John La Rose, told in a new and original prose piece by E.A. Markham

Worth Reading? Books by Marc McWatt, Opal Palmer Adisa and anthologies of Caribbean writers.

History: Herstory: Caribbean proverbs by Deborah Moore-Miggins

Blackpackers Joseph Coelho in Sri Lanka

In Translation: Pedro Perez Sarduy - an extract from his novel in Spanish and English

In Other Words: Carlos Rivera

Expressions: Festivals with a Caribbean focus. Desrie Reynolds on Calabash and Mervyn Solomon on the Miami BookFair

Notes from a New Land: Courttia Newland writes about Caribbean Connections in his new column

Editorials

Order your copy now by sending a cheque or money order for ( £ 6 + £ 2 postage TOTAL £ 8)

Please send your payment to:

SAKS Media
PO Box 33504
London E9 7YE
England

Or you can order online by visiting:

www.sablelitmag.org/subscriptions.html

P.S. it's cheaper to subscribe as postage is free. 4 issues:

£25 Individuals - UK/Africa/Caribbean/Asia

£35 Individuals - Europe

£40/$50 Individuals - Everywhere else

For Organisation/Institution rates - please contact: info@sablelitmag.org

Forthcoming Issues:

Caribbean - Spotlight on Kamau Brathwaite

Diaspora - Spotlight on Caryl Phillips

Women - Spotlight on Nawal el Sadaawi

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Caribbean writers Caribbean poetry Caribbean Book Fair Miami Book Fair Calabash Caribbean writing

Results of the Voting for the Top Ten Caribbean Books

First, give thanks to all who participated in the voting for the "Top Ten Caribbean Books" which closed on Friday evening. The results have been very interesting and I've posted the raw data here: Results.

I have not ranked the books because as Frances-Anne pointed out, each book has its own audience and appeal. Overall, however, the books are fairly representative of the majority of readers of this blog: North American/Caribbean and between the ages of 25 and 55.

Here are the books:

A House for Mister Biswas by V.S. Naipaul.

Annie John by Jamaica Kincaid

Breath, Eyes, Memory by Edwidge Danticat

Brother Man by Roger Mais.

In the Castle of My Skin by George Lamming

Miguel Street by VS Naipaul

Minty Alley by CLR James

The Children of Sisyphus by Orlando Patterson

The Dragon Can't Dance By Earl Lovelace

Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys

Sir Vidia had two books in the running, A House for Mr. Biswas and Miguel Street, and three of the books were written by women. I couldn't help but notice the thread of social realism that connects some of these works. If you notice any other similarities or you'd like to comment on the process or the books, please leave a comment.

I've also made a comparison between this list and my choices, and five out of the ten are on my Top Ten List. I could have had six, but Danticat's, The Dew Breaker, is a much richer book in terms of exploring Haitian culture and my relationship with the characters was far more complex. I was more willing to empathize with the characters in The Dew Breaker than with Sophie in Breath, Eyes, Memory for whom I could feel only sympathy.

And this is a crucial difference and perhaps Edwidge's breakthrough in what the booksellers call "minority" or "World Literature" which usually posits race, gender and class as the cause of suffering, and begins from a premise of victimhood rather than having a central character as John Gardner states in The Art of Fiction, " [Who] is struggling for his or her own goals" (65).

In The Dew Breaker, the cause of the character's suffering is not because she is female and Haitian, but is caused by a discovery about her father which is complicated by the fact that she is female (a daughter) and Haitian. These complications work against her discovering the truth because she is a doting daughter and Haitian society is closed to inquiry about subjects such as the Ton-Ton Macoutes. This is what makes a fiction like The Dew Breaker "universal" because Danticat book explores the relationship between a father and daughter, and ranks as "world class" literary fiction.

For more on this, look out my upcoming post this Wednesday(4/4/07): "Desire, The Secret, and Literary Fiction."

***

I've just published four poems, including "poltergeist or the duende's gift," over at the Concelebratory Shoehorn Review.

Enjoy!

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Caribbean writers Caribbean literature Caribbean books Literature Writing Books

"Calabash Poem"

Calabash Poem” has been making the circuit and has been roundly rejected by many publishers. I think I know why. And it has nothing to do with the “f” word which I assume my readers are sophisticated enough to attribute to the speaker in the poem and not Geoffrey Philp—who does not speak like that. Mrs. Philp’s son is a “righteous man.”

No, I think they are afraid of the poem because it makes pokes fun at the public personae of the big three (not the big tree of “Small Axe’) in Caribbean literature: Derek Walcott, Kamau Brathwaite, and VS Naipaul. Anyone who has read this blog knows that I have the utmost respect for Brathwaite, Walcott, and Naipaul. Especially Brathwaite who has been good and kind to me. Even the speaker in the poem states it clearly: “Lawd, God, people don't get mad is only a joke/ Sit down and relax, light a spliff, take a little smoke./ We couldn't have a book or be here today/ These men are our heroes despite what Naipaul has to say.”

The idea popped in my head during a poetry workshop that I did for Calabash and I followed it. This is a very dangerous thing to do with rhyme. The combinations that spring into my head when I use rhyme sometimes lead to places I wouldn’t ordinarily venture, but the line takes me there. Of course, as the maker I have the option to edit. But when you have grown up as I have, censored and self censoring, then the idea of silencing myself, however noble the reasons, is just not appealing anymore. I just have to stand firm and take licks.

So I can understand why a Caribbean magazine publisher would shy away from taking the risk of publishing the poem, for it also satirizes our current preoccupation with awards and prizes, the growing commercialization of writing, and perennial issues in many writers’ lives: sex and depression.

I’m standing by the poem. And if in the future some young whippersnapper should make fun of me, so be it. I couldn’t/wouldn’t stop them anyway. They’d find a way. As I have. For in the end, the poem in accordance with the dominant image was written in a spirit of play.

Calabash Poem

It began so innocently when Kwame, Colin and me was to read,
Smady shout out, "Oonu cyaan write! Oonu mus a smoke weed!”
Then a next one, “Do you know Latin or Greek? I doubt if you can spell."
We was on JBC-TV, so we couldn't say, "Man, fuck off! Go to hell!"
Still, we couldn't take it like that. We had honor; we had to save face.
I said, "We know we’re the best, so meet us on the field, any time, any place!
A week from now, a duel of scrimmage, three man to a side.
To prove the best writers in JA or make it better, world wide!"
For nowadays you can't judge a writer's worth just by the size
Of royalties, sales, NEA fellowships or even the Pulitzer Prize.
Nobody reads anymore, so everything really depends
On your agent or if you're sleeping with your editor's best friend.
Still, not a soul answer the challenge, no one take the bet,
Even when we send it far and wide, all over the Internet.

Ondjatee, Rushdie, and Coetzee say they didn't have the time,
We said, "Make way, boys. You’re history and way past your prime."
Then Caryl Phillips, David Dabydeen, and Austin Clarke came in pads,
Down at Jake's, dressed to play cricket, and they really looked sad
When we said we'd never play that game again, them days were done,
Babylon had fallen with the empire's setting sun.
It was good we never played them; they’d have beaten us for sure,
But everyone know, all's fair in love, writing, and war.
But when people test you and draw a line in the sand,
You have to tip the scales and play your best hand.
America teach us that: don't hang on to the past.
Fairness doesn't count. Nice guys finish last!

So the deadline come and we thought we’d won our very own cup.
We'd won by default, for not a single writer or critic showed up.
We were the best in the world; we was rolling in the grass
But then we looked up; it was Naipaul, Brathwaite, and Walcott to raas.
We started to worry, and we started to fret, but Kwame said we couldn't lose,
“Besides, I'm also a critic, even if they win, we'll have better reviews!"
Kwame told them, "We respect you, but now you're too old to fight
And it really wouldn't be fair, you three elders taught us how to write!"
Brathwaite and Naipaul agreed, they didn't want to do anything rash,
But Walcott wouldn't let it go--you'd think we were playing for cash!

So we changed into our jerseys that Colin supplied us for free,
Random House was sponsoring us from Waiting in Vain’s royalties.
We wondered who'd sponsor these codgers who were now old and gray,
For we don't' support our own writers and forget it if you’re gay!
But these stalwarts were shrewd and still showed their wort',
Ads for Viagra and Prozac were plastered all over their shirts.

Lawd, God, people don't get mad is only a joke
Sit down and relax, light a spliff, take a little smoke.
We couldn't have a book or be here today,
These men are our heroes despite what Naipaul has to say.
But we had to fight to prove that we too were men,
And we was going to see which was mightier, the ball or the pen?

The game start with Colin marking Naipaul on the right,
Kwame with Brathwaite, and me on defense with Walcott in me sight.
The game dragged on for six hours on the beach; it was a battle of wills,
We played long into the night, but the score was nil-nil.
We outplayed them, but as God is my witness, every time we get a chance,
They would throw in some little comment and throw we off balance.
Colin get a chance to score, but Naipaul say, "You think you’re a warrior?
All your book is shit. Read bout true man in The Suffrage of Elvira!"
Kwame get the ball, but Brathwaite whisper in him ear,"
Arrivants is the standard,I never did like your Progeny of Air!"
And as him turn to answer that mawga griot,
Brathwaite thief way the ball. Them was playing we real low.
As for me, me never say nothing, for me can't even pay my rent,
So how me going match up to Omeros or The Arkansas Testament?

The game dragged on and we was getting tired,
But with Prozac and Viagra these old boys were totally wired.
Then Walcott get a look in him green eye when the Viagra kick in,
Him look like the boy from Star Apple Kingdom, the mulatto Shabine.
Walcott rise up like a young stallion, fetlocks pawing the ground,
Look like him was going write another Midsummer or Tieoplo's Hound.
The old men were tiring us out, that was their plan,
We was playing their game, marking them man for man.
A crowd gather around we, and is like we was going faint, but an old dread
Bawl out, "Don't falter now, my yout, either play ball or dead!"

That's when we perk up; I block Walcott, pass Kwame the ball,
Him salad Brathwaite and Colin finally stand up to Naipaul.
Him shake off the old Indo-Aryan, and left him a rage
"That's for A Bend in the River and The Middle Passage!"
Colin scored the goal and up and down the sideline
Girls started to jump and wine and shake they body line.
“We win, we win,” we shouted under the lights,
The three old men trudge proudly off the field and into the night.

Still, we felt bad and although we did win,
It was like killing our fathers-- it felt like a sin.
But Freud and Bloom say that's how it's always been,
By murdering your father, that's how history begin.

***

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• Voices of the Floribbean Diaspora (geoffreyphilp.blogspot.com)
• Introduction to Derek Walcott @ CABA: Carole Boyce Davies (geoffreyphilp.blogspot.com)

And Now for Something Completely Different

PS. Based on Jason Boog’s Five Easy Questions, beginning this Friday, I’ll be featuring 5 Questions for Caribbean/ South Florida writers.

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The Tony Soprano Leadership Method for WORLD Domination

Over the past three years, I have been attending various leadership conferences, and the conveners usually offer cute acronyms for leadership. I don’t buy any of them. The best method for leadership that I’ve seen is on The Sopranos, from which I’ve devised Tony Soprano Method for WORLD Domination © (Legal Disclaimer below*)

Tony Soprano Method for WORLD Domination ©

Whack your competition: Rule #1
Oversee all your underlings, yet give them freedom to be creative. If they stray, apply Rule #1.
Respect the difference between family and business, but always remember Rule #1.
Locate and confide with at one person you can trust—even if you have to pay for it. If they betray the trust apply Rule #1.
Demand loyalty and instill fear in underlings. If they betray the family or business, apply Rule #1.



This looks like US foreign policy, doesn’t it? Everything boils down to Rule#1.
In the next few weeks, (I wouldn’t be a good storyteller if I didn’t add suspense—See Benjamin, My Son) I will offer the Rasta method for VITAL Livity©.




*The information and reference materials contained here are intended solely for the general information of the reader. It is not to be used for illegal, immoral or unethical purposes (well, maybe), but rather for discussion with the reader’s consiglieri and/or goomar. 


All visitors to geoffreyphilp.blogspot.com agree to read and abide by the complete terms of this agreement. Void where prohibited. From the law firm of Screechy and Van Doolu, attorneys-at-law: “Sue ‘em, screw ‘em, or fuggedahaboutit!” (www.screechyandvandoolu.com)

***
Humor

THE RETURN OF JIM SCREECHY AND VAN DOOLU

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

THE RETURN OF JIM SCREECHY AND VAN DOOLU

Miami, Florida, March 14, 2005—Multiple award winning journalists, Jim Screechy and Van Doolu, have reappeared in South Florida after being spotted on a sand bar in Hallandale. The dynamic reporting duo disappeared a few weeks ago while reporting on crop circles in Jamaica and had not been seen since that ominous day. Jim Screechy and Van Doolu, who were rescued by two early morning bathers, were given towels as they had been found naked and without any form of identification.

“Van can’t swim and I wasn’t going to leave him alone,” said Jim. “Is a good thing them two guys find we,” he added. “If the Coast Guard had found us, them might hold we on the wet foot-- dry foot policy like the Cubans, and Van would go straight to Krome, for him foot back tough like a Spanish Town handcuff.”

The normally loquacious Van Doolu remained silent.

Asked to explain how they showed up in Florida when they were last seen in Jamaica, and they clearly had no visible means of proving how they ended up on the sand bar, the two men offered no comment.

However, when pressured for an answer, Van Doolu in a moment of anger exclaimed, “Is alien abduction! Alien abduct and probe we!”

“Shhhhh,” said Jim.

“No,” said Van. “No, I cyaan keep quiet while this is going on. Is nastiness! Alien abduction and probing going on in Jamaica! The world! Them probe me!”

“Stop talk now,” said Jim.

“No," said Van Doolu. “Not after what them do to me! Them go where no man has ever gone before!”

“Hush up" said Jim Screechy, sounding more like Judge Dread with each passing moment.

“And is not me one! Whole heap of people when they think they sleeping at night being abducted and probed by alien. When them think them having dream about flying or standing naked in front of a crowd of people, is alien probing them!”

The normally stoic Jim Screechy then burst into tears and would only say he was remembering a scene from Brokeback Mountain, and couldn’t hold it in any longer.

The two reporters requested and have been granted two months sick leave and upon completion will resume their duties at our headquarters.

Crop Circles in Jamaica?

Westmoreland, Jamaica, February 22, 2006—Following newly discovered leads since their groundbreaking expose at NASA, multiple-award winning journalists, Jim Screechy and Van Doolu, were spirited away to Westmoreland, Jamaica to examine firsthand the emergence of crop circles in the “land of wood and water”.

“Yes, I,” said known horticulturalist, Ras Simeon Matthews. “I did think it was the government and the CIA who been listening to I and I conversation. But when I and I check it out, I and I realize that it could not have been done by earthly hands. It had to be the work of the Most High!"


“Still, is criminal what them do,” said his queen, M’keda Samuels. “Is criminal! The poor herb never bother them, and whoever them is, them just come and mash it down," she said cradling a wilted sapling between her hands. "Poor little thing."

“Shhhhhhh,’ said Ras Simeon. “ Don’t say that too loud around here, the government might be listening.”

“Make them listen,” said M’keda. “I know them been listening and spying on we like we is terrorist, and I will say it proudly that I am a terrorist. I am a terrorist to Babylon--to all powers and principalities of the heavens and earth! Woe to Babylon! Woe to the Pope of Rome!”

M’keda then broke into a litany of woes that could not be repeated lest the reporters be accused of aiding and abetting the enemy which could hamper their attempts to have their green cards renewed.

On further examination, the field revealed a pattern( shown here using infra-red photography) that ruled out any kind of human involvement and could have only been done by higher powers.

Unfortunately, the head office has been unable to verify the location of Van Screechy and Van Doolu, whose whereabouts, as far as we can tell by contacts in the CIA, NSA, FBI, and the local lockup in Negril, are unknown since their encounter in the fields of Ras Simeon.

Alien abduction? Stay tuned…

***

Humor

Dreads in Outer Space by Jim Screechy and Van Doolu

In a recent article by Olivier Stephenson entitled A Jamaican at NASA, a serious omission was made with regard to two Jamaican astronauts who have been working at the agency for the past ten years. Investigative reporters, Jim Screechy and Van Doolu, acting on anonymous tips that reach into the lowest levels of NASA uncovered a conspiracy to conceal the existence of this highly secretive program.


According to unconfirmed sources within NASA, a husband and wife team has been exploring the space-time continuum with stunning results that could upset current understanding of physics, astronomy, and mathematics. They have also accomplished these amazing feats without the use of rockets, shuttles, or vehicles that could endanger human life.


“Yes, I,” said senior astronaut, Hezekiah O’Boyle (Jamaica/USA). “I-man been exploring the outer edges of the I-niverse and I and I am proud to report that life does exist on other planets.”


“True, dat,” confirmed his co-pilot, Nefertiti Israel. “The dread and I even plant a nice little plant on an outer planet of the Andromeda system.”


When questioned about the nature of the plant and their mode of travel, Queen Nefertiti, as she prefers to be called, remained silent. She would only say that they would be returning to the planet by “first light” to reap the harvest of the dread’s labor.


In a time of budget cutbacks and when NASA is facing a possible shutdown of its shuttle fleet, Ras Hezekiah, as he prefers to be called, insisted that his space travel was completely safe.


“I and I don’t have to worry about no falling foam or debris,” said Ras Hezekiah. “I and I travel through black holes and I and I can tell you that the basic nature of the I-niverse is not what them tell you in a book. String theory is all wrong. Is not a string of energy. It more look like elastic from me mada…” and then he made a reference to a piece of clothing that a polite, family-oriented e-zine like this would not mention. Needless to say, Ras Hezekiah’s statements were taken with the utmost seriousness by the NASA official who was in charge of the experiments and whose funding remains highly secretive. He would only speak to JamaicansRUs if he could go by the name of “Scotty” and we agreed.


“Ras Hezekiah, Queen Nefertiti, my wife and I are all scientists of the highest order.”


“Highest is right,” said Ras Hezekiah, but he would not explain any further.


“We have been experimenting for about ten years now in the back lots of the Space Center because this is where we get the best trajectory, and we only have to worry about the summer thunderstorm before we launch.”


“Outer space!” exclaimed Queen Nefertiti and clapped her hands together.


The unnamed scientists also claimed that all of their experiments were 100 percent verifiable.


“And no falling foam!” said Hezekiah.


“Only exploding seeds,” said Queen Nefertiti in a moment of rare candor. When pressed for an explanation, she would not divulge the true nature of her quixotic statement.


One thing is clear, however, Jamaicans have been on the forefront of travel,—whether it’s across the Atlantic or to the far reaches of outer space.


In fact, as the reporters left the back room on the NASA compound, Ras Hezekiah was heard calling out as he blasted off for another space trip,” Beam me up, Scotty. Light me up!”


First published in Jamaicansrus.com

***

Hurricane Files: Jim Screechy and Van Doolu

"Rasta Force field" Saves Jamaica and Spares South Florida
Hurricane Ivan Threatens "No Problem" Island
By Jim Screechy and Ban Doolu

Miami, Florida, September 12, 2004--In what Brian Norcross of NBC-TV has described as a "mysterious and miraculous meteorological event", the eye of Hurricane Ivan narrowly missed Kingston, the capital of Jamaica by one degree.

Meteorologists are still baffled by the movement away from Kingston that virtually all computer models had predicted would impact the city. But it is no mystery to Prophet Zephaniah, who with twelve other prophets and a mysterious thirteenth figure, descended from Wareika Hills to conduct a news conference.

"This is the Rastaman force field" said Prophet Ivan, who added, "no relation."

He explained that it was Rasta that had saved Jamaica and Miami.

"I and I been chanting against Ivan all night. I and I brethren climb to the top of the mountaintop and chant, "Blow, Ivan, blow. Blow all you wind and rain/ you will never overcome I, never again/ I and I will turn the eye away from I home/ Send you back to Babylon, back to the Pope in Rome."

And so Kingston was saved. With the turn away from Jamaica, Miami has also been spared because the new track takes Ivan into the Gulf of Mexico.

President Bush, who was in Florida for relief work due to Hurricane Frances, was genuinely baffled by the report and when he could not find Jamaica on the map, gave up in disgust. Vice President Cheney when questioned about all the events told this reporter to "Go f**k himself." He then added he was glad he said it. Secretary of Defence, Donald Rumsfeld in a news conference Q&A exclaimed, "If they’re so god- damned small on a map that you can’t see to bomb em, why worry?" Secretary of State, Colin Powell, a proud son of Jamaican descent, could not be reached for comment.

Only Democratic contender, John Kerry, seemed to be moved by the situation. Long faced and teary eyed, he said he would vote for emergency funds for the island, but then changed his mind.

The island is barley recovering from the storm that has pelted the island. Police, who have been going door to door in August Town, comforted a Ms. Darlene Smith.

"Missis Simith, we have good news and bad news."

"Tell me the bad news first," she said.

"The hurricane killed your husband."

"Lawd, Gad," she said.

"Then what is the good news?"

"Him never get shot," said the policeman.

The Prime Minister, PJ Patterson, regretted the incident and vowed that as long as he was in power it would never happen again. Former leader of the JLP, Edward Seaga, briefly commented, "I am not saying anything, anymore. I have my own hurricane in my back yard."

Many Jamaicans, however, seemed genuinely relieved by the miraculous turn of events. But as prophet Zephaniah said, "Once more, I and I save this island, and still I and I never get the praise. When will I and I get the praise I and I deserve?"

When indeed.

Wilma

Jim Screechy: So, Van, why you say that Wilma was a Jamaican hurricane?
Van Doolu: Because them say we only catch the backside of the hurricane in Miami.
Jim Screechy: And?
Van Doolu: That was one helluva backside!

First published in Jamaicansrus.com

Jamaica
Hurricane Ivan
Hurricane Wilma
hurricane
Humor

And Now My Fish Has Diabetes

It all started when my two friends, Jim Screechy and Van Doolu, noted how water my fighter fish, Pixie, (we are trying reverse psychology on him, but it’s not working and he reacts violently when we call him that) was drinking and kept bumping into the glass of the fish tank.


“I tell you it must be diabetes,” said Van Doolu.


Jim Screechy agreed.


So we took Pixie, who was still in a bad mood, to see our resident fish doctor, nicknamed by Jim, Dr. Icky. We’ve been going to Dr. Icky for five years, and it seems like we’ve been buying more drugs from this one company ever since they replaced the former drug rep (a three hundred pound German brunette whose dress used to sweep along the floor of the office) with a sexy, Texan blonde with big breasts and mini skirts up to her navel.


Van Doolu says it’s a coincidence with the new drugs and the new rep, but I beg to differ.


Anyway, Dr. Icky examined Pixie and concluded as Van Doolu had suggested that Pixie had diabetes. He gave us some samples to drop in the water, but when he told us the regular price (they weren’t generic) I was wondering if I could keep up or just let Pixie die. Van said that I was heartless, and only a Jamaican man, who won't allow dogs to lick him in his face or eat from his plate, would do something like that.


"Dog is dog. Man is man. And fish is fish," said Jim.


I agreed, but Van said we were being insenstive to the rights of fish and dogs, and if we hadn't come from a Third World country, we would have been more enlightened.


"What enlightened about dog licking you in your face? You going make dog lick you in you face after him just done..."


I cut Jim off and asked Dr Icky why the drugs were so expensive, and he told me it was because of the research that had to be done to develop the pills.


Jim said it was research on the Texan. Van boxed him over the head.


Anyway, I told Dr. Icky that if it weren’t for my kids who had grown attached to Pixie, despite his evil ways, that I would have let Pixie die because the pills were worth more than the fish. I told him I was thinking of getting the pills from Canada or I was going to move to Canada. Dr Icky said that according to the FDA, the pills from Canada were not safe and that he could not guarantee their effectiveness.


“But they are made by the same company, Dr. Icky," I protested.


“But they are Canadians, and you can’t trust these foreigners," he countered.


“But you are from Jamaica, Dr. Icky!”


“Yes, but these Canadians have long wanted to take over North America. Me, I only want to work here.”


He had a point.


I tried to reason some more with Dr. Icky, but he wouldn’t listen any more. The fifteen minutes that he was going to charge my HMO for the full hour was coming to a close.


“The whole thing is a scandal,” said Van Doolu, who knew a lot about scandals. “I think them playing with these numbers and saying that we have things that we don’t even have yet. But because we are so afraid, we go along with it.”


“No way,” said Jim.


“It comes from watching too much television,” said Dr. Icky, sounding very scientific. “In the past, the fish in his natural habitat would have been fit. He would have been hunting for food or running around so he wouldn’t be someone’s else’s food. Out there in nature, it’s a dog eat dog world.”


I wanted to tell him that it was a mixed metaphor, and ask him how did we get back to the dog argument, but he cut me off this time.


“Now, all the fish does is sit in the fish tank and watch television.”


“Or watch you Googling old girlfriends,” said Van.


“Or himself,” said Jim.


I told Jim that was very rude, and Jim asked me which was ruder: Googling old girlfriends or yourself?


It depends, I told him.


“Anyway, I can assure you," said Dr. Icky, trying to get us back on track, "that everything is on the up and up. And we’re not playing with the numbers."


I still have my doubts.


The good thing is that Pixie’s health has greatly improved and is drinking less water and not bumping into the side of the fish tank. He does, however, suffer from anal leakage (a side effect of the drugs) and may be impotent. We know this because we put a female in the tank with him and all he did was attack her.


Jim had a different theory.


“What day and time did you put the female in with him?”


“Friday night.”


“See, you should know better. A true Jamaican male, fish or man, always beat his female on Friday night,” said Jim.


He may be right. Or he may just be protecting his bottle of Viagra that Van said we should give to Pixie and see if it will work.


If I really had my way, I would do like my neighbors and dump Pixie in a canal so he can end up in the Everglades with the piranha and other flesh eating fish. That would cure his diabetes, for he would now be fit and he would now have a steady diet of protein instead of the high carb diet of fish food we giving him every morning.


‘The whole setup sound fishy to me,” said Jim.


I couldn’t have said it better.