They say that the largest and biggest problem facing the world is the threat of over-population together with lack of food. Yet, this morning I watched a program whereby an eminent professor scientist had all the numbers and statistics at his side proving half the world’s food gets thrown out. That’s right; we chuck out half of our food. Searching for answers, the good professor put the blame squarely on the young, the baby boomers children, even grandchildren. It must be right though.
Most mornings on my walk I am tempted to pick up the throw outs of food. This morning’s takings; a bag clearly identifiable with a Big M and gold arch and a carton of a Domino Pizza box with a half eaten mozzarella ‘family size’ morsel still in its box. The food would have been eaten direct from the bag or box, perhaps while driving, and heaved out when the opportunity arose and the look in the back mirror revealed no one was watching.
After I opened the Big Golden Arch bag, there was a complete bun in it with soft ochre coloured cheese and some green leaves still neatly tucked in between. The owner of this bag must have just taken the beef minced patties out and chucked the rest. The domino pizza was decorated with grey pieces of mushroom, some red coloured stuff, perhaps beet-root or tomato but, apart from one previously mentioned half eaten morsel, no mozzarella. It seems that the meat gets targeted for the gaping mouths and masticating jaws, but the rest abandoned. What wealth, what moral abandonment of food ethics.
I placed the bags and carton in a bin and noticed the bin had lots of pizza pieces with boxes and other throw away food items discarded. The smell predominantly was a mixture of pizza, gravy ladled chips and acidy pungent stale slushy remnants soft drinks looking to slake thirsts. Take away, throw away.
Dear mother, stay where you are. The world has changed since the potato peeling soup you saved for us in your green enameled bucket of the 1945 soup kitchen in Rotterdam! Did that bucket not have a ceramic holder in the middle of the handle, allowing the bucket to swing freely? Since those days, no food was ever wasted by us, scraps always used for compost or for the ducks along river’s edge.
Of course, food thrown out in the public arena might pale in what gets chucked out privately. What I would not give to take a peek inside the kitchen disposal bins of our societal neighbours, friends or foes. It would be too rude to saunter over to your friends’ disposal bins in the kitchen while you and friend have just arrived, but, perhaps after a couple of shiraz’, and as your host goes to the bathroom, go and be brave and opportune and have a quick glance. You might be surprised.
Who knows those kinds of intimate food preparations or dietary secrets about each other? We take for granted certain aspects of our friends, s a, they are not murderers or likely to self-immolate in front of an embassy or airport, nor rife through the pockets of your jacket hanging from the coat-hanger in the hallway.
Yet, when it comes to food, who knows what dastardly deeds are performed and on so many kitchens Caesar-stone bench tops? If half the food gets thrown out, it can’t just be only our kids. Who goes still hungry, surely no one? Put up hands that only slice and use the white bits of the leeks or chives, jettison the rest in the bin? Who throws away stale bread or the odd spouting spud? That’s just penny pinching stuff, what about the Christmas Turkey or half eaten but double smoked 6 kilo ham?
As the plane sliced through the clouds an enormous rubbish tip came into view directly below the passengers. Over that ocean of rubbish crawled an ant like colony of human waves, all looking for scraps of food as the convoy of trucks spewed out their fresh loads onto the hordes of the hungry.
The Boeing captain announced; we will be landing in Bombay shortly; please keep your seat belts on and remain seated. At the airport the air-conditioning was humming while the Coke machine was being reloaded. A pale looking woman was unfolding a pram and her husband lowered a young sleepy child into it and gave the bottle of milk, the luck of the right birth.
A couple of miles away, the rubbish tip was getting busy, being clambered over, scraps of food were being prised out of the steaming morass and eaten on the spot. The things we miss out on while travelling.
Editors Note: Many moons ago, ‘Shoe and I discussed the story behind the story of the making of a now famous (some might say infamous) shaggy frog joke about a frog going into a bank and asking for a loan. I first heard the joke told on radio by none other than Kerry O’Keefe as an alternative to commentating on a major cricket match played at the Gabba.
By way of introduction to this major work, proudly published by the Pig’s Arms, here is Kerry O’Keefe’s retelling of the joke – the joke that was written by Christina Binning Wilson (Sandshoe to the interweb tubalists or ‘Shoe to her mates at th Pig’s Arms).
So get yourself some pleasing refreshments and a comfortable chair, settle back and begin our odyssey …
Part 1 –Owning (up)
Story and photo by Sandshoe
Acknowledgements
It is not easy being pink. Yet fortune itself I threw in my lot with the Pigs Arms and became a piglet. Thank you,Mike Jones, proprietor and editor-blogger for your kind encouragement responding to my enquiry you are happy to publish this Special Feature at the Arms.
To Astyages, the troubadour who posted the shaggy dog ‘Herbal T for Two’ at the Pigs’ Arms.1
That was a while ago. I was living in Adelaide. I said I wrote one of those. I said I would post it. This is its story.
I do really get the joke
The half-a-dozen perhaps people who I originally read my joke to laughed. I had supposed they thought I gave it my best shot.
Now, when I find a version of it again to send it off to the Pigs Arms, I get it. My friend, Wojciech, comes by. Now, convulsed with laughter I read it to Wojciech.
Wojciech laughed and laughed, possibly at my laughing.
I rewrote and wrote it again, teased at it to make it topical and meander, wrote an introductory reference given it was address to astyages, his “shaggy dog” and I chortled. The pseudo-truth tickling my funny bone no end was that soon it would be revealed “a shaggy frog”.
Before mailing finished copy to Mike Jones, illustrations, and a link to information about the natural history of a local frog I chose to promote, I settled to search online might anyone by an incident of synchronicity have spun a yarn like it and I supposed–surely–I would find “a shaggy frog”.
I grouped and googled key words out of the text:
frog
bank
loan
My blood ran cold. I added:
shaggy frog
rolling stone
It is an extreme sensation feeling mortified.
When I found its original replicated near faithful word for word online, bloody icicles instantly formed in my veins I swear and began to counteract immediately–somewhere in the pit of my stomach– an inferno of heat I felt drain from my brain. Blood coursed the extent of my body from my head to my toes and back again. A WHOOOOOSHHHHHHH.
I read it first on Page 9 of Charismatics, Articles of Spiritual Enlightenment for Christians, Charismatics, the Halo on the Internet, at http://www.sfSpirit.com, San Francisco, Volume 9, Number 6 June 2002
The Golden Gate Breakfast Club newsletter in San Francisco – ‘the nicest people in the world meeting each week for breakfast, friendship and enlightenment. Since 1946!’ –reported (link archived):
‘Marty Mijalski was able to deliver his joke postponed from last week this morning. It was the frog applies for a loan joke. The punch line: knick-knack, Patty Whack. Give the frog a loan. His old man’s a rolling stone. Alan Garber told that joke five years ago.’
FIVE YEARS AGO!
My stomach knotted.
Self conscious anxiety is a debilitating condition.
Three failed and abandoned computers with files I hauled around until I could afford to no longer are scattered. I saw in the bowels of the world’s computer parts dumps or reassembled into recycled metal toys for small and larger boys and girls. I do have Apple floppy disks that might have on them a file of the original text. I have the rudiments only of the vintage Apple computer and software in unsealed packaging I bought on eBay in the last year attempting to put together another system.
I have not got in my possession any of the original email or files–and no original hard copy.
I did write one comment only on a website, Author Culture, and not hearing a word from that site I felt embarrassed at my naivety and little did I know how naïve, not even half. I shelved all thought about it as best as I could and didn’t search it in detail any further beyond recognising it was feral. I felt overwhelmed with a sense of loss. Astyages asked once how I was doing with it and when would I present it. I think I mumbled ‘Tell you soon’. I confided in no-one other than Wojciech.
Having moved from Adelaide to accommodation in Bordertown last year, I was ill from overwork and circumstances previous to my deciding to move from Adelaide to housing I could afford, from the hardship of moving house and home and having to abandon possessions to do that. In retrospect I can see a complex set of circumstances not overlooking I dealt with a struggle to rebuild an existence in Bordertown on my own. I was in hospital for a while and recovering and I took a case to the Tenancy Tribunal as the piglets will recall. I was busy as people get. I eventually confided over a shared meal with a newly-met local friend I had written a joke. I was flattered yes, but acutely self conscious and I showed her online.
Christine was empathetic. In a matter of days, I heard the news from her I would, she said, never believe, but she “heard thejoke on the radio” and that she yelped in recognition, “That’s Christina’s joke!”
RADIO!
Over my head.
I missed who exactly the fellow was, although I was entreated he is famous. Something something you know the cricket. He travels all over the world doing his thing, she said, looking a little disconcerted I did not seem to understand her meaning.
I was–instead–in shock again. I begin feeling excruciated. Isolated, particularly isolated.
I do not have ABC Radio National reception, neither local ABC radio reception that is reliable, but neither can I use my online download internet quota playing radio all day and meanwhile, not a hint even of the NBN. No SBS reception. Media is a sensitive issue for me out of all life’s niceties I do not have living in Bordertown and I’ve a list.
Fancy excruciated. I have never used the word, but I vacillated between the healthy stirring of curiosity, feeling tickled pink and miserable.
Jim came down to potter around the cottage doing odd jobs and I referred the matter to Jim. Jim is my landlord. Jim knows about stuff. He might know about cricket. I braced myself.
“I wrote a joke a few years ago.”
“U…huh.”
I describe the gist…a frog…um…he goes for a loan and that I am ridden with guilt…because I owe the joke to the Pigs Arms…but…online…multiplying…like rabbits. I hang my head on the inside.
Jim and I had never exchanged an opinion about joke telling. Neither had ever told the other a joke.
“Oh,” says Jim, as he worked, “I know that one. Is that the one…
THE ONE!
…about a frog who goes into… I start to feel hysterical… a bank and wants a loan?”
“Yes.”
“My son has it on his phone.”
PHONE!
“He’s been carrying it around for a while now–PAUSE–That’s an old joke.”
I have an ear for nuance. I sat up out of the mud of embarrassment.
“It’s a fair age now,” I agree to showI appreciate a duty of care.
“O, yes, it is” Jim says, glad we agree on that.
“I wrote it,” I say as calmly as possible. I saw consideration I wrote it dawn.
I mumble and dash off, “I remember the day I wrote it… formula… can’t find the original… sigh… never mind… I wrote it.”
I did ask Jim who ‘the cricket chap’ is. I find a recording of Kerry O’Keefe, broadcaster and the commenter lisabella’s reference added at 10PM AEST on March 12, 2006 on the whirlpool forum online where she posts a link to a recording–
‘When Kerry first told it, the joke took nearly 3 overs of cricket before he finally got to the punchline!!!’
If lisabella is right, putting to the universe a month earlier, on 19 Feb 2006 at 11AM she was hoping for ‘an audio link or does some one have it on their hard disk’ to provide her for her brother, the broadcast by Kerry was at the Brisbane Cricket Ground at Woolloongabba (the gabba) during the ABC’s cricket coverage Tuesday 14 February 2006 at approx. 2pm on the 3rd One Day final between Australia & Sri Lanka.
Of all the versions, Kerry O’Keefe’s meticulous reading is as close to the original as any. The ironies are out of sight. No irony as mind bending that it was not unlike from my viewpoint as a former facilitator of a writers’ group listening to a writer read to an audience in a community centre (cfThe Making of that Joke. Part 6 – Creative Writers) except they’re reading my stuff.
fstx posts on the same forum as lisabella at 11AM on Feb 20 AEST, before saying ‘Not that it makes the joke any better!’:
‘I’ve heard a version where it’s a chocolate bar and the banker’s name is Caddyshack, so the punchline is…
“It’s a Kit-Kat, Caddyshack…” ‘
It was kicking around as it turns out well before Kerry’s choice to broadcast the joke at the cricket in 2006, not intending to detract from Kerry’s choice or performance of it–to the contrary.
On the forum of DFWStangs.net selling Mustang Fords, where the page loading near rolls over from the weight of flickering animation and advertisements reckoned to disappear out of sight were I to become a registered user, it is called ‘The Frog and the Elephant’ uploaded 05-30-2002, 03:58 PM by the contributor whose location is listed as Las Colinas (Texas I assume). A commenter, lilgeezy, at Irving in New Brunswick, Canada writes 07-06-2002, 02:11 AM–in reply to a query ‘were its origins Sesame Street’:
‘that WAS on the disney channel when those lil kids go out and tell their favorite jokes… not that i was watching it or nething, i just … heard….
The Independent Daily is the English language newspaper of the Island of Mauritius. The joke is published in Vol. 1, No.250, Port Louis, Thursday September 2, 2010, Section 4>‘Listings’ viewable through the website of Stanford University, headed with the caption ‘J USTINJEST BY HILAMA’ and illustrated with a cartoon frog.
I feel substantially queasy about my impoverished status when I view in a bottom left hand quadrant the glossy colour ad for ‘LM Live Jokes in your Daily Life’ in which a beautiful young woman naturally laughs at her mobile phone in hand. The contrast between the status of her clothing and the implied delight the lovely lass is provided by her subscription is in marked contrast to my own circumstances when I imagine a customer’s laughter may conceivably be at my feral.
I wonder, I cannot help but, that the $50,000 amount the frog asks for, and not the original $30,000, might inspire enhanced donation to the church building fund where, for the pastor at Willingham Church, Cambridgeshire, UK it fits illustration of ‘a case of mistaken identity’.
Harry Mooring of Leeds submitted it to The Parishioner magazine of the Kiltarlity Church and Kirkhill Church where it is published on P 17 of The Parishioner Newsletter Issue 57 – November 2012 alongside The Moosie’s Prayer’ described, ironically, as ‘This anonymous, humorous poem…clearly aimed at children …lends yet another twist to the story of the “poor church mouse” –
Greg Jones, a pastor at the Church of Brethren, at Bunkertown, McAlisterville, in Pennsylvania, USA published the joke and the comment Dialegomai (see below) in the Bunkertown COB newsletter. The analytical method of Dialegomai interested me considered from the viewpoint of the method I used to construct the joke (cf. The Making of That Joke. Part 2 –Building the Joke)
Dialegomai
By Pastor Greg
1 Corinthians 7:1-11 April 11, 2010 Bunkertown COB
Chances are that your mind was racing ahead trying to figure out how all the things in that story would fit together. Why a frog? Is Patty’s name significant?
What’s up with the little pink elephant? The answer came when we viewed the whole story, not just the little bits and pieces along the way. I want you to keep this in mind as we turn once again to Paul’s first letter to the Corinthian Church.
My best advice to you continues Pastor Greg, is to keep your eyes focused on the whole story. Look at the big picture. Don’t get hung up on the individual events that are happening in your life right now. Think and reason.
The Pope features alongside in the adjoining column on P 4 of The Knight Register of the Newsletter of Knights of Columbus Council No. 13072, St. Mary Parish, Vancouver, BC, Canada
The member pladecalvo in Valencia, Spain posted the joke on the July 2007 at 09:31 AM in the City Data-Com Religion and Spirituality Forum that demands Let’s Hear Some Nice Clean Jokes!
Received by the MoonlightBlue blogger from Ricky in Salò in the Province of Brescia, Lombardy in Italy and so they seem to know it in in Pembroke Dock in Pembrokeshire in the UK in 2007.
Recreation and hobby clubs have adopted it including have called it their own from hunting and fishing to flying and service clubs among which is Probus in Deloraine in Tasmania and from Rotarians in America to Kent in the UK to ‘Snippets’ (from club bulletins) at the Rotary Club at Diamond Creek (Melbourne, Victoria) where its contribution is attributed December 5th 2012 to the Rotary Club of Rosanna (Melbourne).
Just to give you the idea: the Tourist Information Centre website of Yea, ‘situated at the junction of the Melba Highway and Goulburn Valley highways approximately 100 kms from Melbourne’. includes the joke in The Humour File.
How did I not guess it would be recounted by the Queensland Frog Society. O course I had supposed it would appeal to environmentalists who love frogs. They were my main target group. It is introduced by the editor as follows: Oldies are the best.. I think we have had this before but for anyone who has not heard it here it is again. Thanks Trish (I love it).
Tombro at Lake Macquarie, New South Wales said on the Glasgow (Scotland, UK) Guide Board on 31st Aug 2009, 10:03am thank you to Brian of Maitland, New South Wales for posting it (the day before) because [Tombro] ‘had a bloody great laugh and…sang it out loud. Whoops, he said, now the neighbours know I’m an absolute nutcase ! http://discuss.glasgowguide.co.uk/index.php?showtopic=17189
Bozo in Perth who was met with enthusiasm by GSX in Shed has uploaded it rightly or wrongly on a site called ‘a Dad joke’ on January 3 last, claiming the frog hopped into the new HSBC Bank Branch in Subiaco
September 2005 in Darwin it was enjoyed by a commenter who thought it was very funny when it was posted on the Gold Coast and Milano in Kiev, Ukraine, said ‘Witty, witty stuff’.
Oldershaw and Co Chartered Accountants Newsletter in NZ March 2005 published it on Page 3 under the title ‘Smiley Bit’ above an article on ‘Spicers Wealth Management’ promoting the availability of a review report generated on reccommending finance company debentures.
I couldn’t resist this lesson in choosing character names. I’m serious here. Really. Use care when naming the folks who populate your stories or your masterpiece may become just a bad joke . . .
Linda Yezak May 28, 2010 11:55 AM
I got a kick out of it myself. Of course, I had to stretch to make it fit into a writing site!
Why did someone make up ‘nick nak patty whack, give the frog a loan, his old mans a rolling stone’? don’t ask me why I want to know, I have no clue. But, if anyone has any Ideas, just type them here please
LiveJournal Inc denounces it as an an unwanted house guest under ‘punnybusiness’:
Please don’t post the story that ends in “It’s a knick-knack, Patti Whack. Give the frog a loan. His old man’s a Rolling Stone.” – we’ve seen it way too many times. If you post it, I’ll delete it.
If it is published in the volume quoted (please see link below) using the language represented on the webpage, I would be plain disappointed. I know beyond any question of doubt the mother of the frog did not ‘croak’ as is suggested. My research of variations so far of the joke shows this one is unique that extraneous information has been written into it couched in language generally considered by English language speakers sensitive to the language of death and dying across the board of different cultures to be unsafe language to use, disrespectful, rough. The context is made sad. I think a child will identify it is not a joke made happy by introducing the death of the frog’s mother and will fix that.
You cannot believe everything anyway. Neither did the bank manager ‘scowl’ at the teller. Neither does Patty roll her eyes in any version I had read. Elaborating details of body language as well robs the audience of their individual interpretation which is an element of the humour and the strength of the writing.
Christine on 7 November 2011 on the BB Fans (Big Brother) forum says: This is a joke, which was on one of my Birthday cards. It’s a bit corny though I’m afraid:-
The joke is #7 of 7 chosen for publication by the columnist, Greg Heberlein for the Seattle Times article ‘Who’s Standing Next to Bubba’ Sunday, December 19, 1999 under Wall Street Recap. Consider it [the column] suggests the journalist a holiday gift for putting up with the conventional ramblings. This intro is already too long – our joke cup runneth over. But we must thank all the sources: Steve Leuthold’s clients, who submit jokes for his monthly investment newsletter; Eric Miller of Donaldson, Lufkin & Jenrette, who collects witty stuff for the company’s semi-monthly publication; Don Gher of Bellevue’s Coldstream Capital, who missed his calling as a comic; and, your loyal scribe’s firstborn son Tom, who scoured the Web for every funny story it had.
Sent in an email it seems originally by Personal Growth Concepts which included the following disclaimer:
The information provided in this email is presented for educational purposes only. It is not a substitute for the advice and treatment of a licensed professional clinician, doctor, coach or pastoral counselor.
…and uploaded by blogger mom at frog parenting blogspot who posted the joke on Tuesday, April 28, 2009 under ‘Frog Humour and today’s stuff…Not for Profit but for JOY!’ and her baby born on April 29, 2009 ‘at about 8Amish’.
Earliest References
While one earlier may still be found, the earliest reference I have found is on the website of ‘Silicon Investor’ where it was uploaded on 6/24/1998 8:12:00 AM by Henry Volquardsen. Note the date reads 24 June, 1998 because the date sequence is m/d/y. No, I do not know Henry as far as I am aware, regardless Henry may have known my name at one moment in history in 1987 and I his by sheerest chance just by it passing in front of his or my eyes in a fax or other document, but lucky I am to have a beautifully written text online on Silicon Investor that recalls a Henry Volquardsen from the memory of a colleague.
His friend writing in 2008 says of Henry:
‘And then, of course Henry Volquardsen, was a very dear friend who was on the long dated FX desk in NY. He was a big guy (like me) who started out as a file clerk and was on Citibank NY’s long dated FX desk at 55 Water street I believe. He would hang around in the New York evening to watch our currency and interest rate markets open, some days it was slow and he would talk to the bond dealers the AUD dealer and me as he was trying to get indications in to local market sentiment. Henry and I talked for hours on end about history, he was then studying the 100 year war in Europe, mass psychology, Ownership of central banks…. etc.’
Unmistakeable I am sure, the same. And I might as well have known Henry given insight and experience of the finance industry I have when I based my own methodology as an accounts executive on my training in History and Politics, primarily choosing to telephone dealers and traders I could engage in conversation to appreciate different points of view, and always an AUD dealer. I trained and listened intently and learned and understood the market in this window of time watching trading lights skipping across and up and down in heart stopping patterns on a Reuters screen. Thus far remarkable enough.
The joke was, remarkably, posted on the site Roots Web Ancestry on Tue, 3 Nov 1998 22:51:04 EST
As follows without prejudice the discussion ‘Donna Richoux’ provides her associates in apparent good faith (please see the link below).
‘Donna Richoux:
[nq:2]”It’s a knick-knack, Patty Black, give the frog a loan.”(snip)[/nq]
[nq:1]It’s a knick-knack, Patty Black, give the frog a loan; His old man’s a Rolling Stone![/nq]
That’s lovely but the version I learned didn’t have it. Now I’m wondering whether it was part of a strain that lost the Rolling Stone line, or whether it never had it, and Rolling Stone was added later.
A Google on “give the frog a loan” plus “rolling stone” gives 553. The same phrase with a minus -stone gives 291. So it’s not just me that stops at “loan.”
Okay, here we go. The Google Groups archives show the “Rolling Stone” version only back 1998, with several references to it having been on the Muppets with Kermit the Frog (long before?). I can’t call up the entire posts because of a technical glitch. But the version minus “stone” shows up in posts each year from 1982 to 1986. So I think the very appropriate addition of “Rolling Stone” was a professional addition from the Muppet crew.
Patty Black sure gets a lot of variation.
I appreciate the energy and attention given the frog goes to a bank for a loan joke by Donna Richoux and her associates (please see link above).
The content of the text written by Donna is speculative and based on then incomplete research result of a failed internet connection – as can be derived as was clearly intended by its author, but the speculation is inaccurate that the Rolling Stone addition online is a professional addition by the Muppets team and the content is inaccurate ‘that it shows up in posts between 1982 and 1986’.
Only researching what Donna advises concerning the Muppets did I know the Muppets had a story line in one of their early films that refers to a bank, which might be the source of confusion. I have not seen the films.
I am sure however the Muppets research facility may accord me, as I do the Muppets equal respect if question arises by referring to their archival record of published material to identify the frog goes to a bank for a loan joke is not in their archives as a published article of theirs.
Patty Black I knew nothing of until my recent discovery of the reference only as result of researching the frog goes to a bank for a loan joke; ‘Patty Black’ as a play on ‘Paddy Whack’ is not as far as I can determine in popular ascendance over my original adaptation of ‘Paddy Whack’ that was ‘Patricia Whack’ aka ‘Ms Whack’ and ‘Patti Whack’. I do have a fictional character whose name is ‘Black’ which is coincidence.
Again remarkably posted in rj-jokers Teresa’s Jokers RJ List on Sep 15, 1998 at 1:51 pm
As a source of interest, I note amiright.com makes no claims to copyright of jokes permitted, only their presentation. All jokes are assumed [by amiright] to be public domain.
Preben Ormen telling the joke on Thursday, September 8th, 2011 at 14:14 under the heading ‘Give the Frog a Loan’ prefaced it as follows:
Apropos nothing, I just remembered a cute joke that riffed on a nursery rhyme. What made it all the more funny at the time, was the fact it was told by a biker on the run from the California cops that we met while swinging at anchor in our 32 foot Westsail cutter “Ibis” in Mazatlan, Mexico. He arrived late one afternoon in a terrific downpour in a beat up old Columbia 29 sloop. I watched him anchor and silently reassured myself he had just the right scope out so he wouldn’t swing into us when the tide or weather changed.
When done, he sat under the main hatch and lit up a smoke. We exchanged hand waves in greeting and a short hello and welcome, but the rain was so heavy and noisy we couldn’t really have a conversation. You got to see a tropical downpour to believe it.
We got to know each other better and one day the story rolled around.
…please see the heart these children invest in the acting including a fabulous frog costume and support actors. This is such a lovely video and I hope the children and their responsible adults are happy I post this link here:
Small variations occur telling the joke from only recall, but the adherent loyalty shown the story line is indication of the genuine fondness people feel for the joke.
Variations include the delightful and delightfully satirical and fans have made changes to the name of the teller and frog by way of personal preference and innovation.
The frog has been variously named by his fans Kermit the Frog, Kermit Jagger, Wally… while the inclination seems obvious I had no intention to name the frog Kermit which was to avoid potential copyright infraction although in an edited version I do have the teller, Patricia Whack, refer to the frog with a note of derision as follows, once, when she addresses the bank manager that the frog wants a loan.
‘Kermitt out here…”
The frog has been overly called Kermit, and he truly did not ever say to the teller his surname was Jagger as occurs in the re-telling, but there you are, and that’s I suppose society too, running along on assumptions and getting stuck on earworms, but in this case a fond one. However, just because a frog can talk and goes to a bank to raise a loan is no reason to assume his name is Kermit. Neither because he claims falsely his identity is Mick Jagger’s son is it a logical conclusion he will claim his name is Kermit Jagger.
A frog is neither automatically a Muppet. Frog mothers have been around. They know the score. The kid probably won’t like the attention.
Anyone whose work uploading and adapting the joke as a genuine contribution to joke sites is not included by a link I regret in almost all cases that has to have been the case and I apologise I cannot individually acknowledge it.
I could not include every link to the friends and included a representation of the foes of the frog who goes to a bank for a loan joke.
In one case I did not link very purposefully because the material that is revealed is not suitable for a general audience and younger children supervised by their parents.
I admire the odds have fallen very much in favour in this regard of the frog who goes to the bank for a loan joke that it seems the frog somehow speaks to beused for ends that are good; leastwise has been treated kindly, whimsically and generously. The popular, regardless flawed frog is a phenomenon and the philosophers of all sorts who got and get the joke and have run with it have paid the frog – and the teller and the bank manager– a great compliment.
The trinity is in the wings as I write. When we create with a healthy perspective we invest magic and our creations become themselves. Take a bow: the frog, the teller and the bank manager.
To the people who don’t yet and might never know or understand or even accept this is true that the pleasure they have found in this joke and the frustration of its detractors are directly proportional to the affection I feel for the fans, the kind loyalty and controversy shown the frog goes to a bank for a loan joke, sincerely, thank you.
(Continued Part 2 –Building The Joke)
FOOTNOTE:
1. the wildly wonderful shaggy dog written by astyages that sent me in 2011 on this journey finding my frog.
Well… I’m hoping this new video I’ve just posted on my YouTube channel (ie. theseustoo’s YouTube channel) will make up for the rather disappointing results of my last attempt to post some music here. At least over at YouTube it still sounds the way it did when I edited it; and if it’s not quite perfect, well, I think it ain’t that bad either! Do let me know what you think of the Burnside Refugees cover of the Grateful Dead’s ‘Casey Jones’; an old favorite of mine from a time-space far, far away…
She was sitting next to me in one of those leather seats that those large Westfield shopping centers have sprinkled around their cavernous Meccas of consumption for the masses… Oddly enough, very often no one sits on them. Perhaps, sitting down is not in the spirit of what those temples are about; spending money and consume, consume.
The girl had a dark somewhat Gauguinish Polynesian look about her and was dressed in a multi coloured tropical fashion. I did not want to be seen as curious but decided to occasionally take a side-long glance at her. She seemed to be busy fiddling with something around her ample brown neck. I had noticed her earlier opposite from where I was sitting at a shop where they were selling lots of low-cost jewelry. You know, there are always lots of those shops about, selling indefinable trinkets, together with gold looking necklaces, also hairclips and mobile phone covers, Valentine love tags with ‘for Sandy, Macy, Lorraine or Shane, Bob, Wayne or a Ron’ together with shoulder strapped handbags. Those shops also have salesgirls who are permanently yawning or on urgent texting missions behind the counter, refusing to give service or make eye contact with the customer.
Those shopping centers have a noise unique in the world of public sounds. There are traffic noises, airplanes, street noises, barking dogs, tolling church bells and so many others. However, those large shopping centers have a noise that is different. It is the noise of the people swept up and totally concentrated on and busy with consuming. Like a tidal wave it sweeps up everything in front of them towards the cash register with the consumables clutched in both hands, the card ready at the fore, often held between teeth and the pram pushed by determined women with child bearing thighs or a brutish looking but compliant husband… You can actually hear the swiping of thousands of cards with the familiar high pitched timbre of the electronic print out receipts coming from dozens if not hundreds of shops and their purchases.
That is the noise of a shopping center.
Yet, unbelievably as it seems, there are sometimes scenes of serenity and calm in those raging seas of frenzied shopping. There was a barefooted blond woman sitting opposite me and the Gauguin girl. She was peacefully reading a book with her legs comfortably tucked under her hips. Her slippers were on the polished floor beneath the leather settee together with a small bag. I don’t think she had bought anything. She was reading a book titled ‘Snow White the Huntsman’ and seemed to devour the pages rather quickly. She was obviously reading a good story. I noticed that on her toe (next to the big one) of her left foot, there was a small silver looking ring. She wriggled her toes every now and then. A few times she looked up with a quick glance around her before returning once more to her book.
In the meantime I had found out that the Polynesian Gauguin looking girl next to me had bought a small necklace with a kind of silver wood nail as a pendant. She had managed to put it around her neck. She looked a normal girl with a friendly face, not too pretty but with a soft and feminine demeanor about her. After her success with this silver fence- nail necklace she took out her mobile phone and held it at arm’s length and started taking pictures of her adorned face with neck. This was followed by a rapid swiping and moving about of her fingers on her mobile. I suppose she was sending the pictures to a friend, possibly a nice boyfriend. A kind and caring boy, I hoped. Was the ‘nail’ a kind of promise of a more permanent thing to be fixed for the future? I am probably running ahead here, but; who knows?
The landlord where I boarded and my meals were cooked and dishes done, my clothes washed, ironed and jazz played incessantly was enchanted with the line drawing (1988). Could he have a copy and frame it so I secured a good copy he sent to professional framers. Nothing was too good for the cartoon that he would simply go to the cheap shop and buy a frame for a few cents.
It was duly hung in the narrow space between the corner of the wall meeting the living room area and the frame of the door into the kitchen from the dining alcove. I mused on it curiously from my seat at the dining table opposite the landlord’s. His back was to it where he sat ready to exit into the kitchen to service meal times, wonderful concoctions of meals it felt to me eclipsed every time until the next evening’s meal by the breakfast that was his sourdough bread and home made marmalade … I pause as my mouth waters … spooned into a presentation dish out of a jar labelled and inscribed with copperplate calligraphy he attended at the local library with the mums to learn for the purpose.
My curiosity remains how extraordinary it is that simple depictions made by single lines communicate across space and time so we recognise imperative, movement, personality and so on.
I was pleased to have allowed flights of fancy at previous lodgings attempting minimalist line drawing.
He showed me his recipe book.
When he had been Sales Manager for a major paper firm in New Zealand before his retirement, he suggested to his management that agreed he design a recipe book to be distributed in parts clients were awarded each time they purchased consignments of paper per bundle and collected in a holder the company supplied.
I felt honoured that the cartoon was regarded so well. The recipe book was beautifully presented and illustrated with stock drawings that were classic 50s of the sort muted with a brush of random wash.
There is no denying that life resembles a sort of crusty crumble. The top often hides the soft inner core, sometimes sweet, sometimes sour. It does come with risk of failure as well, especially if thrown together recklessly. I hate cooking by measuring ingredients and prefer failure to fiddling with scales and grams. I normally box the lot together and hope for the best. I live dangerously, at least in the kitchen. It’s all one can do at the age of endless advertisements on TV urging us into ‘funeral plans’ while still alive. (Please, keep off the grass)
The really lucky ones, I often think, are those able to make a living from their creative instincts. You sometimes see them being interviewed, perhaps an opera singer, a composer or a Latvian ceramic artist, world famous, who are on top of their output and are known by the all glitterati. Presidents and other despots are queuing up to be photographed standing next to them. They are running the crest of the wave and earn a good living from their art. There can’t be a greater satisfaction than to live from one’s own creative output. To live from what one really feels passionate about doing. Some might really want to work as a welder, run a farm or make model trains. That’s lovely and exactly what I mean. That’s what creativity involves; let’s not put too fine a point or limitation on creativity. Anything goes in my book.
Alas, this had eluded me so far but enjoying somewhat the nasty schaden Freude and consolation that it eludes most of us. The operative word that springs to mind is ‘compromise’. It’s the banana skin on the doorstep of the life of ‘l’artiste’. How to make a quid from art, that’s the question? I wonder how Shakespeare managed or old Rembrandt Van Rijn, Caravaggio? I don’t think there were any social services available then. Didn’t Mozart got buried in a pauper’s grave? He did not sign up with Aami’s funeral plan. Perhaps a rich red mitered Bishop or an aristocrat Von Richhovenvorstendom propped up the artists at that time?
In any case, no President has requested or queued up to be photographed next to me, only the local Butcher years ago when Channel TV 9 wanted to do an interview about my plunge into the world of vasectomy, ‘performed’ by a female doctor aptly named Barbara Simcock. She has performed over 14 000 vasectomies so far and counting. What she doesn’t know about testicles is not worth looking at! I once heard “Wall-nuts in wet socks”. She was ever so gentle.
The obvious answer would have to be that I am and never will be any of those giants, or even lesser ones, perhaps at best just a pigmy of an artist, worse, a kind of garden gnome of an artist, decorating a suburban garden with a white painted worn Chevrolet tyre around the bed of limping petunias and a leaning zinc alume fence as a backdrop for failure. Oh the ignominy of it all, what fate?
Space and the lack of storing all my paintings forced me into downsizing and decided I would branch off in putting words in a certain order. My first word, if I remember correctly, was ‘exorbitant’ which I liked and followed this up quickly with another one called ‘exhortation’. Both have a nice ring to it, don’t you think, almost musical? It’s the vowels each time followed by the consonants, that does the trick. I am not sure of many words yet, and possibly, that’s the best way to be when writing. Words are inter-changeable and can also be deleted.
It never occurred to become something, I mean building a career in something. I don’t know; I could have been a bank director or dentist or a corporate accountant. Luck had it I managed money making fairly easily but not in monotonous jobs. I did work in a bank and offices for a while but the yawning ennui was mind numbing, sapping the spirit. I just never had much of an ambition or was driven to make myself into having a job of any importance. I always portrayed myself into the future, doing it year after year and came up with an apocalyptical ‘the horror, the horror”.
Perhaps I should have studied. I imagine going in the morning to Harvard University with a nice satchel casually slung over my shoulders, being greeted by other students and hurling myself in front of a politician’s car in some show of vehement protest. Sometimes I think it would be nice to have had a PHD. Dr Gerard Oosterman sounds nice (with Cum Laude). Too late for a career with the Police or Customs or flying a helicopter, swooping down on Kim DotCom in New Zealand. Now, there is a man passionate about his art, (fleecing multi nationals) and he is making a nice living.
As for the apple and rhubarb crumble, a huge success. Nice and tart, not too sweet.
After decades of untrammeled capitalism there are still those that believe in its system able to the ‘transformation of all to the common good for all.’ This is what really happened though when the power of money took over from the power of sharing, caring, empathy and tolerance. Take a good look!
Was it forty two million or forty four million who are now living in dismal poverty in America? How could a country get it so wrong and so quickly? Here was a nation once held up as an example of giving anyone prepared to put shoulder under the task the just reward in living the life of dreams and untold riches. They had John Steinbeck’s ‘Of Men and mice’ as a previous example. The problem was the neglect of dreams of the spirit and mind and an over emphasis on material benefits. Is this a repeat of the 1920/30’s?
Was it ownership of large houses with triple garages that overtook ownership of caring and friendship, neighbourly concern, an intimacy of living together? Did they forget to understand what gives satisfaction is learning to overcome life’s tribulations and a yearning for bettering ourselves by caring about others? It wasn’t supposed to be this lonely race to fat bank accounts with share portfolios kept locked in study-room’s gleaming drawers. Something went wrong somewhere.
Americans aspired to keep young with Botox infusions, silly anti-erotic chicken-wing look Brazilian waxes and expensive life expanding lotions, do anything to keep death away. That was banished as much as possible with the casket silently sliding and discretely hidden by a curtain, towards its final journey, the incinerator. Better to concentrate on membership to exclusive golf clubs or solariums to give tans as overwhelming proof of health, wellbeing and.. Being and staying alive together with John Travolta and Olivier Newton.
The poverty in America while terribly real is also removed from what we used to think of as poor. The family was still driving a large car; they had flat TV, computers and the kids fiddling with electric gadgets. Some of those did not look very hungry either with large torsos struggling to get in and out of cars. It was the feeling of the US being totally lost in people’s life’s travel that was the real poverty.
The desolation of the urban landscapes, the flotsam of dangling signage and derelict commercialism, windswept and friendless acreages of spiritual dehydration, so palpable and visual, even to the blind. The poverty in the US is truly obscene and it makes the poverty of those in Bangladesh by comparison almost dignified, if one can give dignity to poverty! How will this ever be overcome? It is not just lack of money at play here.
One couple lamented, oh so sadly, there are ‘no safety nets here’, it’s just hearsay; it doesn’t exist! So, of all the riches, of all the wealth creation with gigantic burgers with chips and mayonnaise, there still is no safety net, no care, and no empathy? Where is society’s inclusiveness? No one is smiling anymore!
So, what is going to happen? I wonder if a change of course is required or will the old ways of the past be cranked up again? Perhaps, the Reds under the beds were not that silly back in the fifties. McCarthyism jailed those brave souls that were for equitable sharing, chased them away, but those that had inclination towards social conscience and fled to Canada certainly made that country showing a much more humane face. The extreme materialism in the US and with all those people with guns and assault weapons don’t bode well for a safe future.
One thing still fills me with wonder; those 120 million of smiling Hindus taking a dip into the Ganges at Allahabad. What have they got what the US doesn’t?
Author’s note: I scrawled Aba Roc on no foundation other than reflection on original Arabic culture insofar as less and less as I understood it Bedouin lived free of compromise that meant they lived in urban settings and their existence was made complex by contemporary market stresses particularly, themselves frequently inclusive at the centre of power mongering and side-lined, depending on class and gender, geographical location, situation in hierarchies, victims as well as perpetrators.
Now the success or otherwise of the Arab Spring as we generally refer to it is centre piece.
We quantify the losses now in deaths amounting to tens, hundreds of thousands of citizens and military personnel. The situation remains heartbreaking for the women and the men of the Bedouin.
Story by Emmjay, Photography by Ms Phoebe and Ms Bridie
Last Sunday, the Pig’s Arms Humorous Runners hit the road, joined by a few strangers and a couple of trusty pals in the Swisse Color (sic) 5 km run. Twenty thousand others tagged along, raising $200,000 for Children’s Heart Disease Research – HeartKids.
A Bit Less than Half of the Starters – the start line is that arch in the middle of the horizon
Beginning its Australian tour in Melbourne in November 2012, The Swisse Color Run in Sydney was next up as it continues on its national tour, to include Brisbane, Adelaide, Gold Coast, Newcastle and Canberra.
At each kilometre point, runners were able to accept or reject (why be there ?) the advances of teams hurling brightly coloured powders at previously pristine T-shirts and their occupants, culminating in several huge crowd throws at the finish line.
Emmlet II – After
And it ended like this:
Adults behaving like Children – It was Great Fun ! Image Borrowed from the Color Run Facebook Page
Window Dresser's Arms, Pig & Whistle 