Biff and Iguana Man Strike Again

"Don't smash the exit signs," he said as I came in;
He wore a slick tuxedo and an ample double chin.
I eyed him for a moment, and I raised one eyebrow high;
I straightened out my shoulders and my nifty new bow-tie.
"What makes you think I'd want to, sir?" I asked with some disdain.
His features wrinkled grossly, as though seized with mortal pain;
At length I saw that this must be his version of a smirk,
And I thought he ought, perhaps, to seek a different line of work;
For a butler ought to be a thing that strikes you as serene:
A shimmer in the atmosphere, commanding, meek, and clean.
He ought to keep his feelings hid beneath a marble brow;
He must always answer calmly; he must never have a cow;
And a smirk is such a thing that, in his wildest, fear-filled dreams,
He must run from it in terror, and awake from it with screams.
These thoughts traversed my brain cells with the speed of lightning, greased,
And when I looked again, I saw his smirking fit had ceased.
He was gazing past my earlobe at a thing set just beyond,
With a look of grave suspicion, like a poodle near a pond.
I looked around behind me, but the only thing I saw
Was my trusty pal (his name is Biff), with hair like moldy straw.
I was gripped with understanding for the butler’s glassy stare:
This Biff’s a dandy sidekick, but he’s anything but fair.
Admittedly, his suit was nice, but this could not disguise
His toad-like face, his lumpy nose, his muddy, greenish eyes.
To the butler I addressed myself: “Of Biff be not afraid!
I know he looks the vandal type, but that’s just how he’s made.
He’d sooner die a martyr’s death than smash an exit sign;
Now please just let us in, for we’ve been beckoned here to dine.”
He pondered this a moment, then he bobbed his balding head.
“Alright, you guys, but watch your backs,” the aging butler said.
I wondered what he meant, but I was not allowed to ask,
For Biff had shoved me in the door before three seconds passed.
“Hey, what’s the deal?” I queried in a slightly wrathful tone,
“That butler might have news we would prove better to have known.
He said to watch our backs, and if I’m right that often means
That someone near at hand is cooking up a deadly scheme.
If we die tonight, I’m blaming it exclusively on you.”
Biff glowered, then he said, “That’s fine. I kind of hope we do.”
“Oh, come now Biff,” I cried, “What is the matter with your head?
This party’s not so awful that you’d rather turn up dead!”
“That’s easy,” quoth Biff glumly, “for the likes of you to say.
But you have no idea what I’ll suffer here this day:
I’m used to wearing blue jeans, chugging Pepsi from a can,
And chatting ‘bout the races, or whatever comes to hand.
But these folks, they’ve got their manners and their high-filootin’ gems;
They’ll stare at me and whisper, ‘What the world’s the deal with him?’”
I tried to reassure him; I advised him to relax.
I thumped his chest and then applied a wallop to his back.
He didn’t seem much cheered, but with reluctance still he came.
I led him to our host, whom I informed of both our names.
He welcomed us politely, then forgot that we were there,
For a pretty girl had walked past, and he had to smooth his hair.
After that, Biff tried to vanish, but his efforts were in vain:
In all that polished glamour, he stuck out with vivid pain.
There were satins, silks, and diamonds; there was gold, and all things fine;
There were botox-altered faces; there was caviar and wine.
And out there in the midst stood Biff, his crooked mouth agape;
I couldn’t help but pity him, he looked so like an ape.
At last the dinner chime was rung; we all filed in to feed
(For however fine our outsides, we’ve the same internal greed).
The cooking was exquisite, and the conversation bland;
Entertainment was provided by an aged crooner’s band.
Then suddenly the lights died, and a honking wail rang out;
The guests all shrieked in fear and stumbled aimlessly about.
“A red alert!” a voice boomed. “All you fruitcakes form a line!
You’ll be searched and questioned shortly: someone’s smashed an exit sign!”
I looked around for Biff, who in the crush had disappeared;
I saw him near the punch bowl, and his face looked awfully queer,
So I strode up to his side; I grabbed his hand and stroked its palm.
“It’s gonna be ok, Biff,” I declared, to make him calm.
He quivered like a jelly, and his face showed grief and rage
As he pointed at two men in matching suits up on the stage.
“They’re watching me,” he rattled, “And I know exactly why:
They’re sure that I’m the culprit, and they long to see me die.
It’s all because I’m ugly, man!” And sharply he exhaled.
“They won’t kill you, Biff,” I told him, “At the worst, you’ll go to jail.
And prison, though unpleasant, is a better fate than most—
Just think! You could be sliced up, fried, and eaten cold with toast.”
Biff looked at me, and I could see his eyes fill up with tears;
“You’re right,” he choked, “And now I must be master of my fears.
If a life in jail is what awaits, to such I’m now resigned;
But still, the fact remains – I didn’t smash that exit sign.”
I started, for this revelation caught me by surprise;
And, grieved by my disloyalty, I knuckled both my eyes.
“Oh Biff,” I whispered hoarsely, “By this injustice be not vexed.
We’ll find the rightful crook and wrap our fingers round his neck.
That butler, you remember, seemed to know this would occur –
Let’s see if we can find and quiz the noble, portly sir.”
We traipsed around the ballroom, and peered into every face;
There were humans in abundance, but the butler? Not a trace.
Then we saw a sign marked “Stairs” beside a door left just ajar;
We thought we’d take a peek. We wouldn’t wander very far.
But just inside the door there was this yellow “Caution” tape,
And in the act of sneaking past, the butler, mouth agape.
Above his head an exit sign (or one that once had been)
Was dangling by some wiring; and he gripped a rolling pin.
Befuddlement had seized me, but it didn’t keep me long,
For Biff leapt past and yodeled, “Hey! I knew those blokes were wrong!
I didn’t smash no exit sign – this butler did the deed,
And now he must be captured, and my reputation freed!”
A chase ensued that would have made an epic poet proud,
The butler’s speed defied his girth, and frankly, I was wowed.
But Biff cannot be shaken, once he fixes on his prey;
He kept up with his quarry, and at last he got his way.
In chains and brought to justice, still the butler’s eyes shot sparks,
But his bite had all been wasted; he could now but feebly bark.
As the cop car pulled away, and all the guests went back inside,
I looked across at Biff, and didn’t try to squelch my pride.
The lamplight on his features made me think of heroes bold,
Who, ugliness aside, have wills of steel and hearts of gold.
A better sidekick can’t be found, for snagging errant knaves,
Than Biff, who spends his life in making sure the world stays saved.
We crossed the street together, to where Kum n’ Go still stands;
I bought us each a Pepsi, and we drank it from the can.

nostalgia does not induce good poetry

My life is a memory.

Ahead is only fog.
A perfect light marks the end,
But the path I must take there is unclear.
What I think I see
May be something else,
Or perhaps it isn't there at all.

For an instant
I am in the present,
Then it flashes past into history.
Instant upon instant,
Always in the present,
But only an instant at a time.

Behind me is the story,
The one God's been telling all along.
It's frozen, and in a way it's gone:
I can't change it
And I can't have it back.
Time is a one-way street.

Sometimes when I stand where I used to stand,
And everything is changed,
Longing sweeps over me;
In a way I suppose I want it back,
But mostly I wish I'd known at the time
How soon it would be gone.

I spend so much time
Waiting for the future;
I don't understand that when it gets here,
It will turn into the present,
And by the time I realize it's happened,
It'll be over.

I'm always in yesterday's future.
I'm always in tomorrow's past.
This instant,
This little instant right now,
That's all I'm ever going to get,
This side of glory.

What am I doing with it?

tread softly

Believe me,
every man has his secret sorrows,
which the world knows not;
and oftimes we call a man cold,
when he is only sad.
(H.W. Longfellow)


I like stories. Pretty often, when my mind fails to find more productive ways of entertaining itself, I find myself making up stories about the people I see. Whether I'm walking through Wal-Mart, driving down the road, sitting in a restaurant, or waiting for a concert to start, interesting people almost never fail to show up, and once they show up, I can hardly help but think about them. I imagine who they are, where they came from, where they're going, what's going on in their lives, what awaits them in the future. Sometimes I wonder if this is an entirely ethical pastime, but I've reached the tentative conclusion that it's fairly harmless, since I don't actually believe any of the things I'm making up are anywhere near true. I just use the impressions people give me as a launching pad for fictions constructed entirely out of thin air (and generally forgotten more or less immediately). All the same, I suppose it's kind of a silly thing to do.

The thing, though, is that people really do have stories -- true stories that I know nothing about. Every single person you or I will ever meet has a life, and it's just as real to them as mine is to me. My existence is so self-centered, I often forget that. Think of all the cars you pass on the highway on a given day. I don't suppose most of us take the time to actually think it through very often, but isn't there kind of a subconscious assumption that once a vehicle has whooshed past you and vanished from sight, it and its occupants (because it does have humans inside, believe it or not) cease to exist? Well, the fact is that they don't. To them, you are the flash of speeding metal, barely noticed and immediately forgotten. Every single person in every one of those cars, everyone living in all the houses and apartments you pass, everyone walking down the sidewalk, everyone at the store -- every single one has had moments of joy, moments of pain, moments of suffering, moments of refreshment -- all these moments making up a life. And every single one has a soul that cannot die.

It really struck me today, a year after my sister's death, how little most of us really know about each other. In some ways, that's just as things must be -- each of us can only live one life, and we can't share equally in the suffering of all those around us, or I suppose it would kill us. It isn't required of us to remember all the birthdays and anniversaries of loved ones people have lost, or to keep up with everyone's struggles and heartaches, sharing acutely in all their pain. It just isn't possible. Yet I was convicted, on the other hand, of keeping too much to myself, of not reaching out to others when I can, or at least thinking and behaving selflessly when that's all I can do.

You see, we just don't know. We don't know what other people have been through, or what they're going through now; and even if we do have some idea what's going on, we can't understand what it's like until we've been there. Sometimes as I'm driving to Spencer, I remember May 4 of last year, when we drove that same route, trailing a distant ambulance, and nobody else knew where we were headed; nobody knew our lives had just been shattered. Sometimes, then, I look at the car ahead of me and wonder where they're going: is it an ordinary errand, or are they staggering through tragedy? Who am I to know? If someone flies by me going twenty over the speed limit, maybe he's just late for a dentist appointment; or maybe his wife is about to give birth to their first child; or maybe his child is dying. If the car just ahead of me is poking along at a maddening pace, I wonder if I could take a deep breath and be patient, instead of tapping on the wheel and growling under my breath. It could well be that the driver just can't see the road through her tears.

Death touches more people than you might think. Sometimes I stop at the cemetery where Addy is buried on my way home from work, or when I'm driving by, and there's almost always a fresh grave, or one that the grass has yet to grow over. Every time, someone's world fell apart. And it doesn't end there; the grass is green over Addy's grave, but our hearts still ache. Life goes on; the world forgets, but we never will.

So when the lady ahead of you in the checkout lane can't find the right change; when there's a tired, screaming toddler at the next table; when the gas station attendant all but snaps at you about your purchases; when the cars ahead of you take half the morning to make their left turns ... consider carefully before you assume anything, because there is much that you don't know.

The painful truth is that you're not the center of the universe, and neither am I. None of us is the main character, and most of us probably aren't even in the supporting cast. We're props and makeup artists and piccolo players in the band -- each of us has a part, to be sure, but frankly, it's not about any of us. God made every single one of us in His image, and the sole purpose of that was so that we could glorify Him and enjoy Him forever. For those of us who have been redeemed, it's all "about" our Heavenly Father, and loving Him by obeying Him, which means loving each other. That's the only reason any of this matters.

And for those of you who suffer, for those of you who grieve, for those of you who feel alone in your pain -- take comfort and remember that you're not. "For we do not have a High Priest who cannot sympathize with our weaknesses, but was in all points tempted as we are, yet without sin." (Hebrews 4:15) He was forsaken, the Heidelberg catechism assures us, so that God might never forsake us. In fact, Hebrews 13:5 says the same thing: "For He Himself has said, "I will never leave you nor forsake you." And in Isaiah 61:1, ""The Spirit of the Lord GOD is upon Me, Because the LORD has anointed Me To preach good tidings to the poor; He has sent Me to heal the brokenhearted, To proclaim liberty to the captives, And the opening of the prison to those who are bound."

We may be many things, but when we belong to Christ, we are never alone.


Tread softly, for you know not what an ill-feigned smile conceals;
Be patient: think how far away a troubled mind may be;
Speak kindly, for you cannot know the pain another feels;
And love -- for there is always more to life than you can see.

they knew

What is the militia? It is the whole people. To disarm the people is the best and most effectual way to enslave them
- George Mason


Laws that forbid the carrying of arms...disarm only those who are neither inclined nor determined to commit crimes...Such laws make things worse for the assaulted and better for the assailants; they serve rather to encourage than to prevent homicides, for an unarmed man may be attacked with greater confidence than an armed man.
- Thomas Jefferson, quoting Cesare Beccaria's "On Crimes and Punishment"


The constitution supposes, what the History of all Governments demonstrates, that the Executive is the branch of power most interested in war, and most prone to it. It has accordingly with studied care vested the question of war in the Legislature.
- James Madison, writing to Thomas Jefferson


If Congress can employ money indefinitely to the general welfare, and are the sole and supreme judges of the general welfare, they may take the care of religioin into their own hands; they may appoint teachers in every state, county, and parish, and pay them out of their public treasury; they may take into their own hands the education of children establishing in like manner schools throughout the Union; they may assume the provision for the poor; they may undertake the regulation of all roads other than post roads; in short, everything, from the highest object of state legislation down to the most minute object of police, would be thrown under the power of Congress.
- James Madison


It is working like gravity by night and by day, gaining a little today and a little tomorrow, and advancing its noiseless step like a thief over the field of jurisdiction, until all shall be usurped from the states, and the government of all be consolidated into one.
- Thomas Jefferson, on the federal judiciary

Arwen, Undomiel, Evenstar, Whatever

How comest thy part in this tale?
And who dared enlarge it so far
That, bloated, thou staggerest onward,
And thy role doth so hopelessly mar?

The footsteps thou strivest to follow
Are truly so small and so light,
That any attempt that thou makest
Goes blundering into the night.

Thou ought to be small, unoffensive,
And not go out wandering so much,
Chasing Gondorian Rangers,
Whose hearts thou so gropingly clutch.

Hypnosis by brain-waves thou sendest
To a gullible soul far away.
Thy necklace, a chain ever-clanking,
Obsesseth him day after day.

Thou seest how low is thy standing
In the favor of one, which is me.
I think that thou long ago should have
Been drowned on thy way o’er the sea.

Thou askest now why I am speaking
To thee, whom I esteemest so low?
I’m done now, but why did I bother?
Ask not, because nobody knows.


~Tierney Erwin



p.s. Since my reputation is worth so much, and hangs already on a thread so fine, I feel compelled to point out that 1) I wrote this years ago (I forget how many), and 2) even then, the formal English (thee, thou, -est, etc....what is that called, anyway?) was bad on purpose.
There. Now I feel better.

The Adventures of Biff and Iguana Man

"No throwing babies," the sign in the window said.
I stopped to gawk and wonder, and then to scratch my head.
I stood there for a moment, then I turned myself around;
I watched, with grave suspicion, the goings-on in town.
A woman swept the sidewalk while the grocer stacked his wares;
Some boys were playing freeze tag, and a girl sat on some stairs;
A teen, complete with ipod, with great effort parked his car,
And near a blowout sale rack, two young moms played tug-of-war;
A new car passed an old one, and a moped passed them both;
A couple lovebirds waltzed on air, apparently betrothed.
Upon this scene of normalcy I gazed with some alarm--
What dreadful secrets lay beneath this fair facade of charm?
What possibly could spur the drawing up of such a sign?
Were babies really being thrown? A shiver smote my spine.
For a time I stood there frozen, then my Inner Hero stirred;
“Well, don’t just sit and slobber! Get your cape, you lousy bird!”
To my face these words were spoken! I could scarce believe the spite,
But I didn’t pause to answer, for I knew that he was right.
And, besides, my Inner Hero (though heroic to a fault)
Is known to lean toward rudeness. Indeed, perfect he is not.
So I thundered to my pickup with my nostrils bravely flared;
A cape is in my trunk, you see. I always come prepared.
I flung it round my neck, and in its blueish-green embrace
A new Me took the spotlight, though I kept the same round face.
My hat was pulled down to my eyes; my collar touched my ears;
I was, as has been wisely said, among evil’s darkest fears.
I tore across the pavement, kicking sparks up in my wake;
My heart was pounding wildly, but I swear it didn’t quake.
When I reached the storefront window, with that awful sign inside,
I paused to shake my fist, and then I flung the front door wide.
The splendor of my coming would have scared a warlord stiff,
But the freckled kid inside just laughed (his name was likely Biff).
He had braces and bifocals, and he laughed like choking cats;
I couldn’t help but loathe him, but I stalked to where he sat.
“Tell me now where I must venture,” were my words to that young bloke,
“To avenge these hard-tossed infants.” And I gave his face a poke.
With the benefit of hindsight, that last gesture was not wise,
For immediately upon it, greenish flames flicked in his eyes.
“Did you just poke my face?” he rasped. What could I say but “yes”?
And what precisely happened next is anybody’s guess.
I tried to keep my balance, but that kid was quick and fierce;
The strength with which he kicked me quite defied his tender years.
We tumbled on the floor then, getting jabs in when we could;
Of this art I am a master, but this Biff guy sure was good.
At last I broke his hold and stood and grabbed a whiteish flag;
“Oh say,” I said, “Why not be pals? This fighting’s such a drag.”
He gave an awful gurgle and made three more well-aimed kicks,
Then he grinned a silly grin and said, “Ok. Let’s call it quits.”
With relief my soul was flooded now; I wrung his sweaty paw;
Then, “You must be Iguana Man,” he said in startled awe.
I smiled and blushed a little bit, for what he said was true;
Then, out of common courtesy, I asked, “And who are you?”
“My name is Biff,” quoth he, to which I said, “I thought as much.”
(A face like his, I thought, no other name could justly touch.)
“Are you looking for a job, Biff? For your wallop’s got pizzazz,
And a sidekick’s something I’ve not got, but really ought to have.”
Such radiance seized Biff’s features that it rather hurt my eyes,
And he gave a harsh, elated squeak, in affirmative reply.
“Come on now, Biff,” I said then, “There are babies to be saved.
Someone has been throwing them; let’s crush the errant knaves!”
Biff yodeled, and he set off down the street at such a pace
That I had to rent a scooter just to keep up with the chase.
For many blocks we sped thus, till we reached the edge of town,
Then Biff pulled up so sharply that I nearly mowed him down.
“This is it,” he whispered hoarsely, “This is where they toss the babes,
But they tranquilize the infants, so their cries don’t wake the nabes.”
“The fiends,” I darkly muttered, and with stealth we crept inside.
Then Biff got really nervous, and he said we’d better hide.
“They meet here every Tuesday right at seven, and that’s soon.
Let’s hide here in the closet, then we’ll snag the wretched goons.”
A first-rate plan I thought it, so we hid among the coats—
The reek of must and mothballs was so strong it hurt my throat.
We didn’t suffer long, though, for there soon arose a din,
So we crowded to the keyhole to peek outside from within.
There was padding on the floor, and there was padding on the walls;
There were men in padded jumpsuits (some were short and some were tall).
There were cradles in the corners. There were babies all about
(They were wrapped up snug in blankets, with their faces poking out).
Then a great and solemn silence swept the chatter off its feet,
And there rose a muffled humming, and a soft but steady beat.
Then a man strode to the infants and he gently picked one up,
And with fluid, swift dexterity he slung the helpless pup;
Another silent man reached out and snatched it from the air.
I didn’t scream, but this I did: I pulled out half my hair.
As one body, Biff and I leapt out; we cried, “Lay down your arms!
Place the babies in the cradles, or you’ll certainly be harmed.
We are trained in Russian boxing, and we know a hundred tricks;
We have written epic poems, and we sometimes swallow bricks.”
Now, I cannot say with certainty that all of this is true,
But things were looking desperate, and, well, what else could we do?
It did the trick, at any rate—those brutes spun out and fled,
And we chased them round in circles till we all were almost dead.
At last the fiends surrendered, and they hung their heads in shame;
I told them that, if I were them, I would surely do the same.
Then Biff scooped up the babies, while I dragged the crooks to jail;
By sunset we were satisfied that one more case was nailed.
I was pleased with my new sidekick, who, though ugly as a toad,
Was very good at boxing, and with valor was bestowed.
We stood out on a hilltop then, my partner Biff and I.
We didn’t have to say a word—the same glints were in our eyes.
The world was now a safer place; our day’s good deed was done,
So we kicked back, had a beer, and watched the setting of the sun.

The End.

my flitting thoughts light briefly hereon...

...in other words, here are a few things I've been thinking about lately. This is my excuse for a blog post when I lack the motivation or subject matter to write anything of my own.


Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him.
-Job 13:15

Oh Master, grant that I may never seek
So much to be consoled as to console,
To be understood as to understand,
Or to be loved as to love with all my soul.
-a song

I cannot think well of a man who sports with any woman's feelings; and there may often be a great deal more suffered than a stander-by can judge of.
-Jane Austen


And Jesus answered and said to her, "Martha, Martha, you are worried and troubled about many things."
-Luke 10:41

It takes no courage whatsoever to type alone in my study. Especially when I'm typing for a safe audience.
-Andree Seu

For mad scientists who keep brains in jars, here's a tip: why not add a slice of lemon to each jar, for freshness?
-Jack Handey

Time sneaks up on you like a windshield on a bug.
-John Lithgow