The word for French in Snark is Jubjub

Unlike certain countries where local customs require the Jubjub Birds to go about completely covered from head to toes in a swathy waddly sort of black body bag lest they overwhelm an innocent bystander with their lascivious aura of perpetual passion, we here in Quebec like our Jubjub Birds a bit more au naturel.

A bit of Jubjub ankle goes completely unnoticed on the streets of Montreal, where it is not uncommon to see the local women braving ice and snowstorms clad in their usual insouciant attire of stiletto heels, hose and cocktail dress. Such are the grim fashion realities of La Belle Province and what’s a Jubjub Bird to do in such circs?

At least her avian claws will provide some traction on the ice, at least sufficient to allow her to make her way to the nearest resto where she can indulge her absurd tastes for a bit of well-greased french fries submerged in thick, gummy cafeteria gravy topped off with bits of a rubbery cheese-like substance almost but not quite tasting entirely unlike cheese itself.

Fashion! The tyrant of Jubjubs and all of Canada alike!

Fit Two, Page 14, Panel 1 … 'cause my heart belongs to dada

The Bellman perceived that their spirits were low,
And repeated in musical tone
Some jokes he had kept for a season of woe —
But the crew would do nothing but groan.


Jokes kept for a season of woe, an almost biblical undertaking on the part of the Bellman, whose storehouse of mirth has been sorely depleted by divers chasms and crags. But to this geologically disheartened hunter of the Snark, we say, in the finest demotic vulgate we can muster : lighten up, dude! Like, get a hobby!

Hmmm … how about music? Music is nice, musical tones are even nicer. How about the fiddle? It’s an instrument that’s still welcome at hoe-down and rave alike. And all the girls love musicians, especially those hirsute ones (musicians, not girls) who emote over their Boojums in smoky Parisian cabarets, the kind of place where Kiki de Montparnasse might toss her turban at sugar-dada Man Ray or Jean Ingres pops in to play some violon airs upon a g-string behind her naked bach.

But the Bellman knows it will never work out. From the vantage point of his solitary table in a dark corner, he sighs aloud and weeps a solitary English tear into his hemlock and branch water. He knows he’s the wisest man in the place, simply because he’s the only one aware of his own ignorance. That and the numbness creeping up his legs … and up his back …

______________________________


NB. A tip o’ the poutine-sodden solar-topee to the Poetry Foundation, who have very kindly furnished their readers with a link to this Snark Hunt. Comix lovers should reciprocate with a look at the Poetry Foundation’s on-going series, The Poem As Comic Strip. It’s an encouraging development in the often overly-commercial world of sequential art and deserves more attention and hopefully, imitation and expansion. Besides, poets are even lower than ink-stained illustrators on the capitalist food-chain, they deserve a respite.