Word: turnip
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...Every bulb of garlic in their fields is the size of a baby's head. Each melon and gourd displays, in its massive and purposeful rotundity, the benefits of collective selfcriticism. Like the bulbous backside of a Cadillac in America 20 years ago, the distended cabbage and the steatopygous turnip are images of Good Government. In this land, imagination goes about its business with methodical certainty. There are no lopeared, ginger-bearded visionaries lurching about in the paddyfields, frightening the crows. "I thought the water pipes in this painting didn't look nice bare," one artist is quoted...
Amoozin' but confoozin', as Daisy Mae might fret. The frost is on the turnip down in Dogpatch, but no date has yet been set yet for this year's Sadie Hawkins Day, that highly moveable feast on which Marryin' Sam will obligingly hitch a fleet-hoofed gal to any hapless bachelor she can catch. Finally, at Daisy Mae's insistence, Cartoonist Al Capp hisself makes a rare appearance in the strip to schedule the prenuptial foot race for Nov. 26. Snorts a disgusted Li'l Abner: "Ha!-Any day is okay when...
...state "to determine whether or not they really have the money. If we find it, we're going to be very hard-nosed in our bargaining. If it's not there, who are we trying to kid? You can't squeeze blood out of a turnip." Nonetheless, Wurf and his union are trying to battle back with a $1 million advertising campaign, the theme of which is that public employees are not really looting government treasuries. Says Wurf: "All those classy pensions people think we've got-half of them are meaningless because there...
...desk at which he was writing, and to have as much thought or sentiment." That caricature of the desiccated plant-eater still pervades the English-speaking world. The very language is meaty with bias. Imagine a Beaneater martini, a fatted kale, a yam actor, a string of Turnip 'n' Brew restaurants...
...Guggenheim catalogue that Dubuffet is still a subversive force, the flurry and scandals that once attended his shows have died. Whatever else he may be doing, he is not-as a New York critic claimed in 1948-"debasing and perverting the very nature of art." His crude little turnip-men and personages compounded, apparently, of excrement and butterfly wings, his animals and objects in all their quirkish black humor with (lately) their deadpan repetition of red and blue stripes within the wiggling contours, are only pictures after all. They have altogether lost their shock. Most of them are now drained...