The Wii and X-Box 360 are two of the hottest toys this Christmas. Video games’ popularity changes however from year to year, but dolls are perennial favorites year after year. New for this Christmas are some dolls for you grown up boys and girls.
There’s the Gov. Rod Blagovich auctioneer doll that sells senate seats, funding for children’s hospitals, his soul and the Governor’s fine china and silverware to the highest bidder.
There’s the President-elect Barrack Obama doll that leans to the left, but turns right with each cabinet selection.
There’s the Brittany Spears’ doll that can’t keep its pants up or its top down.
There’s the George W. Bush doll that just shrugs when asked hard question about his presidency and legacy.
There’s the John McCain doll that spins 180 degrees every time it assumes a new position.
There’s the Sarah Palin doll that turns itself on and can’t stop talking until totally ignored by the Time Passes doll.
There’s the Hillary Clinton doll that won’t take dictation but will give dictation as a Secretary.
There’s the Bill Clinton doll that hits on the Brittany Spears doll, even if she’s on her period. Comes with a cigar and a squeegee.
There’s the Plaxico Burress doll that dances and screams at the sound of gunfire in his sweatpants.
There’s the Big Three Auto Makers’ Dolls that cry, sniffle and wet their pants begging for a Bail Out and a golden parachute for when they bail out.
There’s the Boy George doll that handcuffs his Ken doll to the wall and beats the crap out of it with the leg irons from the George Michael doll.
There’s the Amy Winehouse doll that gets drunk and throws up on her Barbie dolls.
There’s the “Twilight” doll that just sucks.
There’s the Keanu Reeves alien doll that shows the same vacant emotions as the Keanu Reeves action human doll.
Batter up and play doll, this Christmas.
Monday, December 15
Saturday, December 6
A CHRISTMAS ANGEL FLY BY
My name is Angel, the Christmas Angel. Yeah I know, Angel the angel. I got that a lot in flight school. I’m the angel in charge of Christmas spirit in the northeast quadrant of North America. In fact I’m related to Clarence the angel in It’s A Wonderful Life on my mother’s side. He’s got his wings now and is charge of the Mid East. He’s about ready to quit and bomb everybody himself.
I come down here once a year to instill a little Christmas spirit into the crass commercialism that big business has crammed into your Christmas. How do I do that? Well, I fly around up here looking down on you and… Excuse me a minute. I see something. Gotta go.
Sorry about that, I spotted a lost child, separated from her mother at the Nittany Mall in the crush of the crowd. There was a man watching the little girl way too closely and he was hurrying toward her like a hawk diving on a mouse. I swooped down to turn the mother’s head just in time to see her baby crying next to the Orange Julius stand. She’s hugging her little girl now like she was the best Christmas gift ever. The man disappears into the crowd.
I hate to brag, but I’m the one who puts the bug in the ear of the TV network honchos to run those old Frosty the Snowman and Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer Christmas cartoons every year. The toons may be primitive animation, but they’re timeless and touch the child in you baby boomers in your peak earning years for the advertisers. And that’s what Christmas is- timeless, childlike and holy… cow gotta go again.
I’m back now. I was just sunning myself on a cumulus cloud when I noticed an echo empty Salvation Army kettle outside of Wal-Mart. So I flew down there to bump some pockets and jingle some change to remind you shoppers to give to the less fortunate this time of year.
But my best flights are when I soar into your fleeting thoughts and make you curb your tongue, swallow your pride and forgive your family and friends for all the wrongs they did to you this past year. So you can clasp them to your bosom like a too tight t-shirt.
I hover here to remind you that you never know who’ll be around to share your next Christmas with you. Always cherish Christmas with your loved ones like it was your last, because someday it will be. I get estranged sisters talking to each other. I make mad husbands kiss their angry wives under the mistletoe and I even cause children to be considerate of their parents, an even bigger miracle. Niger.
I fill your hearts with the spirit of forgiving and giving. It keeps the shoppers happy and the economy going. It gives children their first puppies, girls their engagement rings and dads bad ties. I help to pick the perfect Christmas tree with your spouse without having to file for divorce. If you don’t hang your stockings by the chimney with care, I re-hang them for you. I find you parking spaces in packed mall parking lots after only 15 minutes of driving up and down looking.
I bring grown children back to their parents, sisters to their brothers and crazy aunts and uncles to your homes for the holidays. I get everyone flying and driving all over the country to return to their roots once a year, no matter how embarrassing that may be to them. I help get you hugs and kisses from your past life by lassoing old loyalties, that then tug at your heart strings and go ping, ping, Cherie.
Look there’s Hank who’s 100. He’s outlived everyone he loves and loved him. He’s sharing the holidays with some wet adult diapers and a nurse’s aid at the home. Do you see that small smile sneaking across his face? He’s five years old and it’s Christmas day with his long dead parents. The turkey is basting and the pies are baking. He and his ghost brothers and sisters are tearing into their presents under the tree. His first dog Princie is licking his face.
Everyone is laughing and so is Hank because he’s having the best Christmas of his life… again. I did this.
I come down here once a year to instill a little Christmas spirit into the crass commercialism that big business has crammed into your Christmas. How do I do that? Well, I fly around up here looking down on you and… Excuse me a minute. I see something. Gotta go.
Sorry about that, I spotted a lost child, separated from her mother at the Nittany Mall in the crush of the crowd. There was a man watching the little girl way too closely and he was hurrying toward her like a hawk diving on a mouse. I swooped down to turn the mother’s head just in time to see her baby crying next to the Orange Julius stand. She’s hugging her little girl now like she was the best Christmas gift ever. The man disappears into the crowd.
I hate to brag, but I’m the one who puts the bug in the ear of the TV network honchos to run those old Frosty the Snowman and Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer Christmas cartoons every year. The toons may be primitive animation, but they’re timeless and touch the child in you baby boomers in your peak earning years for the advertisers. And that’s what Christmas is- timeless, childlike and holy… cow gotta go again.
I’m back now. I was just sunning myself on a cumulus cloud when I noticed an echo empty Salvation Army kettle outside of Wal-Mart. So I flew down there to bump some pockets and jingle some change to remind you shoppers to give to the less fortunate this time of year.
But my best flights are when I soar into your fleeting thoughts and make you curb your tongue, swallow your pride and forgive your family and friends for all the wrongs they did to you this past year. So you can clasp them to your bosom like a too tight t-shirt.
I hover here to remind you that you never know who’ll be around to share your next Christmas with you. Always cherish Christmas with your loved ones like it was your last, because someday it will be. I get estranged sisters talking to each other. I make mad husbands kiss their angry wives under the mistletoe and I even cause children to be considerate of their parents, an even bigger miracle. Niger.
I fill your hearts with the spirit of forgiving and giving. It keeps the shoppers happy and the economy going. It gives children their first puppies, girls their engagement rings and dads bad ties. I help to pick the perfect Christmas tree with your spouse without having to file for divorce. If you don’t hang your stockings by the chimney with care, I re-hang them for you. I find you parking spaces in packed mall parking lots after only 15 minutes of driving up and down looking.
I bring grown children back to their parents, sisters to their brothers and crazy aunts and uncles to your homes for the holidays. I get everyone flying and driving all over the country to return to their roots once a year, no matter how embarrassing that may be to them. I help get you hugs and kisses from your past life by lassoing old loyalties, that then tug at your heart strings and go ping, ping, Cherie.
Look there’s Hank who’s 100. He’s outlived everyone he loves and loved him. He’s sharing the holidays with some wet adult diapers and a nurse’s aid at the home. Do you see that small smile sneaking across his face? He’s five years old and it’s Christmas day with his long dead parents. The turkey is basting and the pies are baking. He and his ghost brothers and sisters are tearing into their presents under the tree. His first dog Princie is licking his face.
Everyone is laughing and so is Hank because he’s having the best Christmas of his life… again. I did this.
Friday, November 7
THE MEN WHO SAVED THE WORLD
“Move it, grandpa!” Shout some running boys as they bump into the old man waddling down the middle of the mall.
“Grandpa?” he says stumbling back. “Ask me about my grandchildren, you damn punks.”
Gravity seems to be pulling the old man down to the ground, as he slides slouching against the Walden Books’ window. Old age lowers you closer and closer to the earth till it puts you six feet under. Gravity is the lever.
The young man bear hugs his bride like he’ll never let her go, their hearts beating together so loudly it seems like they share one chest. She’s sobbing as he strokes her long black hair and whispers that he loves her over and over again. Tears trickle down his cheeks too, as he kisses her wet quivering lips.
The old man zooms along at 47 miles an hour in a 65 mile zone, where everyone’s going 70 to75. Cars honk and swerve around him as he clutches the steering wheel and stares straight ahead. He’s just too slow for this fast paced world.
The young man is quick and strong as he sweats his way though boot camp. He sleeps with his rifle, but dreams about his wife, who he writes to every other day. He doesn’t know when he’ll ship out, but hopes to get a leave to go home before. He misses his wife so much.
The old man sleeps alone in his king size bed, his wife of 52 years having died of cancer the Christmas before last. Sometimes, just before he slips into sleep, he can still feel her in their bed. His misses his wife so much.
It’s the end of the young man’s ten day leave. He’s saying goodbye to his weeping wife at the train station. Their life together has just been a series of long goodbyes. One minute he’s a farm boy and the next he’s a soldier sailing overseas. Life just goes too fast for him. He’d like to stop it for a moment, put it on his front porch and lazily watch the day drift by, while snuggling with his baby.
The old man moves even slower since his operation. He’s now up to almost 30 pills a day, just to keep going more slowly. He’s been hospitalized three times in the last two years. His body just shuts down regularly for repairs now. His kids call, but the closest one is 890 miles away, so they’re a helluva lot of help, he thinks. Everyone he loves is just so far away, with his wife the farthest.
The young man lands in England. It’s jumping and jiving with Yanks. He’s stationed at RAF Bentwaters, with his wife far away in the states. He walks around the base at night waiting and wondering. They all do. Nobody sleeps at night.
The old man gets up about a dozen times a night to hurry to the bathroom and wait for something to happen. As he’s shrunk in size, his prostate has grown larger. It’s one of old age’s ironies that he’s now enjoying.
They’re launching tomorrow. The young man’s just gotten his orders. He writes his pregnant wife one last letter telling her it might be a while before she hears from him again and that he loves her so much.
The old man uses his cane to walk to the McDonalds on the corner to get his free cup of breakfast coffee for senior citizens. He sits in a sunny booth watching the people come and go, go and come. With the warmth of the morning sun on his shoulders, he closes his eyes and quietly remembers.
The noise is deafening with the roar of the engines, the shelling and the swelling sea. All the men are either praying or throwing up, as the waves toss them about in the boat like a giant game of jacks.
The landing craft door drops open and the air is alive with zipping bullets flying overhead and into helmets, killing men instantly. Bodies fall and leap into the surging surf, with everyone still alive scrambling for the sand.
The young man is surging with adrenalin and shock, just trying to dodge the bullets and burrow himself into the beach like a sand crab. A GI to his right is blown in half, another in a daze searches for his shot off arm and a third tries to stuff his spilling guts back into the huge hole in his belly. They are all in hell on Omaha Beach. It is D-Day.
The old man stops taking his medicine and is discovered three days after he dies by the smell. He wasn’t needed any more, like he was before back in ’44, when he was a young man helping to save the world. Happy Veteran’s Day.
“Grandpa?” he says stumbling back. “Ask me about my grandchildren, you damn punks.”
Gravity seems to be pulling the old man down to the ground, as he slides slouching against the Walden Books’ window. Old age lowers you closer and closer to the earth till it puts you six feet under. Gravity is the lever.
The young man bear hugs his bride like he’ll never let her go, their hearts beating together so loudly it seems like they share one chest. She’s sobbing as he strokes her long black hair and whispers that he loves her over and over again. Tears trickle down his cheeks too, as he kisses her wet quivering lips.
The old man zooms along at 47 miles an hour in a 65 mile zone, where everyone’s going 70 to75. Cars honk and swerve around him as he clutches the steering wheel and stares straight ahead. He’s just too slow for this fast paced world.
The young man is quick and strong as he sweats his way though boot camp. He sleeps with his rifle, but dreams about his wife, who he writes to every other day. He doesn’t know when he’ll ship out, but hopes to get a leave to go home before. He misses his wife so much.
The old man sleeps alone in his king size bed, his wife of 52 years having died of cancer the Christmas before last. Sometimes, just before he slips into sleep, he can still feel her in their bed. His misses his wife so much.
It’s the end of the young man’s ten day leave. He’s saying goodbye to his weeping wife at the train station. Their life together has just been a series of long goodbyes. One minute he’s a farm boy and the next he’s a soldier sailing overseas. Life just goes too fast for him. He’d like to stop it for a moment, put it on his front porch and lazily watch the day drift by, while snuggling with his baby.
The old man moves even slower since his operation. He’s now up to almost 30 pills a day, just to keep going more slowly. He’s been hospitalized three times in the last two years. His body just shuts down regularly for repairs now. His kids call, but the closest one is 890 miles away, so they’re a helluva lot of help, he thinks. Everyone he loves is just so far away, with his wife the farthest.
The young man lands in England. It’s jumping and jiving with Yanks. He’s stationed at RAF Bentwaters, with his wife far away in the states. He walks around the base at night waiting and wondering. They all do. Nobody sleeps at night.
The old man gets up about a dozen times a night to hurry to the bathroom and wait for something to happen. As he’s shrunk in size, his prostate has grown larger. It’s one of old age’s ironies that he’s now enjoying.
They’re launching tomorrow. The young man’s just gotten his orders. He writes his pregnant wife one last letter telling her it might be a while before she hears from him again and that he loves her so much.
The old man uses his cane to walk to the McDonalds on the corner to get his free cup of breakfast coffee for senior citizens. He sits in a sunny booth watching the people come and go, go and come. With the warmth of the morning sun on his shoulders, he closes his eyes and quietly remembers.
The noise is deafening with the roar of the engines, the shelling and the swelling sea. All the men are either praying or throwing up, as the waves toss them about in the boat like a giant game of jacks.
The landing craft door drops open and the air is alive with zipping bullets flying overhead and into helmets, killing men instantly. Bodies fall and leap into the surging surf, with everyone still alive scrambling for the sand.
The young man is surging with adrenalin and shock, just trying to dodge the bullets and burrow himself into the beach like a sand crab. A GI to his right is blown in half, another in a daze searches for his shot off arm and a third tries to stuff his spilling guts back into the huge hole in his belly. They are all in hell on Omaha Beach. It is D-Day.
The old man stops taking his medicine and is discovered three days after he dies by the smell. He wasn’t needed any more, like he was before back in ’44, when he was a young man helping to save the world. Happy Veteran’s Day.
A BOARDWALK BAND OF BROTHERS
While strolling down a N.J. boardwalk we noticed an elderly couple heading our way. My wife and I had been arguing about the huge beach houses along the boardwalk and whether they were rentals or single-family homes. One behemoth in particular had so many private balconies connected to individual rooms that I thought that surely they would be rented out separately in the summer.
I stopped the couple to ask them if they might know. As it turned out, I was wrong again. The son of a friend of the couple’s owned the biggest house. I said what a waste. The rich always depress me. They have so much serving so few.
I started talking to Rich, the husband, and my wife talked to his wife. The conversations split along gender lines. The women talked about their children and grandchildren, while we talked about war, specifically WWII. Rich had been with the 101st Airborne Division that had landed during the Normandy invasion of Nazi occupied Europe.
It was like having a face to face talk with the Band of Brothers, the past HBO WWII miniseries about Easy Company in the 101st Airborne that landed at Normandy, fought in the Battle of the Bulge, liberated a concentration camp and captured Hitler’s Eagle’s Nest retreat.
There standing beside me was a silver-haired 79-year-old small man who, when he was 19, fought in the seminal war of the 20th century and helped win the war so that we baby boomers could grow up free in the 1950s and enjoy the American way of life.
It may be ancient history now, but at the time it could easily have gone either way.
Rich’s children had taken him to the WWII movie Saving Private Ryan. He had sat through it fine, but upon leaving the theater he broke down crying. Its realism had brought back so many bad memories.
A friend was taping Band of Brothers for him. Since this was about his own division, he was in F Company, and reportedly accurate, I can’t imagine how Rich will react after seeing all 10 episodes.
I’ve seen Band of Brothers and felt that the first few parts were very confusing because so many men were killed, that you hadn’t gotten to know, that you couldn’t keep track. Which was probably how the battles themselves went. But as you got to know the soldiers you ended up amazed at what they went through, when they were basically kids, and what they had accomplished.
As we stood there under the eerie glow of a mist shrouded street lamp along the long lonely boardwalk with the surf pounding the shore, Rich became a young man again reliving his youth, which was WWII. He didn’t talk about the endless death, destruction and danger. He talked about getting frostbite during the Battle of the Bulge in France when the Germans made one final desperate push to break through the allied lines and stop the Normandy invasion
The German attack was a total surprise- swift, savage and it almost worked. Rich said that Hitler was so furious that eight elite Panzer tank divisions couldn’t break through our stretched to the limit line of confused soldiers, that he just kept trying to push through the middle in a rage. If he would have withdrawn, regrouped and swept around our sides to surround us, he could have stopped us dead. His own maniacal pride prevented this, so we went on to Berlin, instead of getting slaughtered in France.
Rich said he changed his wet socks regularly so he wouldn’t get the dreaded trench foot, but got frostbite instead. He was sent back to England in horrible pain for two months to recover. They had fought in snow and ice without their winter uniforms and Rich said he had never been so cold for so long in his life. Maybe that’s why he’s living in sunny California now.
When Rich returned to the front he participated in a practice exercise where they parachuted into a firefight like they would over the Rhine River into Germany. They used real explosives and Rich was hit in the leg by a piece of shrapnel, the size of an arrowhead that threw him thru the air like a rag doll. He was sent back to England to recover again.
He only recently filed for a disability as the shrapnel still lodged in his leg was making him limp. It took over three years of paperwork to get and, at the end; he had to provide an eyewitness account from over 50 years ago. Luckily, an old war buddy came thru and he started getting his WWII pension at age 78.
A strange thing had happened to me soon after the terrorist attacks of 9/11. As I walked into a restaurant a lady approached me and ask if I was a veteran. I said, “Yes during Nam, but I only went to England.” She shook my hand and said “Thank you.” I told Rich this and ask if I could shake his hand. He let me and I said “Thank you.” because I looked up to this little old man that I had just met, so much.
I stopped the couple to ask them if they might know. As it turned out, I was wrong again. The son of a friend of the couple’s owned the biggest house. I said what a waste. The rich always depress me. They have so much serving so few.
I started talking to Rich, the husband, and my wife talked to his wife. The conversations split along gender lines. The women talked about their children and grandchildren, while we talked about war, specifically WWII. Rich had been with the 101st Airborne Division that had landed during the Normandy invasion of Nazi occupied Europe.
It was like having a face to face talk with the Band of Brothers, the past HBO WWII miniseries about Easy Company in the 101st Airborne that landed at Normandy, fought in the Battle of the Bulge, liberated a concentration camp and captured Hitler’s Eagle’s Nest retreat.
There standing beside me was a silver-haired 79-year-old small man who, when he was 19, fought in the seminal war of the 20th century and helped win the war so that we baby boomers could grow up free in the 1950s and enjoy the American way of life.
It may be ancient history now, but at the time it could easily have gone either way.
Rich’s children had taken him to the WWII movie Saving Private Ryan. He had sat through it fine, but upon leaving the theater he broke down crying. Its realism had brought back so many bad memories.
A friend was taping Band of Brothers for him. Since this was about his own division, he was in F Company, and reportedly accurate, I can’t imagine how Rich will react after seeing all 10 episodes.
I’ve seen Band of Brothers and felt that the first few parts were very confusing because so many men were killed, that you hadn’t gotten to know, that you couldn’t keep track. Which was probably how the battles themselves went. But as you got to know the soldiers you ended up amazed at what they went through, when they were basically kids, and what they had accomplished.
As we stood there under the eerie glow of a mist shrouded street lamp along the long lonely boardwalk with the surf pounding the shore, Rich became a young man again reliving his youth, which was WWII. He didn’t talk about the endless death, destruction and danger. He talked about getting frostbite during the Battle of the Bulge in France when the Germans made one final desperate push to break through the allied lines and stop the Normandy invasion
The German attack was a total surprise- swift, savage and it almost worked. Rich said that Hitler was so furious that eight elite Panzer tank divisions couldn’t break through our stretched to the limit line of confused soldiers, that he just kept trying to push through the middle in a rage. If he would have withdrawn, regrouped and swept around our sides to surround us, he could have stopped us dead. His own maniacal pride prevented this, so we went on to Berlin, instead of getting slaughtered in France.
Rich said he changed his wet socks regularly so he wouldn’t get the dreaded trench foot, but got frostbite instead. He was sent back to England in horrible pain for two months to recover. They had fought in snow and ice without their winter uniforms and Rich said he had never been so cold for so long in his life. Maybe that’s why he’s living in sunny California now.
When Rich returned to the front he participated in a practice exercise where they parachuted into a firefight like they would over the Rhine River into Germany. They used real explosives and Rich was hit in the leg by a piece of shrapnel, the size of an arrowhead that threw him thru the air like a rag doll. He was sent back to England to recover again.
He only recently filed for a disability as the shrapnel still lodged in his leg was making him limp. It took over three years of paperwork to get and, at the end; he had to provide an eyewitness account from over 50 years ago. Luckily, an old war buddy came thru and he started getting his WWII pension at age 78.
A strange thing had happened to me soon after the terrorist attacks of 9/11. As I walked into a restaurant a lady approached me and ask if I was a veteran. I said, “Yes during Nam, but I only went to England.” She shook my hand and said “Thank you.” I told Rich this and ask if I could shake his hand. He let me and I said “Thank you.” because I looked up to this little old man that I had just met, so much.
CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE MOLE
A red, white and blue rainbow arched over his hut when Mamadou Tutu was born. He was a bright boy growing up poor in a third world country. There was no newspaper for a paper route to earn money, so he made his lunch money gambling behind the school before classes began.
More than a few times he was late for school and sometimes never made it at all as the poker pots went up and down depending on lady luck’s whims, and he couldn’t leave till he had won for the day. Sometimes he had to write and sign excuses from his mother saying he’d been too sick to attend school that day.
Mamadou was smart enough to go to college, where his skills at one card stud (they couldn’t afford five card stud in his country) and the two card monty games he set up in the quad between classes paid for his tuition.
Once though the campus cops arrested him for gambling and a letter of reprimand was sent to his parents about it. Soon afterwards though, his parents got another letter from the college president saying it had all been a mistake and Mamadou was just an innocent bystander and to send him a box of cookies to make him feel better. The first letter was from the president, the second one was from Mamadou himself copying the president’s signature.
He graduated from college and then joined the diplomatic corps to get paid to see the world. He felt he was on the fast track to get a top diplomatic job. He was confidant enough to marry his village sweetheart and they proceeded to have four children, a dog and a monkey as pets.
He moved around the world’s embassies and became the chief aid to the ambassador, an important step on the ladder to success. But he stumbled on one of it rungs the night he got smashed on vine wine at the ambassador’s birthday party. Blind drunk he made a pass at the ambassador’s son Dutu, who was dressed in drag for a fraternity initiation.
This passionate encounter consequently turned Dutu into a transvestite, as he was questioning his sexual identity at the time, and it was discovered that there was no fraternity initiation. Dutu eventually joined a sorority instead and became their Queen.
The ambassador was furious and demoted Mamadou to be the aid of an aid. His pay was cut drastically and he was transferred back home. He started gambling again to make ends meet, this time on chicken races.
But his country was so poor that when someone saw a chicken running it would be snatched up immediately, killed and cooked for supper. Consequently, none of the chickens actually made it to the finish line so there was never a winner.
Since the races were his idea, Mamadou soon became a public laughingstock. He had to leave town and country and was transferred to Rome, where he became addicted to pizza and ate out so much he couldn’t pay the bills. His wife was about to leave him, his kids were looking around for another father they could be proud of and his beloved monkey turned against him.
Suddenly he came up with this killer idea. There had been rumors around for years about his country’s sale of uranium to Iraq, so he decided to capitalize on this need to feed into Iraq’s weapons of mass d. His skills from school came forth and he forged some documents showing that Iraq was trying to buy uranium ore from his country Niger in 1999 and 2001. In effect, he became his own mole making up secrets to quench this thirst for terrorist ties.
But his skills had peaked when he forged his mother’s signature on school sick excuses and he had poor equipment. He had to use obsolete letterheads, incompatible dates and poorly forged signatures. In his haste, he even addressed a letter to the president of Niger signed by the president of Niger, and used the wrong symbol for the president’s office.
He took these documents to the Italian secret service and crossed his fingers. Yippee, they bought them for a thousand bucks! He was rich, rich! Mamadou’s terrible forgeries went on to fool both British and American intelligence and actually ended up in President Bush’s State of the Union address and were used as a reason to invade and attack Iraq.
This lowly Niger diplomat, turned mole conman, is now the most famous person the CIA wants to kill, even more so than Saddam Hussein and Osama bin Laden. Truly, this is a chicken soup for the mole inspirational tale.
More than a few times he was late for school and sometimes never made it at all as the poker pots went up and down depending on lady luck’s whims, and he couldn’t leave till he had won for the day. Sometimes he had to write and sign excuses from his mother saying he’d been too sick to attend school that day.
Mamadou was smart enough to go to college, where his skills at one card stud (they couldn’t afford five card stud in his country) and the two card monty games he set up in the quad between classes paid for his tuition.
Once though the campus cops arrested him for gambling and a letter of reprimand was sent to his parents about it. Soon afterwards though, his parents got another letter from the college president saying it had all been a mistake and Mamadou was just an innocent bystander and to send him a box of cookies to make him feel better. The first letter was from the president, the second one was from Mamadou himself copying the president’s signature.
He graduated from college and then joined the diplomatic corps to get paid to see the world. He felt he was on the fast track to get a top diplomatic job. He was confidant enough to marry his village sweetheart and they proceeded to have four children, a dog and a monkey as pets.
He moved around the world’s embassies and became the chief aid to the ambassador, an important step on the ladder to success. But he stumbled on one of it rungs the night he got smashed on vine wine at the ambassador’s birthday party. Blind drunk he made a pass at the ambassador’s son Dutu, who was dressed in drag for a fraternity initiation.
This passionate encounter consequently turned Dutu into a transvestite, as he was questioning his sexual identity at the time, and it was discovered that there was no fraternity initiation. Dutu eventually joined a sorority instead and became their Queen.
The ambassador was furious and demoted Mamadou to be the aid of an aid. His pay was cut drastically and he was transferred back home. He started gambling again to make ends meet, this time on chicken races.
But his country was so poor that when someone saw a chicken running it would be snatched up immediately, killed and cooked for supper. Consequently, none of the chickens actually made it to the finish line so there was never a winner.
Since the races were his idea, Mamadou soon became a public laughingstock. He had to leave town and country and was transferred to Rome, where he became addicted to pizza and ate out so much he couldn’t pay the bills. His wife was about to leave him, his kids were looking around for another father they could be proud of and his beloved monkey turned against him.
Suddenly he came up with this killer idea. There had been rumors around for years about his country’s sale of uranium to Iraq, so he decided to capitalize on this need to feed into Iraq’s weapons of mass d. His skills from school came forth and he forged some documents showing that Iraq was trying to buy uranium ore from his country Niger in 1999 and 2001. In effect, he became his own mole making up secrets to quench this thirst for terrorist ties.
But his skills had peaked when he forged his mother’s signature on school sick excuses and he had poor equipment. He had to use obsolete letterheads, incompatible dates and poorly forged signatures. In his haste, he even addressed a letter to the president of Niger signed by the president of Niger, and used the wrong symbol for the president’s office.
He took these documents to the Italian secret service and crossed his fingers. Yippee, they bought them for a thousand bucks! He was rich, rich! Mamadou’s terrible forgeries went on to fool both British and American intelligence and actually ended up in President Bush’s State of the Union address and were used as a reason to invade and attack Iraq.
This lowly Niger diplomat, turned mole conman, is now the most famous person the CIA wants to kill, even more so than Saddam Hussein and Osama bin Laden. Truly, this is a chicken soup for the mole inspirational tale.
SOME MIND TICKLINGS
Do you love obscure facts that amaze you and five minutes later are forgotten? Well, here are some major facts to forget and some minor thoughts from me to discard.
Conception occurs more often in December than in any other month. Gives a whole new meaning to Christmas gifts, doesn’t it?
Half of all Americans live 50 miles from their birthplace, while the ones from central Pa. live closer. We just never seem to want to leave home.
The most popular name boat owners call their boats is Obsession. The least popular is probably The Titanic.
If you were to spell out numbers, how far would you have to count until you found the letter “A”? Well to begin with, I just wouldn’t do that. I’d find something on TV to watch first. But if you did, it’d be 1,000.
Man can read smaller print than women, but women can hear and smell better. Women definitely smell better than smelly old men and they can hear a man’s thoughts when he looks at another woman, which is why they yell, “I know what you’re thinking. So stop it!”
The only food that doesn’t spoil is honey, but if you spoil your honey she’ll reward you later.
Women invented bulletproof vests, fire escapes, windshield wipers and laser printers. Men invented the forward pass for football and to hit on women.
There are more collect calls on Fathers Day than on any other day of the year. And yes, we always accept the charges. Hey, the kids could need some quick cash sent.
Coca-Cola was originally green and probably called Chlorophyll Cola and proclaimed a vegetable.
Intelligent people have more zinc and copper in their hair. But I don’t have any hair. Oh, that explains so much.
The cost of raising a medium-size dog to age 11 is $6, 400. The result: Priceless.
Now for some minor thoughts that are also shallow.
If you buy somebody a lottery ticket as a present, chances are you’ll be scared that it’ll win big and they won’t share it with you. Then their life becomes so much better, while yours stays the same, only much bitterer.
The slowest thing in the world for the average man is the average woman shopping. A woman can actually go minus 10 miles per hour when she backtracks to see what she may have missed in the store.
If you do something stupid, like fall over your own feet, it’ll probably be in front of people who know you because strangers wouldn’t appreciate it as much.
Trusting everyone you meet is like going thru life with your shoelaces untied. You’ll be in for more trips than the Enron CEO before the fall.
If it’ll make you rich quick, it’ll make you poorer quicker.
Honesty is the best policy if you’re caught in a lie and can’t get out of it any other way. Yet even then, politicians still lie.
Fill up the calendar of your life with moments, not meetings.
If at first you don’t succeed, blame someone else and sue them. It’s the American way.
How come no one can find Osama Bin Laden with a $25 million reward on his head, but a telemarketer can catch you every time you’re soaking wet and coming out of the shower with a 20-buck magazine offer?
Your days may drag, but the years fly by.
If it ain’t broke, break it. This recession economy needs you to buy more stuff.
No matter what bad rash decisions you make in life, you can always back them up with unrelated facts and misplaced feelings.
If you rob Peter to pay Paul, then change your name to Enron and seek special Presidential considerations.
Dolphins don’t swim in the dessert and the speed limit is just a suggestion on I-95 going down to Florida. Just ask Pedro at South of the Border.
The childhood game of Jacks is a metaphor for life. You throw everything you’ve got up in the air and then see what you can catch. And hope it’s not herpes.
If an apple a day keeps the doctor away, then what can keep the lawyers at bay? A peach and a pair of magnum 45s?
All the world’s a stage…one emergency. So where do we send our troops next?
Red sky in the morning sailor’s warning. Red sky at night- the ship’s on fire.
Today if you eat at working moms you’ll get nuked leftovers and Tater Tots.
Food will always fall from your fork, no matter what a big mouth you are. You can be as careful as a cop defusing a bomb and it’ll still land on your clothes. It’s de law of food supply and de land.
Conception occurs more often in December than in any other month. Gives a whole new meaning to Christmas gifts, doesn’t it?
Half of all Americans live 50 miles from their birthplace, while the ones from central Pa. live closer. We just never seem to want to leave home.
The most popular name boat owners call their boats is Obsession. The least popular is probably The Titanic.
If you were to spell out numbers, how far would you have to count until you found the letter “A”? Well to begin with, I just wouldn’t do that. I’d find something on TV to watch first. But if you did, it’d be 1,000.
Man can read smaller print than women, but women can hear and smell better. Women definitely smell better than smelly old men and they can hear a man’s thoughts when he looks at another woman, which is why they yell, “I know what you’re thinking. So stop it!”
The only food that doesn’t spoil is honey, but if you spoil your honey she’ll reward you later.
Women invented bulletproof vests, fire escapes, windshield wipers and laser printers. Men invented the forward pass for football and to hit on women.
There are more collect calls on Fathers Day than on any other day of the year. And yes, we always accept the charges. Hey, the kids could need some quick cash sent.
Coca-Cola was originally green and probably called Chlorophyll Cola and proclaimed a vegetable.
Intelligent people have more zinc and copper in their hair. But I don’t have any hair. Oh, that explains so much.
The cost of raising a medium-size dog to age 11 is $6, 400. The result: Priceless.
Now for some minor thoughts that are also shallow.
If you buy somebody a lottery ticket as a present, chances are you’ll be scared that it’ll win big and they won’t share it with you. Then their life becomes so much better, while yours stays the same, only much bitterer.
The slowest thing in the world for the average man is the average woman shopping. A woman can actually go minus 10 miles per hour when she backtracks to see what she may have missed in the store.
If you do something stupid, like fall over your own feet, it’ll probably be in front of people who know you because strangers wouldn’t appreciate it as much.
Trusting everyone you meet is like going thru life with your shoelaces untied. You’ll be in for more trips than the Enron CEO before the fall.
If it’ll make you rich quick, it’ll make you poorer quicker.
Honesty is the best policy if you’re caught in a lie and can’t get out of it any other way. Yet even then, politicians still lie.
Fill up the calendar of your life with moments, not meetings.
If at first you don’t succeed, blame someone else and sue them. It’s the American way.
How come no one can find Osama Bin Laden with a $25 million reward on his head, but a telemarketer can catch you every time you’re soaking wet and coming out of the shower with a 20-buck magazine offer?
Your days may drag, but the years fly by.
If it ain’t broke, break it. This recession economy needs you to buy more stuff.
No matter what bad rash decisions you make in life, you can always back them up with unrelated facts and misplaced feelings.
If you rob Peter to pay Paul, then change your name to Enron and seek special Presidential considerations.
Dolphins don’t swim in the dessert and the speed limit is just a suggestion on I-95 going down to Florida. Just ask Pedro at South of the Border.
The childhood game of Jacks is a metaphor for life. You throw everything you’ve got up in the air and then see what you can catch. And hope it’s not herpes.
If an apple a day keeps the doctor away, then what can keep the lawyers at bay? A peach and a pair of magnum 45s?
All the world’s a stage…one emergency. So where do we send our troops next?
Red sky in the morning sailor’s warning. Red sky at night- the ship’s on fire.
Today if you eat at working moms you’ll get nuked leftovers and Tater Tots.
Food will always fall from your fork, no matter what a big mouth you are. You can be as careful as a cop defusing a bomb and it’ll still land on your clothes. It’s de law of food supply and de land.
THE LIPSTICK ATTACK
We were madly in love and stuck together like a Velcro hinge. We were a magical couple, made for each other like Romeo and Juliet, Anthony and Cleopatra or Bill and Hillary, until the dreadful day of the lipstick attack.
But let’s go back to the beginning. My first girlfriend Linda lived on the other side of the block from me, a great distance for a seven year-old, so we met in the middle-the alley.
It had been love at first sight. She was a tomboy and I was a boy whose middle name was Tom. She was strong and fleet of foot. In fact, she was the fastest kid on the block. I was weak, skinny and easily picked on. Linda could protect me and run after the bullies to beat up at the same time, while I could dash home to mommy.
She was my girlfriend, so I could punch her in the arm and wrestle her to the ground in pure prepubescent acts of love, without her killing me. We rode our bikes together, drank from the same paper cup at the lemonade stand on the corner and ran together all summer long.
Then one sultry sticky afternoon it all changed in a cataclysmic earthquake of erotica. We were playing in her backyard as usual. Then Linda left to go into her house and came out with a tube of her mother’s lipstick.
I stood there stunned as she smeared the tube on her lips under the steaming summer sun. I’d always looked at Linda as just one of the boys, only better. And there she was suddenly turning into a girl before my very eyes. And I didn’t like it, not one bit.
She strode straight toward me with fiery flaming lips. I panicked and sought sanctuary in her backyard shed. I stood inside shaking, and then put all my 40 pounds against the door to keep her out. I held out valiantly for about five seconds, before she burst in.
Once inside she started chasing me for a kiss. Yuck! A kiss! From a girl! I had never kissed a girl before and never even wanted to. So, of course, I ran for my very life. The shed was small. I was slow. Linda was fast. She caught me in a blink.
She grabbed my head in her muddy hands. I twisted and resisted. She had my face in a vice and kissed me right on the lips- twice. I went into shock. The lipstick burned on my lips like they were branded.
I pushed myself free and ran out the shed door. Holding back tears, I wiped the lipstick and a layer of lip from my mouth with the back of my hand over and over again. I stumbled home to mom.
From then on, it was never the same between Linda and me. We still played together for years, but never mentioned the lipstick assault. Then one afternoon I saw Linda walking toward the woods with Mike, a boy two years older. I yelled at her to see if she wanted to play some pick-up b-ball, but this wasn’t the pick-up she was interested in. She totally ignored me as she walked hand in hand into the trees.
After that we never played together again. And to this day lipstick still scares me, especially if I see an elderly aunt headed my way all puckered up.
But let’s go back to the beginning. My first girlfriend Linda lived on the other side of the block from me, a great distance for a seven year-old, so we met in the middle-the alley.
It had been love at first sight. She was a tomboy and I was a boy whose middle name was Tom. She was strong and fleet of foot. In fact, she was the fastest kid on the block. I was weak, skinny and easily picked on. Linda could protect me and run after the bullies to beat up at the same time, while I could dash home to mommy.
She was my girlfriend, so I could punch her in the arm and wrestle her to the ground in pure prepubescent acts of love, without her killing me. We rode our bikes together, drank from the same paper cup at the lemonade stand on the corner and ran together all summer long.
Then one sultry sticky afternoon it all changed in a cataclysmic earthquake of erotica. We were playing in her backyard as usual. Then Linda left to go into her house and came out with a tube of her mother’s lipstick.
I stood there stunned as she smeared the tube on her lips under the steaming summer sun. I’d always looked at Linda as just one of the boys, only better. And there she was suddenly turning into a girl before my very eyes. And I didn’t like it, not one bit.
She strode straight toward me with fiery flaming lips. I panicked and sought sanctuary in her backyard shed. I stood inside shaking, and then put all my 40 pounds against the door to keep her out. I held out valiantly for about five seconds, before she burst in.
Once inside she started chasing me for a kiss. Yuck! A kiss! From a girl! I had never kissed a girl before and never even wanted to. So, of course, I ran for my very life. The shed was small. I was slow. Linda was fast. She caught me in a blink.
She grabbed my head in her muddy hands. I twisted and resisted. She had my face in a vice and kissed me right on the lips- twice. I went into shock. The lipstick burned on my lips like they were branded.
I pushed myself free and ran out the shed door. Holding back tears, I wiped the lipstick and a layer of lip from my mouth with the back of my hand over and over again. I stumbled home to mom.
From then on, it was never the same between Linda and me. We still played together for years, but never mentioned the lipstick assault. Then one afternoon I saw Linda walking toward the woods with Mike, a boy two years older. I yelled at her to see if she wanted to play some pick-up b-ball, but this wasn’t the pick-up she was interested in. She totally ignored me as she walked hand in hand into the trees.
After that we never played together again. And to this day lipstick still scares me, especially if I see an elderly aunt headed my way all puckered up.
THE MEANING OF LIFE
I had an epiphany, a break through into the meaning of life. I’ve cracked the conundrum of the centuries that the wise men of the ages failed to do. So here it is. The meaning of life is…
“Pap Pap Bill, come here, I need you.”
“Just a second Caleb, I have to write this down.” I say, as I answer to many names.
Caleb comes over, grabs my hand and drags me to the kitchen to see a fan.
“Plug it in, Pap Pap Bill, plug it in.”
The kid loves fans, so I plug it in, turn it on and try to return to my writing.
“I want to go swimming, Pap Pap Bill.”
“Ask your grandmother, please.” I dodge the request.
“Bill, I’m changing Sarah right now. Do you want to do that instead?” a feisty grandma replies.
“OK Caleb, let’s fill up the pool.” I cheerily exclaim.
My wife and I are babysitting her two grandchildren today, a 4 year-old and a 6 month- old. Now, where was I?
“Pap Pap Bill, I want to play with Cookie doggie, but she won’t give me the ball.”
I put down my pen and go get a tennis ball. Cookie doggie, er Cookie, needs the two ball approach to retrieval. She has to see the second ball in your hand before she drops the first ball and runs out. Otherwise, you end up playing tug of teeth to get it out of her mouth.
Afterwards, I switch sides and am watching Sarah, the 6 month-old. She just discovered her feet and can’t leave her toes alone. She stares at me and smiles, one baldie to another. You wouldn’t think a bald toothless girl could be beautiful, but Sarah is.
Now I have the cat in my lap, so try writing around a writhing cat that needs to be scratched and petted. It’s not conducive to column writing.
We’ve all troop into the TV room to watch the movie “Finding Nemo”, which Caleb loves, to try to re-channel all that endless energy into passive TV watching, while I write.
Let me look and see where I was. Oh yeah, I was about to explain the meaning of …
“Nemo, watch out! The diver’s gonna get you! Did you see that, Caleb?” I scream.
“Cookie doggie won’t play with me.” says Caleb lying beside the dog on the floor poking at her.
“Cookie doggie’s tired. She’s resting. Aren’t your getting tired too, Caleb?” I inquire hopefully.
“I want to go swimming again.”
“But we just got out of the pool, Caleb.”
“Going swimming now.”
“But Nemo’s in big trouble!” I shout.
We sit beside the small plastic pool and get soaked. Caleb is using his dump truck to mimic Niagara Falls.
“I’m finished now, Pap Pap Bill.”
Caleb gets out and returns to the house and wakes Grandma up from her 5 minute power nap, while she was going for 20. Sarah is chewing on her Binky and playing with her Blankey, while I’m sitting down blankly to try to write again.
“Bill look, Cookie’s in the pool with Caleb. You gotta see this.” yells Grandma.
I thought we were finished swimming for the day, I guess I was…Gotta go get the camera and capture this Kodak moment of boy and dog splashing and lolling together.
Finally, there’s some peace and quiet. The meaning of life is … is … is completely gone from my mind. My break through has broken down. Unless, unless, the meaning of life is just kids, children, to cherish and raise to replace us, as life goes on. Maybe it’s just reproduction and Cookie dog ball throwing
“Pap Pap Bill, come here, I need you.”
“Just a second Caleb, I have to write this down.” I say, as I answer to many names.
Caleb comes over, grabs my hand and drags me to the kitchen to see a fan.
“Plug it in, Pap Pap Bill, plug it in.”
The kid loves fans, so I plug it in, turn it on and try to return to my writing.
“I want to go swimming, Pap Pap Bill.”
“Ask your grandmother, please.” I dodge the request.
“Bill, I’m changing Sarah right now. Do you want to do that instead?” a feisty grandma replies.
“OK Caleb, let’s fill up the pool.” I cheerily exclaim.
My wife and I are babysitting her two grandchildren today, a 4 year-old and a 6 month- old. Now, where was I?
“Pap Pap Bill, I want to play with Cookie doggie, but she won’t give me the ball.”
I put down my pen and go get a tennis ball. Cookie doggie, er Cookie, needs the two ball approach to retrieval. She has to see the second ball in your hand before she drops the first ball and runs out. Otherwise, you end up playing tug of teeth to get it out of her mouth.
Afterwards, I switch sides and am watching Sarah, the 6 month-old. She just discovered her feet and can’t leave her toes alone. She stares at me and smiles, one baldie to another. You wouldn’t think a bald toothless girl could be beautiful, but Sarah is.
Now I have the cat in my lap, so try writing around a writhing cat that needs to be scratched and petted. It’s not conducive to column writing.
We’ve all troop into the TV room to watch the movie “Finding Nemo”, which Caleb loves, to try to re-channel all that endless energy into passive TV watching, while I write.
Let me look and see where I was. Oh yeah, I was about to explain the meaning of …
“Nemo, watch out! The diver’s gonna get you! Did you see that, Caleb?” I scream.
“Cookie doggie won’t play with me.” says Caleb lying beside the dog on the floor poking at her.
“Cookie doggie’s tired. She’s resting. Aren’t your getting tired too, Caleb?” I inquire hopefully.
“I want to go swimming again.”
“But we just got out of the pool, Caleb.”
“Going swimming now.”
“But Nemo’s in big trouble!” I shout.
We sit beside the small plastic pool and get soaked. Caleb is using his dump truck to mimic Niagara Falls.
“I’m finished now, Pap Pap Bill.”
Caleb gets out and returns to the house and wakes Grandma up from her 5 minute power nap, while she was going for 20. Sarah is chewing on her Binky and playing with her Blankey, while I’m sitting down blankly to try to write again.
“Bill look, Cookie’s in the pool with Caleb. You gotta see this.” yells Grandma.
I thought we were finished swimming for the day, I guess I was…Gotta go get the camera and capture this Kodak moment of boy and dog splashing and lolling together.
Finally, there’s some peace and quiet. The meaning of life is … is … is completely gone from my mind. My break through has broken down. Unless, unless, the meaning of life is just kids, children, to cherish and raise to replace us, as life goes on. Maybe it’s just reproduction and Cookie dog ball throwing
Sunday, September 21
HARVEST OF LIFE
There are a lot of harvests in autumn, but the biggest one is the harvest of your life, the fruit and vegetables of your existence on this big blue marble we call the 3rd rock from the sun. It’s the difference you make while you’re here visiting for a while.
No matter whether you’re young or old, you’ve left a wake behind you in this river rush life for others to deal with as your harvest, but what if your harvest is lacking. Here are some sure signs of that.
Your life’s harvest is lacking
If you’re closer to the IRS than to your own children and grandchildren and tax time is more precious to you than their birthdays.
If your obituary would be a dream come true for your loved ones, even better than winning the Power Ball.
If hit men, hired by your local Chamber of Commerce, are going door to door looking for you and everyone is so helpful to them.
If your family keeps putting your name and photo on the side of milk cartons, hoping you’ll disappear too.
If your dog shrugs when you come home, then runs the other way to play with the cat instead.
If your neighbors burn you in effigy as part of their regular July 4th celebrations, because they can never catch you in person to burn.
If homeless people won’t take you money because, frankly, they don’t think it’s good enough.
If telemarketers have stopped calling you because they’ve heard you’re the worst person in the world.
If life insurance salesmen avoid you, because life’s too short to spend that much time trying to sell you whole life, when they’ll just want you dead soon.
If the hospital board is seriously considering changing the name of the wing named after you, due to your huge donation, to the Charles Manson Maniac Pediatric Wing, because that would be more socially acceptable.
If the bluebird of happiness has dumped on your head because you tried to shot gun it in your driveway.
` If you no longer get any junk mail or Internet Spam because no one cares that much about you anymore.
If you’re listed on the Least Wanted Poster in the Post Office.
If, when a cop stops you for speeding, he says, that as far as he’s concerned, you need not buckle up for him ever again.
If your family goes on a family vacation every year without telling you.
If your goldfish would rather starve to death than being fed by someone like you.
If your national approval rate is lower than Satan’s.
If you’ve been rejected as an organ donor because no one wants any part of you.
In this misfortune cookie of life-
From the day you’re born
To the day you die,
It’s all just one long goodbye.
So the meaning of life is this.
To love and be loved while you’re here,
Then be missed when you disappear.
No matter whether you’re young or old, you’ve left a wake behind you in this river rush life for others to deal with as your harvest, but what if your harvest is lacking. Here are some sure signs of that.
Your life’s harvest is lacking
If you’re closer to the IRS than to your own children and grandchildren and tax time is more precious to you than their birthdays.
If your obituary would be a dream come true for your loved ones, even better than winning the Power Ball.
If hit men, hired by your local Chamber of Commerce, are going door to door looking for you and everyone is so helpful to them.
If your family keeps putting your name and photo on the side of milk cartons, hoping you’ll disappear too.
If your dog shrugs when you come home, then runs the other way to play with the cat instead.
If your neighbors burn you in effigy as part of their regular July 4th celebrations, because they can never catch you in person to burn.
If homeless people won’t take you money because, frankly, they don’t think it’s good enough.
If telemarketers have stopped calling you because they’ve heard you’re the worst person in the world.
If life insurance salesmen avoid you, because life’s too short to spend that much time trying to sell you whole life, when they’ll just want you dead soon.
If the hospital board is seriously considering changing the name of the wing named after you, due to your huge donation, to the Charles Manson Maniac Pediatric Wing, because that would be more socially acceptable.
If the bluebird of happiness has dumped on your head because you tried to shot gun it in your driveway.
` If you no longer get any junk mail or Internet Spam because no one cares that much about you anymore.
If you’re listed on the Least Wanted Poster in the Post Office.
If, when a cop stops you for speeding, he says, that as far as he’s concerned, you need not buckle up for him ever again.
If your family goes on a family vacation every year without telling you.
If your goldfish would rather starve to death than being fed by someone like you.
If your national approval rate is lower than Satan’s.
If you’ve been rejected as an organ donor because no one wants any part of you.
In this misfortune cookie of life-
From the day you’re born
To the day you die,
It’s all just one long goodbye.
So the meaning of life is this.
To love and be loved while you’re here,
Then be missed when you disappear.
A Basic Training Texas Hurricane
Many autumns ago I was anxiously awaiting a hurricane to hit me and a barrack’s full of my friends. It all began with a plane trip from Philadelphia to San Antonio, Texas. Then a bus ride in the middle of the night to Lakeland Air Force Base for basic training.
Meeting a bus load of raw recruits was a towering dark figure in uniform. He seemed 20 feet tall as he stood in silhouette on top of the barrack’s steps. It was Sgt. Danforth, our T.I. He welcomed us in a bellow that we were his now, all his for six weeks of hell.
We were tired and terrorized, dirty and depressed and would be awakened at 5 a.m. to start our transition into soldiers. He snarled that he couldn’t wait.
The next morning 40 sleepy guys in their underwear all tried to shave at the same time in a cramped bathroom in ten minutes tops. The slashed and wounded faces made it look like a scene from a botched blood drive.
Soon Sgt. Danforth became our mother, father and principal. He told us when to get up, when to eat, when to do pushups, when to sleep and always what to do. If we did everything just right he taught us songs to sing while we marched under the baking Texas sun in the choking dust.
If we got sick he reluctantly took us to the infirmary. He gave us our mail, or withheld it if we didn’t yell “Here!” loud enough and run fast enough to get it when he shouted out our names.
He inspected us, rejected us, dejected us and once in a great while neglected us for a few minutes. We thought he was Thor and tough as a chow hall steak, hard as Hitler’s heart and so strong he could break ball bearings like ice with his teeth.
We weren’t allowed newspapers, magazines, a radio or TV. So the outside world and what was happening there was as foreign to us as another galaxy in another dimension. Our whole world was the Air Force, our base, our barracks, Sgt. Danforth and his orders.
Literally nothing else existed until one windy early autumn evening when Sgt. Danforth suddenly appeared at the barracks in his civilian clothes. That alone was a shock because we didn’t realize he even had clothes, other than his uniform. He called us to attention and warned us that a hurricane was headed our way. If we heard it about to hit, we were supposed to roll up inside our mattresses to protect us partially from flying broken glass.
He said he was going to get in his car and evacuate the area with his family. He wished us luck then left. Suddenly we were all alone, thousands of miles from home with no way to leave and our god-like protector gone.
The wind wailed and the rain pelted our pre-WWII rickety wooden barracks in anticipation of becoming one big splintered coffin. When it really started to rock and rattle our roof, I wrapped my moldy smelly mattress around me and saw in my mind the almighty Sgt. Danforth fleeing a mere hurricane in the family station wagon.
He had abandoned us in a hurry. I was stunned that he was human after all. The hurricane leveled a vast area of Texas just south of us. Sgt. Danforth returned smaller somehow than when he left.
This opened the door for us to become more equal and friends before I completed basic. He actually turned out to be a nice guy with a God complex, which was actually part of his job description.
Meeting a bus load of raw recruits was a towering dark figure in uniform. He seemed 20 feet tall as he stood in silhouette on top of the barrack’s steps. It was Sgt. Danforth, our T.I. He welcomed us in a bellow that we were his now, all his for six weeks of hell.
We were tired and terrorized, dirty and depressed and would be awakened at 5 a.m. to start our transition into soldiers. He snarled that he couldn’t wait.
The next morning 40 sleepy guys in their underwear all tried to shave at the same time in a cramped bathroom in ten minutes tops. The slashed and wounded faces made it look like a scene from a botched blood drive.
Soon Sgt. Danforth became our mother, father and principal. He told us when to get up, when to eat, when to do pushups, when to sleep and always what to do. If we did everything just right he taught us songs to sing while we marched under the baking Texas sun in the choking dust.
If we got sick he reluctantly took us to the infirmary. He gave us our mail, or withheld it if we didn’t yell “Here!” loud enough and run fast enough to get it when he shouted out our names.
He inspected us, rejected us, dejected us and once in a great while neglected us for a few minutes. We thought he was Thor and tough as a chow hall steak, hard as Hitler’s heart and so strong he could break ball bearings like ice with his teeth.
We weren’t allowed newspapers, magazines, a radio or TV. So the outside world and what was happening there was as foreign to us as another galaxy in another dimension. Our whole world was the Air Force, our base, our barracks, Sgt. Danforth and his orders.
Literally nothing else existed until one windy early autumn evening when Sgt. Danforth suddenly appeared at the barracks in his civilian clothes. That alone was a shock because we didn’t realize he even had clothes, other than his uniform. He called us to attention and warned us that a hurricane was headed our way. If we heard it about to hit, we were supposed to roll up inside our mattresses to protect us partially from flying broken glass.
He said he was going to get in his car and evacuate the area with his family. He wished us luck then left. Suddenly we were all alone, thousands of miles from home with no way to leave and our god-like protector gone.
The wind wailed and the rain pelted our pre-WWII rickety wooden barracks in anticipation of becoming one big splintered coffin. When it really started to rock and rattle our roof, I wrapped my moldy smelly mattress around me and saw in my mind the almighty Sgt. Danforth fleeing a mere hurricane in the family station wagon.
He had abandoned us in a hurry. I was stunned that he was human after all. The hurricane leveled a vast area of Texas just south of us. Sgt. Danforth returned smaller somehow than when he left.
This opened the door for us to become more equal and friends before I completed basic. He actually turned out to be a nice guy with a God complex, which was actually part of his job description.
Monday, September 8
TOP 5 ADVANTAGES OF BEING BALD
TOP 5 THINGS YOU DON’T WANT IN YOUR OBITUARY
5. Cheese Gourmet- Only lived to cut the cheese.
4. LA-Z-Boyed himself to death- Discovered a year later by a census taker.
3. Died in solitary confinement writing to Dear Abby about his imaginary friend Helga the Hare
2. Even his dog hated him
1. Never wore a helmet, even going 100 on his Harley
TOP 5 STORIES TOO WILD FOR THE TABLOIDS
5. Britney Spears Marries a Monkey- Making the Horse She’s Divorcing Suicidal
4. Electricity Comes Straight From Satan’s Fingertips- Scientific Study Shows
3. Ancient Egyptians Worshipped Dental Floss
2. Johnny Cash, Spotted in Burnin’ Ring of Fire, Charged with Arson
1. Cognac Cures Cancer- Dr. Gives Courvoisier Jello Shots
TOP 5 ADVANTAGES OF BEING BALD
5. Head lice reduced to nose hairs
4. Can blind the other guy at high noon in a knife fight by bouncing sunlight from your bowed head into his eyes.
3. The savings on combs, brushes and hair cream exceeds the spending on Mop ‘N Glow treatments at beauty salons.
2. Can feel the rain seconds before people with hair or hats.
1. If you ever learn to fly like Superman you’ll be aerodynamic and faster than a speeding bullet train.
TOP 5 WORST CHILDREN’S BOOKS
5. The Grinch Who Stole Labor Day
4. Billy and His Amazing Chain Saw
3. Green Eggs and Hamlet- William Shakespeare XX
2. The Cat in The Rat- New York City’s pop-up kid’s book where the city rats actually eat the town cats.
1. Nuclear Physics, Quantum Electronics and Scooby Doo Too!
TOP 5 DELUSIONS OF MOST MEN
5. That if a super model movie star would only meet you, she would fall for you, even if you’re fat, bald and middle-age. She would if she could.
4. That your wife will love Hooters Restaurant as much as you do.
3. That football season is sacred and your girlfriend will understand that you can’t possibly see her till after the Super Bowl.
2. That you don’t have to bathe regularly to be attractive to women.
1. That your wife will find your friends funny when they run her down in front of you and her.
TOP 5 DVD MOVIES NOT TO ADD TO YOUR COLLECTION
5. Solitaire-The Movie
4. Itchy Athlete’s Foot-The Shower Room Monster
3. The Sound of Muzak- The Ups and Downs of Elevator Music
2. Ping and Pong Have a Ball
1. The Adventures of Actuarial Tables Man
TOP 5 WORST RAPPERS
5. Silly Second Hand Blondes
4. The Yard Sale Rappers
3. Honkin’ Honkies
2. Bambi and Thumper Disney Bling Bling.
1. The Country Club Clappers.
5. Cheese Gourmet- Only lived to cut the cheese.
4. LA-Z-Boyed himself to death- Discovered a year later by a census taker.
3. Died in solitary confinement writing to Dear Abby about his imaginary friend Helga the Hare
2. Even his dog hated him
1. Never wore a helmet, even going 100 on his Harley
TOP 5 STORIES TOO WILD FOR THE TABLOIDS
5. Britney Spears Marries a Monkey- Making the Horse She’s Divorcing Suicidal
4. Electricity Comes Straight From Satan’s Fingertips- Scientific Study Shows
3. Ancient Egyptians Worshipped Dental Floss
2. Johnny Cash, Spotted in Burnin’ Ring of Fire, Charged with Arson
1. Cognac Cures Cancer- Dr. Gives Courvoisier Jello Shots
TOP 5 ADVANTAGES OF BEING BALD
5. Head lice reduced to nose hairs
4. Can blind the other guy at high noon in a knife fight by bouncing sunlight from your bowed head into his eyes.
3. The savings on combs, brushes and hair cream exceeds the spending on Mop ‘N Glow treatments at beauty salons.
2. Can feel the rain seconds before people with hair or hats.
1. If you ever learn to fly like Superman you’ll be aerodynamic and faster than a speeding bullet train.
TOP 5 WORST CHILDREN’S BOOKS
5. The Grinch Who Stole Labor Day
4. Billy and His Amazing Chain Saw
3. Green Eggs and Hamlet- William Shakespeare XX
2. The Cat in The Rat- New York City’s pop-up kid’s book where the city rats actually eat the town cats.
1. Nuclear Physics, Quantum Electronics and Scooby Doo Too!
TOP 5 DELUSIONS OF MOST MEN
5. That if a super model movie star would only meet you, she would fall for you, even if you’re fat, bald and middle-age. She would if she could.
4. That your wife will love Hooters Restaurant as much as you do.
3. That football season is sacred and your girlfriend will understand that you can’t possibly see her till after the Super Bowl.
2. That you don’t have to bathe regularly to be attractive to women.
1. That your wife will find your friends funny when they run her down in front of you and her.
TOP 5 DVD MOVIES NOT TO ADD TO YOUR COLLECTION
5. Solitaire-The Movie
4. Itchy Athlete’s Foot-The Shower Room Monster
3. The Sound of Muzak- The Ups and Downs of Elevator Music
2. Ping and Pong Have a Ball
1. The Adventures of Actuarial Tables Man
TOP 5 WORST RAPPERS
5. Silly Second Hand Blondes
4. The Yard Sale Rappers
3. Honkin’ Honkies
2. Bambi and Thumper Disney Bling Bling.
1. The Country Club Clappers.
LOVE'S DUALITY AND DUPLICITY
I get lost in your embrace
and when I leave I’m so sad,
but when you get on my case,
I’d move to Mars when you’re mad.
I could dive down forever
into the pools of your eyes,
but it you think me TOO clever
you could crush me with your thighs.
My life loses its luster
when I’m gone for a few days,
but it’s all bluster
when I fight to get away.
The duality of love
can make me quiver
with anticipation
and make me shiver
with mortification.
I love you.
I’m afraid OF you.
Either sex could compose this poem. It’s an equal opportunity diatribe because love and hate and fear are three sides of the same coin. That coin is the infamous three sided quarter of Carthage that fit in the triangular slots of the Sparkling Sea Water vending machine dispensers. After 12 dozen dehydration deaths they switched to spring water. But I digress and must move forward with my mission of love today.
Falling in love is a tumble toss dive into heaven. You soar and swoop like there’s a hawk in your head. A first love in fifth grade is better than being the top scorer for all the games in the arcade with your initials first on the game screens for everyone to see.
Being in love is like catching lightening in a Yoo hoo bottle. You’re afraid of being burned and hope that it doesn’t shoot back out again. It can go as fast as it came and that’s the fear factor. (Note to self. Fear Factor is a great name for a sleazy reality TV show.)
Once you say “I love you.” you’ve given your beloved the power to use it or lose it to someone else. This is the “everybody can be replaced” fear. Your best friend could quickly become your worst enemy if he takes off with your girl, wowing her with his tetherball skills on the playground at recess. He’s a better hitter and may have fewer baby teeth than you, making him more mature.
Once you’re committed to a relationship, you have to take the loved one as a whole, and not just for the good days. That can be scarier than an American werewolf in London. By day all sweetness and light, but at midnight all hairy and killing everything in sight.
How do you cope with this duality? With love and fear you weather the stormy days and go sailing on the balmy days. Both of you hide your true selves in duplicity while dating, until you’re hooked, landed, gutted and fried for dinner, then it’s too late.
Next you get married and share all your secrets in drunken ramblings and sleepy time pillow talk confessions. Crimes and misdemeanors can spill out, but they can’t be used against you in a court of law. Fear of prosecution has kept many a couple together.
So let’s recap. When you love someone you’re also afraid of it all ending somehow. And if they turn on you when you’re lying asleep on your back, well… Does a shark find swimmers tasty? And finally guys, if you’re a good tetherball player, you can get all the girls.
and when I leave I’m so sad,
but when you get on my case,
I’d move to Mars when you’re mad.
I could dive down forever
into the pools of your eyes,
but it you think me TOO clever
you could crush me with your thighs.
My life loses its luster
when I’m gone for a few days,
but it’s all bluster
when I fight to get away.
The duality of love
can make me quiver
with anticipation
and make me shiver
with mortification.
I love you.
I’m afraid OF you.
Either sex could compose this poem. It’s an equal opportunity diatribe because love and hate and fear are three sides of the same coin. That coin is the infamous three sided quarter of Carthage that fit in the triangular slots of the Sparkling Sea Water vending machine dispensers. After 12 dozen dehydration deaths they switched to spring water. But I digress and must move forward with my mission of love today.
Falling in love is a tumble toss dive into heaven. You soar and swoop like there’s a hawk in your head. A first love in fifth grade is better than being the top scorer for all the games in the arcade with your initials first on the game screens for everyone to see.
Being in love is like catching lightening in a Yoo hoo bottle. You’re afraid of being burned and hope that it doesn’t shoot back out again. It can go as fast as it came and that’s the fear factor. (Note to self. Fear Factor is a great name for a sleazy reality TV show.)
Once you say “I love you.” you’ve given your beloved the power to use it or lose it to someone else. This is the “everybody can be replaced” fear. Your best friend could quickly become your worst enemy if he takes off with your girl, wowing her with his tetherball skills on the playground at recess. He’s a better hitter and may have fewer baby teeth than you, making him more mature.
Once you’re committed to a relationship, you have to take the loved one as a whole, and not just for the good days. That can be scarier than an American werewolf in London. By day all sweetness and light, but at midnight all hairy and killing everything in sight.
How do you cope with this duality? With love and fear you weather the stormy days and go sailing on the balmy days. Both of you hide your true selves in duplicity while dating, until you’re hooked, landed, gutted and fried for dinner, then it’s too late.
Next you get married and share all your secrets in drunken ramblings and sleepy time pillow talk confessions. Crimes and misdemeanors can spill out, but they can’t be used against you in a court of law. Fear of prosecution has kept many a couple together.
So let’s recap. When you love someone you’re also afraid of it all ending somehow. And if they turn on you when you’re lying asleep on your back, well… Does a shark find swimmers tasty? And finally guys, if you’re a good tetherball player, you can get all the girls.
BABIES AT WORK
Never stand between a new born baby and a bunch of women, because you could easily get crushed to death in the stampede. There’s nothing like a baby in the building to bring all the women running to see it, sandals slapping on their feet, like they’ve never seen a baby before. This is, even if they’ve been a mother many times over.
They all lean in a circle, beaming and shrieking at a sleeping oblivious 9 pound plus person, who can’t distinguish between a door and a Doberman. That glow in their wide eyes, as they gaze adoringly at a wrinkled bald bundle with the tiniest hands and smallest feet, keeps the species going.
All the discomfort of pregnancy and the pain of labor that they had and all the problems they may be having with their own grown belligerent kids vanish like a puff of baby powder in the breeze. Invariably, they want another baby STAT!
They start squirming with motherhood hormones squirting thru them. They reach out to hold, touch, squeeze, kiss and smell the baby. They all want their turn holding the Pampers one. They want to again experience the joy of holding a new born baby, like they did when their babies were born.
It brings back all those old baby memories of holding, rocking and loving their children before they turned independent and struggled to break away and become adults. A new born baby takes them back to the beginning of their own families when they were young and just starting out. The propagation of the species stirs in their very souls. Time stands still reflected in the blue eyes of a new born baby.
The sleeping baby gets passed from loving arms to loving arms till it wakes up bewildered. Fed up, it starts to bawl, kick and flail at the indignity of it all. Can’t a person just sleep without getting pawed over by a bunch of women?
Then the women become amazed at this righteous indignation, as if for the first time all over again. They delight in its discomfort and in their efforts to calm it down. The baby’s wailing brings out the rest of the women like the fire sirens start the firemen running.
Who knows how many families begin the night a weary mother brings her new born into work. How many husbands have been blindsided with the bulletin that their wives want another baby now, before they’ve even gotten the first ones thru grade school?
All because a new mother wants to show off her baby and get a short break by handing it over to all the other women at work who grab for it and threaten never to give it up. The mother collapses at her work desk and returns briefly to the world of the wide awake and working women.
And how do the men in the building respond to the beautiful baby being passed around? Do they rush up for their chance to hold it? Do they stare adoringly into its face? Well no, they usually stay as far away as possible.
As a rule, we men don’t really want to hold a new born baby. All we see is danger, Will Robinson, danger! We have catastrophic fantasies and can see us slipping, tripping, falling and dropping the baby onto the hard floor. WHAP! WAAA!! Then we’re pulled apart by an army of appalled women as the baby’s rushed to the ER.
If we’re forced into holding it by nagging, then we cradle it like it was a ticking bomb that could go boom with the slightest jiggle. We hunker over and try to make the baby part of our concave chest, so we can’t possibly drop it, unless our whole body crashes to the floor.
The women laugh and say lighten up, the baby won’t break. But we know it can, if we’re our usual clumsy bumbling selves. Fathers don’t really start truly feeling comfortable with their children’s breakability till they can rough house a little with them and the kids can punch back. Then the fun begins, but let the ladies hold the babies.
They all lean in a circle, beaming and shrieking at a sleeping oblivious 9 pound plus person, who can’t distinguish between a door and a Doberman. That glow in their wide eyes, as they gaze adoringly at a wrinkled bald bundle with the tiniest hands and smallest feet, keeps the species going.
All the discomfort of pregnancy and the pain of labor that they had and all the problems they may be having with their own grown belligerent kids vanish like a puff of baby powder in the breeze. Invariably, they want another baby STAT!
They start squirming with motherhood hormones squirting thru them. They reach out to hold, touch, squeeze, kiss and smell the baby. They all want their turn holding the Pampers one. They want to again experience the joy of holding a new born baby, like they did when their babies were born.
It brings back all those old baby memories of holding, rocking and loving their children before they turned independent and struggled to break away and become adults. A new born baby takes them back to the beginning of their own families when they were young and just starting out. The propagation of the species stirs in their very souls. Time stands still reflected in the blue eyes of a new born baby.
The sleeping baby gets passed from loving arms to loving arms till it wakes up bewildered. Fed up, it starts to bawl, kick and flail at the indignity of it all. Can’t a person just sleep without getting pawed over by a bunch of women?
Then the women become amazed at this righteous indignation, as if for the first time all over again. They delight in its discomfort and in their efforts to calm it down. The baby’s wailing brings out the rest of the women like the fire sirens start the firemen running.
Who knows how many families begin the night a weary mother brings her new born into work. How many husbands have been blindsided with the bulletin that their wives want another baby now, before they’ve even gotten the first ones thru grade school?
All because a new mother wants to show off her baby and get a short break by handing it over to all the other women at work who grab for it and threaten never to give it up. The mother collapses at her work desk and returns briefly to the world of the wide awake and working women.
And how do the men in the building respond to the beautiful baby being passed around? Do they rush up for their chance to hold it? Do they stare adoringly into its face? Well no, they usually stay as far away as possible.
As a rule, we men don’t really want to hold a new born baby. All we see is danger, Will Robinson, danger! We have catastrophic fantasies and can see us slipping, tripping, falling and dropping the baby onto the hard floor. WHAP! WAAA!! Then we’re pulled apart by an army of appalled women as the baby’s rushed to the ER.
If we’re forced into holding it by nagging, then we cradle it like it was a ticking bomb that could go boom with the slightest jiggle. We hunker over and try to make the baby part of our concave chest, so we can’t possibly drop it, unless our whole body crashes to the floor.
The women laugh and say lighten up, the baby won’t break. But we know it can, if we’re our usual clumsy bumbling selves. Fathers don’t really start truly feeling comfortable with their children’s breakability till they can rough house a little with them and the kids can punch back. Then the fun begins, but let the ladies hold the babies.
LONDON IS CALLING AGAIN
I got a whiff of diesel fumes today and flashed back to a free 1969 concert in London’s Hyde Park with the Rolling Stones and some hippie-type girls dancing topless in the crowd. So even though the Stones were there, I can’t say I actually saw them playing.
The prevailing smell of London then was diesel fumes from all the diesel burning bumper to bumper cars and trucks snaking thru the city. After smelling these fumes from a passing semi, I spotted a travel brochure on the bulletin board at work for an eight day trip to London. Eight Days a Week, Beatle fans.
And today was rainy and foggy, a constant in London’s climate. So it was like a conspiracy of sights and smells that made me start remembering London again like it was calling from my wild single days when I was stationed in England. The trip to London today cost over $2,000 for only eight days. Back then, the Air Force flew me to England for free and gave me room and board for two years. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse, literally.
I particularly recall a rowdy New Year’s Eve when a gang of us went to Londontown by train. All aboard were celebrating New Year’s Eve early in the afternoon. When you’re young all you want to do is be around other obnoxious young people, so you can’t personally be picked out of a police line-up. “Yes officer, there were all kids out of control and looked alike.”
There were six of us and the one named Blackstock was getting a head start by knocking back the beer cans like they were handfuls of peanuts. The idea of pacing himself never really occurred to him, so he was rolling into a roaring drunk by the time we reached London’s Liverpool Street Station.
We checked into our hotel and then walked, staggered, tripped and skipped to the Rhinegold Club. By the time we hit the steep steps leading down to the basement club, Blackstock had the inspiration that he could fly. So he did, down the 30 or so steps head first, then bum first, then just falling and flailing. He landed in a sprawl at the bottom dazed and bloodied.
His chaotic entrance alerted the staff, who came to his aid. They aided him all the way back up the stairs and threw him out. In the spirit of selective friendship we denied knowing him, for fear they’d toss us out next. I went up and told him that we’d see him back at the hotel later. He might have heard me.
We went in hopeful, but didn’t do so good girl-wise, which was the only way to measure a successful night in those days. I was rejected by some Russian girls because I was a war mongering Yank, instead of just a lonely soldier far from home. The Cold War was colder than I had thought.
We soon left and walked to Piccadilly Circus. We strolled into another club, where the girls were much friendlier. In fact, they came and sat beside us, without us even asking them to and clung to us like perfume at a prom. Then they started ordering champagne, cigarettes, candy and roses from an array of waitresses. Everything cost about twenty times too much, like instant inflation had hit once stepping in off the street.
We curtailed our girls ordering, but a group of German guys beside us didn’t. I leaned over and warned them that they’d be getting a big bill if they kept it up. They drunkenly ignored me.
They spoke excellent English till the bill came. As they huddled in horror soberly staring at the list of charges in the flickering candlelight, they suddenly forgot how to speak English. The manager and some of his larger friends came to their table to explain it.
At closing time our girls invited us back to their place. Sitting in their living room it soon became apparent that they were more mercenary then moonstruck. We five adjourned to the kitchen to caucus and check our resources.
Back in the living room I mentioned that only Denny Akayama had any money. They dove on him like vultures on road kill. Disillusioned with the fickleness of their love we voted to leave. On the way back to the hotel Denny insisted that his girl really really liked him.
A day later Blackstock showed up at the hotel saying he’d been hit by a car while crossing the street and ended up in the hospital. Ah, to be young and in lust in London. I can smell the diesel fumes now.
The prevailing smell of London then was diesel fumes from all the diesel burning bumper to bumper cars and trucks snaking thru the city. After smelling these fumes from a passing semi, I spotted a travel brochure on the bulletin board at work for an eight day trip to London. Eight Days a Week, Beatle fans.
And today was rainy and foggy, a constant in London’s climate. So it was like a conspiracy of sights and smells that made me start remembering London again like it was calling from my wild single days when I was stationed in England. The trip to London today cost over $2,000 for only eight days. Back then, the Air Force flew me to England for free and gave me room and board for two years. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse, literally.
I particularly recall a rowdy New Year’s Eve when a gang of us went to Londontown by train. All aboard were celebrating New Year’s Eve early in the afternoon. When you’re young all you want to do is be around other obnoxious young people, so you can’t personally be picked out of a police line-up. “Yes officer, there were all kids out of control and looked alike.”
There were six of us and the one named Blackstock was getting a head start by knocking back the beer cans like they were handfuls of peanuts. The idea of pacing himself never really occurred to him, so he was rolling into a roaring drunk by the time we reached London’s Liverpool Street Station.
We checked into our hotel and then walked, staggered, tripped and skipped to the Rhinegold Club. By the time we hit the steep steps leading down to the basement club, Blackstock had the inspiration that he could fly. So he did, down the 30 or so steps head first, then bum first, then just falling and flailing. He landed in a sprawl at the bottom dazed and bloodied.
His chaotic entrance alerted the staff, who came to his aid. They aided him all the way back up the stairs and threw him out. In the spirit of selective friendship we denied knowing him, for fear they’d toss us out next. I went up and told him that we’d see him back at the hotel later. He might have heard me.
We went in hopeful, but didn’t do so good girl-wise, which was the only way to measure a successful night in those days. I was rejected by some Russian girls because I was a war mongering Yank, instead of just a lonely soldier far from home. The Cold War was colder than I had thought.
We soon left and walked to Piccadilly Circus. We strolled into another club, where the girls were much friendlier. In fact, they came and sat beside us, without us even asking them to and clung to us like perfume at a prom. Then they started ordering champagne, cigarettes, candy and roses from an array of waitresses. Everything cost about twenty times too much, like instant inflation had hit once stepping in off the street.
We curtailed our girls ordering, but a group of German guys beside us didn’t. I leaned over and warned them that they’d be getting a big bill if they kept it up. They drunkenly ignored me.
They spoke excellent English till the bill came. As they huddled in horror soberly staring at the list of charges in the flickering candlelight, they suddenly forgot how to speak English. The manager and some of his larger friends came to their table to explain it.
At closing time our girls invited us back to their place. Sitting in their living room it soon became apparent that they were more mercenary then moonstruck. We five adjourned to the kitchen to caucus and check our resources.
Back in the living room I mentioned that only Denny Akayama had any money. They dove on him like vultures on road kill. Disillusioned with the fickleness of their love we voted to leave. On the way back to the hotel Denny insisted that his girl really really liked him.
A day later Blackstock showed up at the hotel saying he’d been hit by a car while crossing the street and ended up in the hospital. Ah, to be young and in lust in London. I can smell the diesel fumes now.
I AM EGO, EGGS AND ETCH-A-SKETCH
I am embryonic fluid and darkness dancin’ to the oldies. I am ham and eggs and sperm. I am fetus, feel me kick. I am a Spielbergian blast of white light and a slap on the bottom. I’m a breast full of milk and a mouth chugging on a nipple like it was a can of Carnation. I’m a diaper sloshing with smelly secrets.
I’m a sparkling smile in my father’s eyes and a weary grin on my mother’s lips. I’m a puppy licking your face. I’m a cat scratch and a million meows. I’m a bump from a bang on the back hanging over your father’s shoulder. I am the Cat in the Hat. I am Sam, I am.
I’m a training bra and an athletic supporter. I’m school, summer vacations and swimming. I’m puberty, pimples and piano lessons. I’m a girl’s giggle and a boy’s bashfulness on a first date. I’m the power of love and the friction of sex. I’m X-rated. I’m out of gas on a dark country road with a girl who is not amused and who has some big brothers who’ll want to talk to me later. I’m straight as an arrow. I’m gay as a blade.
I’m the prayer in the dark that seems to cure cancer. I’m a nun kneeling, a preacher praying and a sinner straying. I’m a Buddhist, a Muslim and a Methodist. I’m black, white, red and yellow with Kodacolor chromosomes. I’m the universal soldier dying for the sins of his leaders. And I’m the innocent caught dead in the middle.
I’m Christmas, Easter and the Year of the Dog. I’m Passover and Palm Sunday. I’m a family holiday sitting all alone in front of festive old movies on TV and becoming more suicidal by the minute. I’m a family holiday with all your relatives fighting the same fights since childhood, getting a knot in your stomach, big as a beer pretzel, and becoming more suicidal by the minute. I am hope and hype, delight and despair all sitting in your favorite chair.
I’m a whiff of scandal and the rot of rumor. I am gossip in the gutter, the tabloid of the town with a tongue like butter. I’m fame and I’m shame. I’m game and I’m to blame. I’m shy and I could just die. All I do is cry.
I’m a killer’s heartfelt apology after he’s been caught and convicted, when before he was bragging about it. I’m a politician’s promises to each different interest group, regardless of the contradictions and consequences.
I’m sitting on the porch in the summer watching the girls go buy something at the store
next door. I’m a day on the river in dappled sunshine and rippled shade. I’m the ocean with its ceaseless pounding of eternity, crashing across continents and the centuries. I’m ebb. I’m floe. I’m a cup of joe.
I’m a stroll in Paris past pickpockets and prostitutes to see the Moulin Rouge. I’m a walk around London under smudged skies and through diesel fumes, enjoying myself immensely.
I’m love and marriage, a horse and miscarriage. I’m the cream, you’re the top. I’m holding hands in the dark as you watch your children sleeping. I’m the slamming of the door, the meals in front of the TV and the fights over who’s to blame for the way the kids turned out.
I’m not good for me. I’m someone who should have known better. I’m the wife who doesn’t want her husband anymore. I’m the husband who laughs while his wife weeps. I am anger, abuse and anchovies. I’m hate, hurt and humidity. I am cruelty and kindness, pity and punching, irony and ironing. I am the refuge of chocolate.
I am food that’s no good, yet sooo good. I’m the 50th anniversary of a couple who haven’t spoken for the last 40 years. I’m taking care of your parents like they took care of you when you were a child. I’m operations, nursing homes, life support and dreaded phone calls after midnight.
I’m a limited warranty on your body. I’m cancer, cardiac arrest and crossword puzzles in your hospital bed. I’m someone who stopped caring enough to send the very best.
I AM LIFE, full of fury, fright, fun, frustration, futility, fat and fate. THEN…I am death.
I’m a sparkling smile in my father’s eyes and a weary grin on my mother’s lips. I’m a puppy licking your face. I’m a cat scratch and a million meows. I’m a bump from a bang on the back hanging over your father’s shoulder. I am the Cat in the Hat. I am Sam, I am.
I’m a training bra and an athletic supporter. I’m school, summer vacations and swimming. I’m puberty, pimples and piano lessons. I’m a girl’s giggle and a boy’s bashfulness on a first date. I’m the power of love and the friction of sex. I’m X-rated. I’m out of gas on a dark country road with a girl who is not amused and who has some big brothers who’ll want to talk to me later. I’m straight as an arrow. I’m gay as a blade.
I’m the prayer in the dark that seems to cure cancer. I’m a nun kneeling, a preacher praying and a sinner straying. I’m a Buddhist, a Muslim and a Methodist. I’m black, white, red and yellow with Kodacolor chromosomes. I’m the universal soldier dying for the sins of his leaders. And I’m the innocent caught dead in the middle.
I’m Christmas, Easter and the Year of the Dog. I’m Passover and Palm Sunday. I’m a family holiday sitting all alone in front of festive old movies on TV and becoming more suicidal by the minute. I’m a family holiday with all your relatives fighting the same fights since childhood, getting a knot in your stomach, big as a beer pretzel, and becoming more suicidal by the minute. I am hope and hype, delight and despair all sitting in your favorite chair.
I’m a whiff of scandal and the rot of rumor. I am gossip in the gutter, the tabloid of the town with a tongue like butter. I’m fame and I’m shame. I’m game and I’m to blame. I’m shy and I could just die. All I do is cry.
I’m a killer’s heartfelt apology after he’s been caught and convicted, when before he was bragging about it. I’m a politician’s promises to each different interest group, regardless of the contradictions and consequences.
I’m sitting on the porch in the summer watching the girls go buy something at the store
next door. I’m a day on the river in dappled sunshine and rippled shade. I’m the ocean with its ceaseless pounding of eternity, crashing across continents and the centuries. I’m ebb. I’m floe. I’m a cup of joe.
I’m a stroll in Paris past pickpockets and prostitutes to see the Moulin Rouge. I’m a walk around London under smudged skies and through diesel fumes, enjoying myself immensely.
I’m love and marriage, a horse and miscarriage. I’m the cream, you’re the top. I’m holding hands in the dark as you watch your children sleeping. I’m the slamming of the door, the meals in front of the TV and the fights over who’s to blame for the way the kids turned out.
I’m not good for me. I’m someone who should have known better. I’m the wife who doesn’t want her husband anymore. I’m the husband who laughs while his wife weeps. I am anger, abuse and anchovies. I’m hate, hurt and humidity. I am cruelty and kindness, pity and punching, irony and ironing. I am the refuge of chocolate.
I am food that’s no good, yet sooo good. I’m the 50th anniversary of a couple who haven’t spoken for the last 40 years. I’m taking care of your parents like they took care of you when you were a child. I’m operations, nursing homes, life support and dreaded phone calls after midnight.
I’m a limited warranty on your body. I’m cancer, cardiac arrest and crossword puzzles in your hospital bed. I’m someone who stopped caring enough to send the very best.
I AM LIFE, full of fury, fright, fun, frustration, futility, fat and fate. THEN…I am death.
TALKING WITH THE TESTY DEAD
There’s been a lot of media attention about mediums and psychics talking to the dead. There’s James Van Praagh and George Anderson who make a good living talking to the dead with their TV movies and specials.
So I sent my sometime assistant and full time pool boy, Ace Hack, out to contact a cheap psychic to talk to the dead for this column. Ace found Johnny the Hot Dog King and Medium Rare to give him a reading for about 10 bucks and a fast food coupon for free fries. Ace met Johnny at his place of business, a hot dog vendor’s stand on the streets of a minor city. It went like this.
“Johnny, can you find out why Cathy Hammerhead turned me down in ‘73 when I asked her to the senior prom?” Ace inquired. Beep. Beep. Honk.
“When did she die, my son?” Johnny asked in his fake priest psychic voice.
“Hey, I want one with everything.” ordered a customer, as an ambulance wailed.
Ace continued “Oh, she’s not dead yet. I just always wondered why she’d never go out with me. I was thin then and even had hair.”
“They gotta be dead before I try to contact them. If they’re still alive you can call them yourself. That’ll be $2.50, Ace.” Johnny said.
“Where’s the kraut. I wanted everything.” The customer demanded, bringing back his hot dog. Beep. Honk. Wail. Honk.
“The kraut went back to Düsseldorf. I got no kraut.” Johnny brushed him off.
“OK Johnny, contact my Uncle Lou. He died in ’89 trying to race a cop to a doughnut shop. He won, but crashed into it suffocating in the Bavarian cream.”
“Two with mustard and ketchup, my man.” another customer ordered.
“OK, let me get this order first, Ace.’ Johnny said coating the dog with the yin and yang of condiments. Beeeeeppppp! Beeeepppp!
“Here you are, buddy. That’ll be $5.25.” Johnny said taking his money. “Yo, Aunt Sue, get your butt over here, pronto.” Johnny slipped into a trance while making change from a ten.
“No Johnny, no. It’s Uncle Lou, not Aunt Sue.” Ace shouted.
“What do you want? This is Aunt Sue.”
“No Aunt Sue, I didn’t want you.” Ace said quickly.
“I’ve been dead all this time and you don’t want me, you selfish snot.”
“OK, OK how are you, Aunt Sue?” Ace asked as shots rang out.
“How do you think I am, idiot? I’ve been six feet under for 23 years.” Sue said.
“That’s nice, so goodbye, already.” Ace answered over the wail of a cop car’s siren blasting by.
Sue yelped “Wait a minute; you’re not Vinnie’s boy, Tony.”
“No, I’m Tony’s boy, Ace.”
“I could have been your aunt in another life.” Sue sighed wistfully. Screech, bang, crash.
“Is that reincarnation stuff true then?” Ace inquired.
“I don’t know, we’re all waiting for Shirley McClain to get here and tell us.”
“Johnny, can you disconnect Aunt Sue and get my Uncle Lou on the line already.” Ace begged as another police car raced to the recent wreck.
“I’d like two with sauerkraut and onions.” another customer ordered.
“Sure, right. Yo, Uncle Lou come here, pal.” Johnny yelled putting dog in bun.
“Wadda ya want? I got a shuffleboard game going here.” Uncle Lou yelled back.
“Uncle Lou, this is Ace Hack, your brother Tony’s son.” Ace explained.
“Are you the one with the long blond hair and your ex- husband’s name tattooed on your forehead?” Lou asked absentmindedly.
“You will meet your soul mate during clean-up week when you both grab the same piece of crap from someone’s trash.” another voice from beyond wafted in.
“Hey, I ordered kraut and there’s no kraut!” the customer complained.
“It’s our new onion kraut. Isn’t it delicious?” Johnny said covering.
“It is very oniony.” The customer agreed. Beep. Beep.
“Hey, I got another séance to go to.” one of the voices complained.
“I’m outta here like a deer clipped on the highway.” Uncle Lou shouted.
“I’d like a Big Mac with fries. Oh, and super size it, will ya?”
HOONNKK!
So I sent my sometime assistant and full time pool boy, Ace Hack, out to contact a cheap psychic to talk to the dead for this column. Ace found Johnny the Hot Dog King and Medium Rare to give him a reading for about 10 bucks and a fast food coupon for free fries. Ace met Johnny at his place of business, a hot dog vendor’s stand on the streets of a minor city. It went like this.
“Johnny, can you find out why Cathy Hammerhead turned me down in ‘73 when I asked her to the senior prom?” Ace inquired. Beep. Beep. Honk.
“When did she die, my son?” Johnny asked in his fake priest psychic voice.
“Hey, I want one with everything.” ordered a customer, as an ambulance wailed.
Ace continued “Oh, she’s not dead yet. I just always wondered why she’d never go out with me. I was thin then and even had hair.”
“They gotta be dead before I try to contact them. If they’re still alive you can call them yourself. That’ll be $2.50, Ace.” Johnny said.
“Where’s the kraut. I wanted everything.” The customer demanded, bringing back his hot dog. Beep. Honk. Wail. Honk.
“The kraut went back to Düsseldorf. I got no kraut.” Johnny brushed him off.
“OK Johnny, contact my Uncle Lou. He died in ’89 trying to race a cop to a doughnut shop. He won, but crashed into it suffocating in the Bavarian cream.”
“Two with mustard and ketchup, my man.” another customer ordered.
“OK, let me get this order first, Ace.’ Johnny said coating the dog with the yin and yang of condiments. Beeeeeppppp! Beeeepppp!
“Here you are, buddy. That’ll be $5.25.” Johnny said taking his money. “Yo, Aunt Sue, get your butt over here, pronto.” Johnny slipped into a trance while making change from a ten.
“No Johnny, no. It’s Uncle Lou, not Aunt Sue.” Ace shouted.
“What do you want? This is Aunt Sue.”
“No Aunt Sue, I didn’t want you.” Ace said quickly.
“I’ve been dead all this time and you don’t want me, you selfish snot.”
“OK, OK how are you, Aunt Sue?” Ace asked as shots rang out.
“How do you think I am, idiot? I’ve been six feet under for 23 years.” Sue said.
“That’s nice, so goodbye, already.” Ace answered over the wail of a cop car’s siren blasting by.
Sue yelped “Wait a minute; you’re not Vinnie’s boy, Tony.”
“No, I’m Tony’s boy, Ace.”
“I could have been your aunt in another life.” Sue sighed wistfully. Screech, bang, crash.
“Is that reincarnation stuff true then?” Ace inquired.
“I don’t know, we’re all waiting for Shirley McClain to get here and tell us.”
“Johnny, can you disconnect Aunt Sue and get my Uncle Lou on the line already.” Ace begged as another police car raced to the recent wreck.
“I’d like two with sauerkraut and onions.” another customer ordered.
“Sure, right. Yo, Uncle Lou come here, pal.” Johnny yelled putting dog in bun.
“Wadda ya want? I got a shuffleboard game going here.” Uncle Lou yelled back.
“Uncle Lou, this is Ace Hack, your brother Tony’s son.” Ace explained.
“Are you the one with the long blond hair and your ex- husband’s name tattooed on your forehead?” Lou asked absentmindedly.
“You will meet your soul mate during clean-up week when you both grab the same piece of crap from someone’s trash.” another voice from beyond wafted in.
“Hey, I ordered kraut and there’s no kraut!” the customer complained.
“It’s our new onion kraut. Isn’t it delicious?” Johnny said covering.
“It is very oniony.” The customer agreed. Beep. Beep.
“Hey, I got another séance to go to.” one of the voices complained.
“I’m outta here like a deer clipped on the highway.” Uncle Lou shouted.
“I’d like a Big Mac with fries. Oh, and super size it, will ya?”
HOONNKK!
HALLOWEEN ARMEGEDON & FRIGHT SEEING
It was a dark and stormy knight named Nigel who caused the comet to crash into the earth. Nigel was tall, dark and ugly. He loved Halloween because he could dress up as a Knight of the Round Table in full body armor with a helmet and pretend he was a hero.
Nigel had a temper and, in meteorological terms, could be called stormy because of the abuse he received over his English sounding first name. He wasn’t British, but he lived outside Boston and every Fourth of July, as part of their patriotic celebrations, some British hating Bostonians beat him up because of his name.
Every year it took Nigel till Halloween to calm down over this, at which point he put on his armor and clanked along the streets of his small town Blip going door to door trick or treating. But this Halloween all his neighbors turned him away because, at 27, they thought he was too old to be a Halloweener.
Nigel stormed off to the edge of town where he spotted the house of Professor Balmy, an eccentric fired Harvard physicist. Under a full moon as big as a beach ball, with the autumn air so crisp it snapped at his heels and the wind brisk enough to blow out a star in the sky; he knocked on the professor’s door.
Inside, Professor Balmy was turning on his nuclear powered super collider magnetron, which was so strong it could pull the fillings out of a man’s molars walking down a street in Manchuria, if aimed directly at him, from halfway around the world in Perry County.
Nigel knocked on Balmy’s door and it just popped open. He walked into a dark cavern of a hallway with a glow at the end, which he stumbled toward. The Professor spun around when he heard Nigel yell “Trick or treat.”
Now, the good Professor had no fear of deadly snakes, rabid animals attacking or aunts with large lip moles kissing him as a boy. However, he was terrified of Sir Lancelot, a Knight of King Arthur’s; because his father had used Lancelot as a boogey man to keep him in line, claiming that the good knight would spear Nigel with his lance if he were a bad boy.
So when Prof. Balmy saw Nigel the Knight he instantly aimed his magnetron at him in fear and broke the knob turning up the power. Nigel went flying across the hall to crash into the mighty magnet, setting off a nuclear explosion, when he broke the fuel rods.
As luck would have it, the Comet Katchatorrey was then brushing the Earth’s atmosphere. As this burst of pure magnetic nuclear energy blasted into deep space it tugged at the tail of the comet’s iron filings enough to twist it off course. It warped the magnetic field so badly the massive comet wobbled off its trajectory path and came crashing into Yonkers. Within hours, all life on Earth was extinguished, but there was one final Halloween.
It’s Halloween all over the earth.
A comet crashes and kills everyone.
So for Halloweeners there’s a dearth,
till some monuments take up the fun
and go out for one final trick or treat.
The Eiffel Tower spews like an oil well
and goes to the Versailles Palace for sweets.
Big Ben puts on a top hat like some swell
and hops to The Tower for a Mars Bar.
The Washington Monument then takes off
like a rocket and lands at the Capital.
Abe Lincoln walks like Boris Karloff
to Thomas Jefferson’s pedestal,
while Tom’s gone knocking on the White House door,
wearing bifocals like Ben Franklin.
And the Statue of Liberty tours
singing country like Loretta Lynn.
Nigel had a temper and, in meteorological terms, could be called stormy because of the abuse he received over his English sounding first name. He wasn’t British, but he lived outside Boston and every Fourth of July, as part of their patriotic celebrations, some British hating Bostonians beat him up because of his name.
Every year it took Nigel till Halloween to calm down over this, at which point he put on his armor and clanked along the streets of his small town Blip going door to door trick or treating. But this Halloween all his neighbors turned him away because, at 27, they thought he was too old to be a Halloweener.
Nigel stormed off to the edge of town where he spotted the house of Professor Balmy, an eccentric fired Harvard physicist. Under a full moon as big as a beach ball, with the autumn air so crisp it snapped at his heels and the wind brisk enough to blow out a star in the sky; he knocked on the professor’s door.
Inside, Professor Balmy was turning on his nuclear powered super collider magnetron, which was so strong it could pull the fillings out of a man’s molars walking down a street in Manchuria, if aimed directly at him, from halfway around the world in Perry County.
Nigel knocked on Balmy’s door and it just popped open. He walked into a dark cavern of a hallway with a glow at the end, which he stumbled toward. The Professor spun around when he heard Nigel yell “Trick or treat.”
Now, the good Professor had no fear of deadly snakes, rabid animals attacking or aunts with large lip moles kissing him as a boy. However, he was terrified of Sir Lancelot, a Knight of King Arthur’s; because his father had used Lancelot as a boogey man to keep him in line, claiming that the good knight would spear Nigel with his lance if he were a bad boy.
So when Prof. Balmy saw Nigel the Knight he instantly aimed his magnetron at him in fear and broke the knob turning up the power. Nigel went flying across the hall to crash into the mighty magnet, setting off a nuclear explosion, when he broke the fuel rods.
As luck would have it, the Comet Katchatorrey was then brushing the Earth’s atmosphere. As this burst of pure magnetic nuclear energy blasted into deep space it tugged at the tail of the comet’s iron filings enough to twist it off course. It warped the magnetic field so badly the massive comet wobbled off its trajectory path and came crashing into Yonkers. Within hours, all life on Earth was extinguished, but there was one final Halloween.
It’s Halloween all over the earth.
A comet crashes and kills everyone.
So for Halloweeners there’s a dearth,
till some monuments take up the fun
and go out for one final trick or treat.
The Eiffel Tower spews like an oil well
and goes to the Versailles Palace for sweets.
Big Ben puts on a top hat like some swell
and hops to The Tower for a Mars Bar.
The Washington Monument then takes off
like a rocket and lands at the Capital.
Abe Lincoln walks like Boris Karloff
to Thomas Jefferson’s pedestal,
while Tom’s gone knocking on the White House door,
wearing bifocals like Ben Franklin.
And the Statue of Liberty tours
singing country like Loretta Lynn.
FAMOIUS GHOULS FAVORITE FOURTS
By Professor Heinrick Hemlock, PHD, DDT, ESP
The Fourth of July celebrates America’s birthday with fireworks, food, family reunions and fun for us living large, but what about the undead? Technically though, we the living are the undead too, because we’re not dead yet.
However, in the creature features the undead are zombies, vampires and werewolves. Sorta like The Three Stooges of horror.
So I sent my assistant and cemetery grounds keeper, Ace Hack, on assignment to interview some famous ghouls at midnight under a full moon at Jolly Holly’s Cemetery and Custard Stand. Here’s his tape recorded report.
“You all had dinner, right? ‘Cause I could look like a steak tartar to you guys.” Ace asks haltingly.
All seem to answer in the affirmative with a series of low growls, howls, hisses, grunts and lip smackings.
“Let’s start with you, Bob Zombie. What was your favorite Fourth of July?”
“Well Ace, you know how people say that life is no day at the beach and no picnic? My favorite fourth was a day at the beach when me, and several hundred of my closest fiends, picnicked on a sand dune full of Frenchmen at Omaha Beach.
I’ve always loved French food and they were delicious with a nice chilled Chianti and some warm arterial blood to wash them down. They were like a salad bar of fresh meat. The great thing about being a practicing zombie is that after you bite into somebody and kill them, a few seconds later they come back as your new best friend with the same interest in killing every human in sight. So you’re constantly killing people and making new zombies.”
“You’re a very articulate zombie. I’ve only seen them growl and slobber.” Ace states.
“It’s the media misrepresenting us. Being hungry does make one a bear, but after some fine dining we like a good cigar, a snifter of brandy and witty conversation just like you.”
“Fascinating! What about you Lord Dracula. What was your favorite Fourth?”
“As luck would have it, it was American’s first Fourth of July in 1776 Philadelphia. It was so hot then that my fangs stuck to my gums and I couldn’t get them to shoot out and bite properly. They went up and down like a garage door in my mouth. It’s all in my autobiography ‘Fangs, For the Memories’.”
“I’ll have to pick up a copy. What happened next?” Ace asks quickly.
“I went to several dentists and killed them when they couldn’t help me, but it was like biting their necks with baby teeth. Then I ran into Ben Franklin flying his kite in a thunderstorm. I explained my plight to him and he hooked me up to his kite. A lightening bolt struck it and, consequently me, and jump started my teeth to full bite.”
“And then?” Ace asks eagerly.
“I was so grateful to Ben that I spared him, although he was plump and full of blood. I had to feast on a family of four to make up for this act of kindness. I spent the night pretending to drink beer with the Founding Fathers at the Bleedin’ Like a Stuck Pig Pub, an old haunt.”
“Fascinating! Now Mr. Warner the Werewolf, what was your favorite Fourth?”
‘It was tonight. Right here, right now.’ He slobbers and shines under the moonlight.
“But this isn’t the Fourth of July. It’s more than a month away.” Ace explains uncertainly.
“Hey pal; I’m a werewolf who changes into a hairy killing machine every full moon at midnight. I don’t know what century it is, let alone what national holiday. And you look good enough to eat.” He snaps.
Thump! Ayeeee!! Chomp! Chomp! Slurp! Slurp! Burp, all echo on the blood caked tape recorder found the next day at the cemetery.
Funny, Ace hasn’t been by yet to pick up his paycheck. Probably slept in…forever.
The Fourth of July celebrates America’s birthday with fireworks, food, family reunions and fun for us living large, but what about the undead? Technically though, we the living are the undead too, because we’re not dead yet.
However, in the creature features the undead are zombies, vampires and werewolves. Sorta like The Three Stooges of horror.
So I sent my assistant and cemetery grounds keeper, Ace Hack, on assignment to interview some famous ghouls at midnight under a full moon at Jolly Holly’s Cemetery and Custard Stand. Here’s his tape recorded report.
“You all had dinner, right? ‘Cause I could look like a steak tartar to you guys.” Ace asks haltingly.
All seem to answer in the affirmative with a series of low growls, howls, hisses, grunts and lip smackings.
“Let’s start with you, Bob Zombie. What was your favorite Fourth of July?”
“Well Ace, you know how people say that life is no day at the beach and no picnic? My favorite fourth was a day at the beach when me, and several hundred of my closest fiends, picnicked on a sand dune full of Frenchmen at Omaha Beach.
I’ve always loved French food and they were delicious with a nice chilled Chianti and some warm arterial blood to wash them down. They were like a salad bar of fresh meat. The great thing about being a practicing zombie is that after you bite into somebody and kill them, a few seconds later they come back as your new best friend with the same interest in killing every human in sight. So you’re constantly killing people and making new zombies.”
“You’re a very articulate zombie. I’ve only seen them growl and slobber.” Ace states.
“It’s the media misrepresenting us. Being hungry does make one a bear, but after some fine dining we like a good cigar, a snifter of brandy and witty conversation just like you.”
“Fascinating! What about you Lord Dracula. What was your favorite Fourth?”
“As luck would have it, it was American’s first Fourth of July in 1776 Philadelphia. It was so hot then that my fangs stuck to my gums and I couldn’t get them to shoot out and bite properly. They went up and down like a garage door in my mouth. It’s all in my autobiography ‘Fangs, For the Memories’.”
“I’ll have to pick up a copy. What happened next?” Ace asks quickly.
“I went to several dentists and killed them when they couldn’t help me, but it was like biting their necks with baby teeth. Then I ran into Ben Franklin flying his kite in a thunderstorm. I explained my plight to him and he hooked me up to his kite. A lightening bolt struck it and, consequently me, and jump started my teeth to full bite.”
“And then?” Ace asks eagerly.
“I was so grateful to Ben that I spared him, although he was plump and full of blood. I had to feast on a family of four to make up for this act of kindness. I spent the night pretending to drink beer with the Founding Fathers at the Bleedin’ Like a Stuck Pig Pub, an old haunt.”
“Fascinating! Now Mr. Warner the Werewolf, what was your favorite Fourth?”
‘It was tonight. Right here, right now.’ He slobbers and shines under the moonlight.
“But this isn’t the Fourth of July. It’s more than a month away.” Ace explains uncertainly.
“Hey pal; I’m a werewolf who changes into a hairy killing machine every full moon at midnight. I don’t know what century it is, let alone what national holiday. And you look good enough to eat.” He snaps.
Thump! Ayeeee!! Chomp! Chomp! Slurp! Slurp! Burp, all echo on the blood caked tape recorder found the next day at the cemetery.
Funny, Ace hasn’t been by yet to pick up his paycheck. Probably slept in…forever.
PRESIDENTIAL FLIP FLOPS
ANNCR: Now you can buy your own Presidential Flip Flops for just $19.95 at Prez-R-Us just like your favorite candidate wears. When you want to turn left they turn into two left flip flops. When you want to go hard right your Flip Flops turn into right wing tips.
And if you want to move into the center and dump the issues you hold most dear you can run in your Flip Flops as fast as you can straight down the middle for the most votes.
If you’re straddling an issue your Presidential Flip Flops can go in two directions at the same time without splitting you up. You can be both for the war and against the war in your Presidential Flip Flops without colliding with yourself. They have suckers on the bottom that stick to the surface like the suckers who vote for you.
Your Presidential Flip Flops shouldn’t be worn in the shower if you already have slippery principles for fear of falling on your face.
Presidential Flip Flops- for your change of heart in these difficult campaign days to get the most votes, even if you have to ditch your oldest most devoted followers for a bigger batch of new followers.
Change is Good. Presidential Flip Flops. Endorsed by John Kerry.
And if you want to move into the center and dump the issues you hold most dear you can run in your Flip Flops as fast as you can straight down the middle for the most votes.
If you’re straddling an issue your Presidential Flip Flops can go in two directions at the same time without splitting you up. You can be both for the war and against the war in your Presidential Flip Flops without colliding with yourself. They have suckers on the bottom that stick to the surface like the suckers who vote for you.
Your Presidential Flip Flops shouldn’t be worn in the shower if you already have slippery principles for fear of falling on your face.
Presidential Flip Flops- for your change of heart in these difficult campaign days to get the most votes, even if you have to ditch your oldest most devoted followers for a bigger batch of new followers.
Change is Good. Presidential Flip Flops. Endorsed by John Kerry.
Wednesday, August 27
CRAZY RUNNING MATE- Top 10 Lists
FOUR TOP TEN LISTS ABOUT CRAZY RUNNING MATE SIGNS
TOP TEN SIGNS YOUR RUNNING MATE IS CRAZY
10.He has Charles Manson on speed dial.
9. He gets his wife to bite his toe nails for him
8. He calls the hump on his back Mr. Toodles.
7. Claims his vagina can whistle "Dixie".
6.Insists on chewing other peoples’ food in restaurants.
5. Claims that Martians have landed in his head and are making him dance like a duck.
4. Due to penis envy, once shot a horse in Reno.
3. Was a dung beetle in a previous life.
2. Is an Adolph Hitler impersonator.
1. Loves Paris Hilton movies.
10. Believes that we should next invade Scranton.
9. Wants National Health Care for beavers.
8. Smokes filtered dog turds.
7.Believes the reason she’s cold all the time is because she’s bi-polar
6. Her gerbil, Karl Rove, convinced her to run.
5.Takes her baths in prune juice to keep herself regular
4.Runs in squares ( instead of circles)
3.The voices in her head hear voices reciting the dialogue from “The Love Guru.”
2.Thinks that Hillary Clinton was the first black president.
1. Dresses up as Judas for Christmas.
MORE TOP TEN SIGNS YOUR RUNNING MATE IS CRAZY
10. Gives speeches in Klingon.
9. Wonders why the Democrats went to John Denver for their convention.
8. Thinks John McCain has a funny sounding name, but not Barrack Obama
7. His campaign slogan is Make Madonna, Not War.
6. Says he only has one house, but it’s the International House of Pancakes
5. Claims he’s John Edwards’ love child in another life.
4. His extensive military background comes from seeing "Tropic Thunder" over ten times.
3. Has campaigned against sub prime ribs
2. Is fluent in gangster rap
1. Wants to leave his wife for you.
10. Wants to change the National Anthem to “Wild Thing, I think I love you.”
9. Called a press conference to announce she was breaking up with Jennifer Aniston, even though she’s never met her.
8. Is working hard to get vampires the right to vote. They already have the right to bite.
7. Has only campaigned in the chartreuse states.
6.Wants to bomb Vietnam
5. Always wears a track suit and sneakers because she’s the running mate.
4. Says she's channeling Nancy Reagan, who isn’t dead yet.
3. Put a plywood plank in her party’s platform
2. Believes marriage can only be between a man and a monkey
1. Bruce Springstein wrote “Born to Run” just to make her run.
TOP TEN SIGNS YOUR RUNNING MATE IS CRAZY
10.He has Charles Manson on speed dial.
9. He gets his wife to bite his toe nails for him
8. He calls the hump on his back Mr. Toodles.
7. Claims his vagina can whistle "Dixie".
6.Insists on chewing other peoples’ food in restaurants.
5. Claims that Martians have landed in his head and are making him dance like a duck.
4. Due to penis envy, once shot a horse in Reno.
3. Was a dung beetle in a previous life.
2. Is an Adolph Hitler impersonator.
1. Loves Paris Hilton movies.
10. Believes that we should next invade Scranton.
9. Wants National Health Care for beavers.
8. Smokes filtered dog turds.
7.Believes the reason she’s cold all the time is because she’s bi-polar
6. Her gerbil, Karl Rove, convinced her to run.
5.Takes her baths in prune juice to keep herself regular
4.Runs in squares ( instead of circles)
3.The voices in her head hear voices reciting the dialogue from “The Love Guru.”
2.Thinks that Hillary Clinton was the first black president.
1. Dresses up as Judas for Christmas.
MORE TOP TEN SIGNS YOUR RUNNING MATE IS CRAZY
10. Gives speeches in Klingon.
9. Wonders why the Democrats went to John Denver for their convention.
8. Thinks John McCain has a funny sounding name, but not Barrack Obama
7. His campaign slogan is Make Madonna, Not War.
6. Says he only has one house, but it’s the International House of Pancakes
5. Claims he’s John Edwards’ love child in another life.
4. His extensive military background comes from seeing "Tropic Thunder" over ten times.
3. Has campaigned against sub prime ribs
2. Is fluent in gangster rap
1. Wants to leave his wife for you.
10. Wants to change the National Anthem to “Wild Thing, I think I love you.”
9. Called a press conference to announce she was breaking up with Jennifer Aniston, even though she’s never met her.
8. Is working hard to get vampires the right to vote. They already have the right to bite.
7. Has only campaigned in the chartreuse states.
6.Wants to bomb Vietnam
5. Always wears a track suit and sneakers because she’s the running mate.
4. Says she's channeling Nancy Reagan, who isn’t dead yet.
3. Put a plywood plank in her party’s platform
2. Believes marriage can only be between a man and a monkey
1. Bruce Springstein wrote “Born to Run” just to make her run.
Monday, August 25
IDIOT BOSSES
“WILL DO, BOSS.” (YOU IDIOT!) By Bill Roddey
At times you may think you’re better than your boss and that you’re actually smarter than he or she is. Sometimes, occasionally, you are smarter. But what if you feel that way all the time? What if you feel your boss is, well, just too bossy?
If that’s the case, your boss may be ABS, Arrogant, But Stupid. I believe this condition is rampant and spreading, based on all the infamous indictments and convictions of shamelessly dumb CEOs, CFOs and a certain white House staffer, who shall remain nameless.
OK, OK, you twisted my arm, it’s Lewis “Scooter” Libby, Vice President Dick Cheney’s chief of staff, who allegedly was arrogant enough to think he knew best when lying to a federal grand jury, but was allegedly stupid enough to give the federal prosecutor his personal notes contradicting his sworn testimony, thus proving he had lied. It’s ABS, ladies and gentlemen.
Aside from the notorious cases of Arrogant, But Stupid bosses, I’ve seen ABS around locally lately, for the first time since I was in the Air Force in 1970. I remember a Sgt. then, with the thought processes of a rotting head of lettuce, who had one more stripe than me, bossing me around like he was a Major General, because he could.
If your boss is Arrogant And Smart, AAS, you can almost accept the arrogance, even though it’s as hard to swallow as a peanut butter basted bowling ball, because the results of your boss’ decisions are good. You have a more efficient better business with profits up, proving that the boss is smarter than the average bear, Boo Boo.
But with an ABS boss, everyone can see the place is going to hell in a hand basket, designed by a knock-off Martha Stewart. The Arrogant, But Stupid boss creates turmoil with almost every decision he or she makes because everybody from the supervisors to the guy filling the soda machine can see how dumb the decisions are.
Sheer stupidity shines like a flawed cubic zirconium diamond, like scoring a touchdown for the opposing team, like proudly displaying a potato shaped like a potato or like telling your wife she’s too fat while wooing her for a romantic interlude.
When your Arrogant, But Stupid boss is confronted with the pungent dumbness of his or her decisions, the response probably will be “It’s my business and I’ll do what I want, when I want! No one can tell me what to do!”
Logic, commonsense and probing debate will only get you stares, glares and disgust at your obvious inability to see the big crooked picture. You may be asked to leave the office immediately, as if you emitted a fowl odor that needs to dissipate in a larger space, outside the inner sanctum.
Even with nagging and brown nosed begging an ABS boss somehow makes you feel stupid enough to start questioning your own intelligence and good grades in business school.
That is, until you see the ultimate consequences of your boss’ dumb decisions. Even though the office morale is lower than GM’s junk bond status and the staff is at each other’s throats like starving jackals with all the extra work and confusion created, your boss is moving on to his next problematic proclamation. Your ABS boss seems to be swept along on a wave of success that will never crash and send everyone face first into the sand.
The most frustrating thing about ABS bosses is their utmost contentment, like they’re too dumb to have a worry furrow their brow. They seem oblivious to all the problems they’re creating and thrilled that people are talking about them.
They’re making their smudged marks on the world. They’re the head honchos who don’t have to follow the dumb decisions of their former bosses anymore, whose word is law, until they’re fired, indicted or promoted.
BALD AIN'T BEAUTIFUL A book of my best newspaper humor columns, comic poems and two award winning short stories from over 26 years , available on Amazon.com
At times you may think you’re better than your boss and that you’re actually smarter than he or she is. Sometimes, occasionally, you are smarter. But what if you feel that way all the time? What if you feel your boss is, well, just too bossy?
If that’s the case, your boss may be ABS, Arrogant, But Stupid. I believe this condition is rampant and spreading, based on all the infamous indictments and convictions of shamelessly dumb CEOs, CFOs and a certain white House staffer, who shall remain nameless.
OK, OK, you twisted my arm, it’s Lewis “Scooter” Libby, Vice President Dick Cheney’s chief of staff, who allegedly was arrogant enough to think he knew best when lying to a federal grand jury, but was allegedly stupid enough to give the federal prosecutor his personal notes contradicting his sworn testimony, thus proving he had lied. It’s ABS, ladies and gentlemen.
Aside from the notorious cases of Arrogant, But Stupid bosses, I’ve seen ABS around locally lately, for the first time since I was in the Air Force in 1970. I remember a Sgt. then, with the thought processes of a rotting head of lettuce, who had one more stripe than me, bossing me around like he was a Major General, because he could.
If your boss is Arrogant And Smart, AAS, you can almost accept the arrogance, even though it’s as hard to swallow as a peanut butter basted bowling ball, because the results of your boss’ decisions are good. You have a more efficient better business with profits up, proving that the boss is smarter than the average bear, Boo Boo.
But with an ABS boss, everyone can see the place is going to hell in a hand basket, designed by a knock-off Martha Stewart. The Arrogant, But Stupid boss creates turmoil with almost every decision he or she makes because everybody from the supervisors to the guy filling the soda machine can see how dumb the decisions are.
Sheer stupidity shines like a flawed cubic zirconium diamond, like scoring a touchdown for the opposing team, like proudly displaying a potato shaped like a potato or like telling your wife she’s too fat while wooing her for a romantic interlude.
When your Arrogant, But Stupid boss is confronted with the pungent dumbness of his or her decisions, the response probably will be “It’s my business and I’ll do what I want, when I want! No one can tell me what to do!”
Logic, commonsense and probing debate will only get you stares, glares and disgust at your obvious inability to see the big crooked picture. You may be asked to leave the office immediately, as if you emitted a fowl odor that needs to dissipate in a larger space, outside the inner sanctum.
Even with nagging and brown nosed begging an ABS boss somehow makes you feel stupid enough to start questioning your own intelligence and good grades in business school.
That is, until you see the ultimate consequences of your boss’ dumb decisions. Even though the office morale is lower than GM’s junk bond status and the staff is at each other’s throats like starving jackals with all the extra work and confusion created, your boss is moving on to his next problematic proclamation. Your ABS boss seems to be swept along on a wave of success that will never crash and send everyone face first into the sand.
The most frustrating thing about ABS bosses is their utmost contentment, like they’re too dumb to have a worry furrow their brow. They seem oblivious to all the problems they’re creating and thrilled that people are talking about them.
They’re making their smudged marks on the world. They’re the head honchos who don’t have to follow the dumb decisions of their former bosses anymore, whose word is law, until they’re fired, indicted or promoted.
BALD AIN'T BEAUTIFUL A book of my best newspaper humor columns, comic poems and two award winning short stories from over 26 years , available on Amazon.com
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