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.
Sunday, September 21
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
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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.
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Your Presidential Flip Flops shouldn’t be worn in the shower if you already have slippery principles for fear of falling on your face.
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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.
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