Hoss, in the Land of Anciency, wants to thank ever'body who had neat money-making ideas yesterday. Of course, I woulda thought of 'em myself, so don't get your tit in a wringer* if your idea doesn't show up just now. My buddy Chenoah suggested going for plastic parsley, but what she don't know is I was gonna cancel parsley altogether since none of the dumbasses around here will eat it anyway. Savings: $30 a month.
Now then, take out that third mortgage so's you can invest in My Plan to Get Rich. (For anybody who missed yesterday's piece, I'm planning to take over the Assisted Living Facility--Old Folks' Home--where I live and turn it into a cash cow.)
But, of course, before you start digging up your back yard looking for your stole money that you want to put in my hands, you'll want to know the rest of my plan for developing Ol' Hoss's Slave Labor Camp and Riding Academy.
4. Quilting Bee. A lot of these old ladies have made quilts when they was younger. No reason they can't make some for Hoss. Raw materials will cost about nothing -- these women got a lot of cotton dresses they ain't using, so we can cut those up. And for filling, we're loaded with panty liners around here; just have to staple 'em together. I think we'll call these Amish Quilts, because they got such a good reputation for quality. That isn't exactly cheating, either, because we DO have some Amish people in Oregon. Hell, even got a town named Amity.
A. Benefit to Residents: Idle hands are the Devil's work.
B. Benefit to Hoss: Two quilts a month, @$500 each.
5. Victory Garden. Almost all of us here grew up during World War II when growing a "victory garden" was just about mandatory if you wanted to eat. Today, I guess most young people think that fruits and vegetables grow themselves in the Piggly Wiggly bins. Since you can get just about all the ordinary vegetables at your Kroger's, our residents will grow stuff like Celeriac, Salsify, Yard-Long Beans and Spaghetti Squash. Oddities always worth a premium. We'll sell these at the local Saturday and Wednesday outdoor markets.
A. Benefit to Residents: Helping out the war effort.
B. Benefit to Hoss: $800 a month from the markets, $200 a month reduction in my food bill. (Also, I will have the franchise on Lava Soap, which the residents will need to clean they fingernails.)
6. Sidewalk Sales. Down in Santa Fe, the Hopi or the Navajo Indians spread blankets on the sidewalk and sell exquisite silver and turquoise jewelry. Well, we got blankets too, so I'll have some of the residents out on ther sidewalks on the weekends. They can't make jewelry but they're hell on wheels when it comes to doilies and tea cozys. People might drive in from miles around to see this, especially since I'll have all my sellers wearing 10-gallon sombreros.
Benefit to Residents: Integral part of new tourist attraction.
Benefit to Hoss: Probably not more than $100 a month, but it's the thought that counts.
Okay, that's it. Well, no it isn't. I haven't told you about my Riding Academy, which is another source of financial coup d' etat. Tomorrow I'll do that. This will give you another day to sell your children to get enough money to invest with Ol' Hoss, your pal.
+ + + + + + + +
*You ever hear that phrase? See, in the old days when Maytag first came out with a whiz-bang washing machine it had two rollers on top for squeezing the water outta the clothes. Women would lean across these rollers to grab the semi-dried clothes and get a boobie in the wringer. This actual happened to my cousin, Aloha. So the phrase was born -- born to mean "anger with pain." Once my brother got his arm in the wringer and before Mom could shut off the machine it had him up to the shoulder blade. I think he was more embarrassed than angry.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Ta Da!! We'll All Be Rich
I know, I know. You're wondering why a guy in an Old Folks' Home is so intent on Making My Pile. Well, I want to get a whole bunch of money together so's I can create a foundation in my name, maybe the Old Hoss Was So Pretty in His Coffin Foundation. That way people remember me long after my ashes been used for kitty litter. I'll probably have some more ideas on that, but today we're going to start outline the Grand Plan to Get Rich.
But first, I want you to loosen up on those kruggerands you been hoarding. Get together with your stock options. Borrow on your kids' college fund. Have a garge sale. Panhandle. Do what it takes to get money together, because you're going to want to invest right along with me in, ta da!, my Slave Labor Camp.
This is how it goes in a shellnut. I am going to take over the Assisted Living Facility in which I live in and run it in a more business-like fashion, all with an eye toward improving The Bottom Line. But you're thinking, that's all well and good but you don't like the name I come up with. I happen to agree, so the formal name will be Ol' Hoss's Slave Labor Camp and Riding Academy. That personalizes it and gives it a dual purpose. So you'll want in.
It may take awhile to give you all the skinny, but here's how it goes:
1. Cut back on food expenses. The way we'll do this is we'll have the chambermaids dress the people funny, like they'll wear stripes with polka dots, or brown skirts with blue jerseys. Then Hoss will see these eye-smarters wandering the halls and will say: "You look terrible. The Fashion Police direct you go to bed without supper." People caught wearing boas will go without lunch, too.
A. Benefit to residents: They join the fight against obesity.
B. Benefit to Hoss: $1,800 a month savings.
2. We'll develop the Whining and Sniveling Fund. There is a lot of that in this here home. My plan is to fine every whiner and sniveler that is caught in the act, maybe 50 cents a whine and 75 cents a snivel. I will have to require the residents to buy one of those change-making devices like bus drivers used to wear, so they can pay their fines on the spot.
A. Benefit to residents: Develop more positive attitudes.
B. Benefit to Hoss: $400 a month (est.)
3. The Home pays a hefty sum to get the residents' rooms cleaned weekly. There is no reason the healthiest among them can't do this just as well. Naturally they will do it for free, because I will set it up as a Vocational Training Program.
A. Benefit to residents: Training for work in the afterlife.
B. Benefit to Hoss: $2,500 a month.
I have to stop and take a breath. I'm so giddy with excitement, I think I'll have to save the rest of The Grand Plan for tomorrow.
+ + + + + + + +
If you're really short of cash, you can do what Hoss always does when he needs some extra geld. You can invent something and sell it right away to my old buddy, Warren Buffet. Why, just today I sold him my latest invention: The Cotton Gin Fizz.
But first, I want you to loosen up on those kruggerands you been hoarding. Get together with your stock options. Borrow on your kids' college fund. Have a garge sale. Panhandle. Do what it takes to get money together, because you're going to want to invest right along with me in, ta da!, my Slave Labor Camp.
This is how it goes in a shellnut. I am going to take over the Assisted Living Facility in which I live in and run it in a more business-like fashion, all with an eye toward improving The Bottom Line. But you're thinking, that's all well and good but you don't like the name I come up with. I happen to agree, so the formal name will be Ol' Hoss's Slave Labor Camp and Riding Academy. That personalizes it and gives it a dual purpose. So you'll want in.
It may take awhile to give you all the skinny, but here's how it goes:
1. Cut back on food expenses. The way we'll do this is we'll have the chambermaids dress the people funny, like they'll wear stripes with polka dots, or brown skirts with blue jerseys. Then Hoss will see these eye-smarters wandering the halls and will say: "You look terrible. The Fashion Police direct you go to bed without supper." People caught wearing boas will go without lunch, too.
A. Benefit to residents: They join the fight against obesity.
B. Benefit to Hoss: $1,800 a month savings.
2. We'll develop the Whining and Sniveling Fund. There is a lot of that in this here home. My plan is to fine every whiner and sniveler that is caught in the act, maybe 50 cents a whine and 75 cents a snivel. I will have to require the residents to buy one of those change-making devices like bus drivers used to wear, so they can pay their fines on the spot.
A. Benefit to residents: Develop more positive attitudes.
B. Benefit to Hoss: $400 a month (est.)
3. The Home pays a hefty sum to get the residents' rooms cleaned weekly. There is no reason the healthiest among them can't do this just as well. Naturally they will do it for free, because I will set it up as a Vocational Training Program.
A. Benefit to residents: Training for work in the afterlife.
B. Benefit to Hoss: $2,500 a month.
I have to stop and take a breath. I'm so giddy with excitement, I think I'll have to save the rest of The Grand Plan for tomorrow.
+ + + + + + + +
If you're really short of cash, you can do what Hoss always does when he needs some extra geld. You can invent something and sell it right away to my old buddy, Warren Buffet. Why, just today I sold him my latest invention: The Cotton Gin Fizz.
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
Me and Tawnya and Michelle
While I live in an Assisted Living Facility (for Mezozoics), I try to keep up with what younger people are doing. And what a lot of you seem to be doing lately is writing 100 things about yourself, at the request of other writers. Ol' Hoss knows you're tempted like a mosquito at a mudhole to know more about me, so here goes. However, to limit myself to 100 things would be to shortchange myself. I got about 200 good qualities.
1. I know you are prettier/more handsome than anybody in the world.
2. Except I am prettier.
3. I fib a lot.
4. I prevaricate.
5-99. I will lie to you.
100. I am prettier than you.
101. I own the Brooklyn Bridge.
102. I don't want to sell it to you.
103. I lie a lot.
40-199. Et cetera, et cetera.
200. My hunkiness is beyond compare.
I'm glad you now know me much better.
+ + + + + + + +
I got a ladyfriend (friend who is a lady) down in St. Louis who sometimes writes pieces for the internet, name of Tawnya Morris (she and her husband, Dave, got links at left; that Dave is one helluva writer). Tawnya is a Realtor, wedding planner, former beauty queen and gourmet cook. So on any given day she is showing buildings, getting trouble-free weddings hatched, signing 50-60 autographs for beauty worshippers and shipping off recipes to that Emeril guy. She doesn't have much time to write stuff.
So I'm helping out today by telling you what she told me during the 5 minutes she had between selling Busch Stadium and the Naming Rights to the St. Louis Arch. It seems that Tawnya landed the listing on the Only Ranch Style House in All of St. Louis. She is showing it to Budweiser heirs Roy and Roxanne BuschBud.
Tawnya: "The carport leads..."
Roy/Roxanne (in unison): "Carport! Nirvana!"
Tawnya: "To an arched entryway."
Roy/Roxanne (in tandem): "Oooo. Atlantis!"
Tawnya: "It has three bedrooms and two baths."
Roy/Roxanne (as one): "Mecca!"
Tawnya: "And have you noticed the plastic flamingoes in the front yard?"
Roy/Roxanne (together): "Garden of Eden!"
Tawnya: "The asking price is $380,000."
Roy: "Surely you jest. You must have overlooked a number."
Tawnya: "Why, yes, silly me. The price is $3,800,000."
Roy: "Here's my check. Oh, boy, people in California would give anything for a house like this."
Roy and Roxanne spent the winter in Nirvana. Tawnya and Dave spent it in Bermuda.
(On second thought, I might have dreamed this. The Tawnya I know would have spent the winter in Cancun, or Cabo San Lucas.)
+ + + + + + + +
I also got a ladyfriend (friend who is a lady) named Demented Delusions Michelle (link at left). She sometimes writes stories about vampires.
A vampire is a thing that goes burp in the night.
I hear she is branching out to write about diarrhea victims. Things that go dump in the night.
+ + + + + + + +
Tomorrow, Blogger willing, I will start telling you about My Grand Plan to Make Us All Rich. You're welcome.
1. I know you are prettier/more handsome than anybody in the world.
2. Except I am prettier.
3. I fib a lot.
4. I prevaricate.
5-99. I will lie to you.
100. I am prettier than you.
101. I own the Brooklyn Bridge.
102. I don't want to sell it to you.
103. I lie a lot.
40-199. Et cetera, et cetera.
200. My hunkiness is beyond compare.
I'm glad you now know me much better.
+ + + + + + + +
I got a ladyfriend (friend who is a lady) down in St. Louis who sometimes writes pieces for the internet, name of Tawnya Morris (she and her husband, Dave, got links at left; that Dave is one helluva writer). Tawnya is a Realtor, wedding planner, former beauty queen and gourmet cook. So on any given day she is showing buildings, getting trouble-free weddings hatched, signing 50-60 autographs for beauty worshippers and shipping off recipes to that Emeril guy. She doesn't have much time to write stuff.
So I'm helping out today by telling you what she told me during the 5 minutes she had between selling Busch Stadium and the Naming Rights to the St. Louis Arch. It seems that Tawnya landed the listing on the Only Ranch Style House in All of St. Louis. She is showing it to Budweiser heirs Roy and Roxanne BuschBud.
Tawnya: "The carport leads..."
Roy/Roxanne (in unison): "Carport! Nirvana!"
Tawnya: "To an arched entryway."
Roy/Roxanne (in tandem): "Oooo. Atlantis!"
Tawnya: "It has three bedrooms and two baths."
Roy/Roxanne (as one): "Mecca!"
Tawnya: "And have you noticed the plastic flamingoes in the front yard?"
Roy/Roxanne (together): "Garden of Eden!"
Tawnya: "The asking price is $380,000."
Roy: "Surely you jest. You must have overlooked a number."
Tawnya: "Why, yes, silly me. The price is $3,800,000."
Roy: "Here's my check. Oh, boy, people in California would give anything for a house like this."
Roy and Roxanne spent the winter in Nirvana. Tawnya and Dave spent it in Bermuda.
(On second thought, I might have dreamed this. The Tawnya I know would have spent the winter in Cancun, or Cabo San Lucas.)
+ + + + + + + +
I also got a ladyfriend (friend who is a lady) named Demented Delusions Michelle (link at left). She sometimes writes stories about vampires.
A vampire is a thing that goes burp in the night.
I hear she is branching out to write about diarrhea victims. Things that go dump in the night.
+ + + + + + + +
Tomorrow, Blogger willing, I will start telling you about My Grand Plan to Make Us All Rich. You're welcome.
Monday, March 28, 2005
The News Isn't Always Bad
Just because us old folks in the Way Too Old Folks' Home are old, the news we get isn't always Grimm tales. For instance, I just got fantastic news from my doctor. He says I can quit taking my cholesterol medicine and my thyroid medicine because by the time my arteries get plugged up and my thighs get roided I will be dead of lung disease. Isn't that great?
I mean, really. You see, just for the cholesterol pills Pfizer was charging me $4 a day, plus an occasional arm and leg. And they had an option on my colon.
So I will be saving big bucks as I move ever closer to Making My Pile.
+ + + + + + + +
I don't have an opinion on this Terri Shiavo thing (yes I do), except to say I think it must be a boon to lawyers. They seem to be the best qualified to write the "Living Will" that's gotten so populated. You can get one on the Internet, I'm sure, but I had mine done by a lawyer long time ago. I wanted to make sure everybody got tied up in knotholes if they tried to keep me alive with feeding tubes and electric shock and lobotomies and weenie drainers.
I also signed one of them papers that say the creepers dealing with my body can have all my organists, if any them would do anybody any good. I got a preliminary assessment from the Organ Harvest Society saying my innards is 80 proof, so "No Thanks."
+ + + + + + + +
Before I got into writing my pieces on the Internet I neve realized the number of ways there is to make money. And it's so easy. Just today I got me a copyorvillewright and a patent leather on the initials "TM" and the word "Trademark." In short, I have trademarked "Trademark."
The royalties are going to be so big they'll need to park a dumpster in my living room to hold all the million-dollar bills.
+ + + + + + + +
While I was in the hospital on March 15, I dictated a little piece to my daughter, who posted it on this here site. It said: "Horse in hospital. Read old shit." She's a school marm who don't swear none, so I apologize to her. What I shoulda had her write was: "Horse in hospital. Dig around in his old feces."
I mean, really. You see, just for the cholesterol pills Pfizer was charging me $4 a day, plus an occasional arm and leg. And they had an option on my colon.
So I will be saving big bucks as I move ever closer to Making My Pile.
+ + + + + + + +
I don't have an opinion on this Terri Shiavo thing (yes I do), except to say I think it must be a boon to lawyers. They seem to be the best qualified to write the "Living Will" that's gotten so populated. You can get one on the Internet, I'm sure, but I had mine done by a lawyer long time ago. I wanted to make sure everybody got tied up in knotholes if they tried to keep me alive with feeding tubes and electric shock and lobotomies and weenie drainers.
I also signed one of them papers that say the creepers dealing with my body can have all my organists, if any them would do anybody any good. I got a preliminary assessment from the Organ Harvest Society saying my innards is 80 proof, so "No Thanks."
+ + + + + + + +
Before I got into writing my pieces on the Internet I neve realized the number of ways there is to make money. And it's so easy. Just today I got me a copyorvillewright and a patent leather on the initials "TM" and the word "Trademark." In short, I have trademarked "Trademark."
The royalties are going to be so big they'll need to park a dumpster in my living room to hold all the million-dollar bills.
+ + + + + + + +
While I was in the hospital on March 15, I dictated a little piece to my daughter, who posted it on this here site. It said: "Horse in hospital. Read old shit." She's a school marm who don't swear none, so I apologize to her. What I shoulda had her write was: "Horse in hospital. Dig around in his old feces."
Sunday, March 27, 2005
A "No Smoking" Zone
And on the 12th day after staring death in the eyebones, it came Easter and Ol' Hoss ressurected hisself.*
+ + + + + + + +
It has been awhile since I wrote anything, as my 102,000 fans well know. Well, I'm feelin' good in The Old Folks' Home in which I dwell, and am here forever to slake your demand to read about my sly and cunning ways.
When I got back from the hospital, some people here thought I oughta join the war on the tobacco companies for causing me to nearly go toes up with lung disease. "Get in on the dough, Hoss, before they all go bust," Merle Hertz said.
I ain't got no interest in suing the terbaccy merchants. Sure, they guilty of lots of things, and the numbnuts deserve some punishing. But why would I want my (former) fellow smokers to give me money for what I did to myself? And that's all it is, dough coming from all smokers to finance the sick smokers. What a daisy chain.
Big Tobacco bridled but they did what they was told. They put right on their packages about an eon ago: "This shit ain't good for you, Bubba. You might lose that tongue you're wagging." "Unadulterated poison, Aunt Martha. Swear off, now."
I remember an old song that had lyrics including these lines:
"Smoke, smoke, smoke that cigarette,
"Smoke, smoke until you smoke youself to death.
"Tell St. Peter at the Golden Gate
"That you hate to make him wait,
"But you just gotta have another cigarette."
That song was on the Hit Chart long before "Hazardous to Your Health" arrived. So I had fair warning, and I taking my medicine (they got some good doo-doo in the hospital).
But maybe I CAN make some money out of this. You know me, always thinking about making my pile. Big Tobacco can hold me up as their Poster Child: "Here, look at this sick sonofabitch. He's the onliest man in the world who don't want to sue us."
I might get the Marlboro Man in the background, giving the old Ebert two thumbs up.
I figure I ought to get 100 USD for each poster they put out.
Wonder if I can work Joe Camel into the poster? Make it ecumenical.
+ + + + + + + +
Living in an Old Folks' Home like I do makes it easy to do some heavy thinking. It's nice and quiet, mostly. And the result of this heavy thinking is that you'll soon be seeing headlines like this:
New York Times: "Senior Citizen Scores Dramatic Financial Success"
Forbes Magazine: "Ten Tips on How Ol' Hoss Came to Riches"
Variety: "Yid Kid Bids for Fame" (I didn't know I was Jewish, but that's okay. Some of my best friends aren't Jewish. Some of them aren't Arabs, either.)
Gizoogle: "Old Playa Retirizzle $$"
Time Magazine: "Old Horsetail Snake Is Man of Year"
These will be coming because of the immensely successful business plan I have developed In Order to Make My Pile. Now, I can't tell you about this right now, maybe at the end of the week. I got some other schemes going that will keep you busy in the meantime unnerstandin' my recent thought of train.
I WILL be charging these publications for writin' their headlines for 'em.
+ + + + + + + +
* I missed out on Palm Sunday. Carolina Sister says that's the day we revere palm readers. Damn, I thought it was the day we was allowed to choke our lizard with either hand.
+ + + + + + + +
It has been awhile since I wrote anything, as my 102,000 fans well know. Well, I'm feelin' good in The Old Folks' Home in which I dwell, and am here forever to slake your demand to read about my sly and cunning ways.
When I got back from the hospital, some people here thought I oughta join the war on the tobacco companies for causing me to nearly go toes up with lung disease. "Get in on the dough, Hoss, before they all go bust," Merle Hertz said.
I ain't got no interest in suing the terbaccy merchants. Sure, they guilty of lots of things, and the numbnuts deserve some punishing. But why would I want my (former) fellow smokers to give me money for what I did to myself? And that's all it is, dough coming from all smokers to finance the sick smokers. What a daisy chain.
Big Tobacco bridled but they did what they was told. They put right on their packages about an eon ago: "This shit ain't good for you, Bubba. You might lose that tongue you're wagging." "Unadulterated poison, Aunt Martha. Swear off, now."
I remember an old song that had lyrics including these lines:
"Smoke, smoke, smoke that cigarette,
"Smoke, smoke until you smoke youself to death.
"Tell St. Peter at the Golden Gate
"That you hate to make him wait,
"But you just gotta have another cigarette."
That song was on the Hit Chart long before "Hazardous to Your Health" arrived. So I had fair warning, and I taking my medicine (they got some good doo-doo in the hospital).
But maybe I CAN make some money out of this. You know me, always thinking about making my pile. Big Tobacco can hold me up as their Poster Child: "Here, look at this sick sonofabitch. He's the onliest man in the world who don't want to sue us."
I might get the Marlboro Man in the background, giving the old Ebert two thumbs up.
I figure I ought to get 100 USD for each poster they put out.
Wonder if I can work Joe Camel into the poster? Make it ecumenical.
+ + + + + + + +
Living in an Old Folks' Home like I do makes it easy to do some heavy thinking. It's nice and quiet, mostly. And the result of this heavy thinking is that you'll soon be seeing headlines like this:
New York Times: "Senior Citizen Scores Dramatic Financial Success"
Forbes Magazine: "Ten Tips on How Ol' Hoss Came to Riches"
Variety: "Yid Kid Bids for Fame" (I didn't know I was Jewish, but that's okay. Some of my best friends aren't Jewish. Some of them aren't Arabs, either.)
Gizoogle: "Old Playa Retirizzle $$"
Time Magazine: "Old Horsetail Snake Is Man of Year"
These will be coming because of the immensely successful business plan I have developed In Order to Make My Pile. Now, I can't tell you about this right now, maybe at the end of the week. I got some other schemes going that will keep you busy in the meantime unnerstandin' my recent thought of train.
I WILL be charging these publications for writin' their headlines for 'em.
+ + + + + + + +
* I missed out on Palm Sunday. Carolina Sister says that's the day we revere palm readers. Damn, I thought it was the day we was allowed to choke our lizard with either hand.
Sunday, March 20, 2005
Warning: Nobody Home
Yesterday I wrote that since I'm sick I wouldn't be posting anymore. But I am going to leave the site up in case I someday can resume. After today, don't look for anything new here.
One last tale of yore:
When I was a kid (58 years ago) I worked on a road crew with a bunch of guys from Bulgaria or Romania or Vampire State University. Their language sounded kind of neat so I asked them to teach me some of it. So Ravil says he would teach me one phrase, and one phrase only. He says (this is phonetic): "Eide ostetsa ohna ogranac."
Horse: "What's it mean, oh wise one?"
Ravil: "It means 'Go get me some water.' That's all rookies need to know."
+ + + + + + + +
Okay, that's it. I'm worn out from all that sinning.
But I want to tell you one last thing I've learned about some people in The Old Folks' Home:
I don't have much patience with people who don't have any patience.
One last tale of yore:
When I was a kid (58 years ago) I worked on a road crew with a bunch of guys from Bulgaria or Romania or Vampire State University. Their language sounded kind of neat so I asked them to teach me some of it. So Ravil says he would teach me one phrase, and one phrase only. He says (this is phonetic): "Eide ostetsa ohna ogranac."
Horse: "What's it mean, oh wise one?"
Ravil: "It means 'Go get me some water.' That's all rookies need to know."
+ + + + + + + +
Okay, that's it. I'm worn out from all that sinning.
But I want to tell you one last thing I've learned about some people in The Old Folks' Home:
I don't have much patience with people who don't have any patience.
Friday, March 18, 2005
Hoss Bitches, Then Bows
I'm back in the Old Folks' Home where I sent myself to die. I'm beginning to get the hang of it.
Spent 3 days in the hospital with Brain Dead Disease. You get that when they tell you to quit smoking, and you don't. So now I've had lung disease, heart attack, prostate cancer, ruptured appendix. I'm probably due for hangnail.
I wish I could get one of them Hollywood diseases. Lou Gerhig's, paralysis, alcoholism, idiot savant -- all good movies. Maybe a slow motion tour of the colon?
I'd sure like to make a pile before I pass.
+ + + + + + + +
I want you to know that during my stay in the lungery I didn't once appeal to Big Ernie for help. I suppose there's room for a God in the world; has to be, since there's so many of 'em -- like, Lord, Allah, Ra, Yaweh, Homey.
And He/She did a pretty good job on some stuff, like the Ten Commandments. Coulda been more, I suppose, like "Don't mess with Texas." But I think Moses hisself chiseled out those do's and don'ts. See, he was a scrawny little guy and didn't think the followers would take to commandments from a wimp. So he made up this God fig newton.
One of the commandments says there oughta be no killing. As you know, that was a loser right from the start. In Ireland, Protestants and Catholics killing each other In.The.Name.Of.Religion. Mideast, Arabs killing In.The.Name.Of.Religion. Nothing new there.
What kind of career choice is "suicide bomber?" "Well, Bob, you don't have to work much." They ought to get 'em an Ebola franchise for all the good they're doing.
HOWEVER, there just might be a God thing, so I'm willing to play along in hopes of finally making my pile. What I'm proposing to God is to develop his "Ignore List." I would tell him the kinds of people whose prayers He can safely ignore. This would be people like The Newly Rejected Lover, The Guy Who's Going to Die Tomorrow Anyway, Greedy Old Bastards Who Don't Tithe -- you get the picture. Then God would get a lot of time off to work on his nine-iron.
I wouldn't ask for much. Maybe a couple of streets paved with gold.
+ + + + + + +
This is Ol' Hoss's swan song as a blogger, sad to say. I'm too sick to continue, but not in immediate danger of having to cash in my gold streets. I'm going to continue to read your stuff, so you might be hearing from me.
You who have been reading the sometimes-true stories of Hoss have been very kind. Thank you.
Spent 3 days in the hospital with Brain Dead Disease. You get that when they tell you to quit smoking, and you don't. So now I've had lung disease, heart attack, prostate cancer, ruptured appendix. I'm probably due for hangnail.
I wish I could get one of them Hollywood diseases. Lou Gerhig's, paralysis, alcoholism, idiot savant -- all good movies. Maybe a slow motion tour of the colon?
I'd sure like to make a pile before I pass.
+ + + + + + + +
I want you to know that during my stay in the lungery I didn't once appeal to Big Ernie for help. I suppose there's room for a God in the world; has to be, since there's so many of 'em -- like, Lord, Allah, Ra, Yaweh, Homey.
And He/She did a pretty good job on some stuff, like the Ten Commandments. Coulda been more, I suppose, like "Don't mess with Texas." But I think Moses hisself chiseled out those do's and don'ts. See, he was a scrawny little guy and didn't think the followers would take to commandments from a wimp. So he made up this God fig newton.
One of the commandments says there oughta be no killing. As you know, that was a loser right from the start. In Ireland, Protestants and Catholics killing each other In.The.Name.Of.Religion. Mideast, Arabs killing In.The.Name.Of.Religion. Nothing new there.
What kind of career choice is "suicide bomber?" "Well, Bob, you don't have to work much." They ought to get 'em an Ebola franchise for all the good they're doing.
HOWEVER, there just might be a God thing, so I'm willing to play along in hopes of finally making my pile. What I'm proposing to God is to develop his "Ignore List." I would tell him the kinds of people whose prayers He can safely ignore. This would be people like The Newly Rejected Lover, The Guy Who's Going to Die Tomorrow Anyway, Greedy Old Bastards Who Don't Tithe -- you get the picture. Then God would get a lot of time off to work on his nine-iron.
I wouldn't ask for much. Maybe a couple of streets paved with gold.
+ + + + + + +
This is Ol' Hoss's swan song as a blogger, sad to say. I'm too sick to continue, but not in immediate danger of having to cash in my gold streets. I'm going to continue to read your stuff, so you might be hearing from me.
You who have been reading the sometimes-true stories of Hoss have been very kind. Thank you.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Sunday, March 13, 2005
A Sad Excuse for a Family Tree
Each Sunday a different minister comes to our Old Folks' Home to conduct a little service. We've had 'em all -- Presbyterians, Catholics, Jews, Rastafarians, Buddhists, Ba'hai, Holy Rollers, Latter Day Saints, Hare Krishnas. Once we had the Dalai Lama, and the next week Joseph Smith dropped in. When Pope Paul gets well, he'll no doubt schedule us in. Talk about your ecumenical.
Today we had us one of those world champion proselytizers, a Creationist Evangelista, name of Hobart Sternclamp. This was perfect for one of our residents, Ben Idoubtit. Ben wanted to talk about the Bible, the King Jimmy Version. He said he had some questions and observations about some parts of the Bible that come shortly after "In the beginning..":
Hobart: "Let us pray."
Ben: "You think prayer is going to do us any good? It's almost certain that all the people here are crazy."
Hobart: "Why do you say that?"
Ben: "Well, according to you the population started to thicken up when Adam and Eve had those boys. But then Cain offed Abel, and that left just three people to populate the world. Only way it could been done is there was some incest along the way, and that just leads to birthing a bunch of retards. Pretty damn lean start to a family tree, you ask me."
Hobart, musing: "I can see your point. But it was all taken care of when God started over with the Noah and the Ark gig. You know, all the people but Noah's family sucked gas."
Ben: "Yes, but that's just what I'm talking about. See, we know Noah incested; just about had to if we was going to have any knee-biters around to populate the planet. And we know Noah was whacko from all the previous incest. That's why he loaded up his boat with crap like mosquitoes, black widow spiders and cobras."
Ben: "Did you know, Rev, what it says in the encyclopeedee about this? It says, '...the non-viable offspring that result from incest...gets worse with each generation.' So I feel sorry for you."
Hobart: "You feel sorry for me?"
Ben: "You're one generation younger than me. I'm whacky, sure, but you're going to turn into a real lugnut."
+ + + + + + + +
When I was in high school I participated in track and field. My event was called, then, the "broad jump." (No, I don't know why; just go with it.) Sometime in about the 1950s it was changed to "long jump," which I grant is more descriptive.
Didn't matter. Wilt Chamberlain and Kobe Bryant and I just kept jumping broads.
Today we had us one of those world champion proselytizers, a Creationist Evangelista, name of Hobart Sternclamp. This was perfect for one of our residents, Ben Idoubtit. Ben wanted to talk about the Bible, the King Jimmy Version. He said he had some questions and observations about some parts of the Bible that come shortly after "In the beginning..":
Hobart: "Let us pray."
Ben: "You think prayer is going to do us any good? It's almost certain that all the people here are crazy."
Hobart: "Why do you say that?"
Ben: "Well, according to you the population started to thicken up when Adam and Eve had those boys. But then Cain offed Abel, and that left just three people to populate the world. Only way it could been done is there was some incest along the way, and that just leads to birthing a bunch of retards. Pretty damn lean start to a family tree, you ask me."
Hobart, musing: "I can see your point. But it was all taken care of when God started over with the Noah and the Ark gig. You know, all the people but Noah's family sucked gas."
Ben: "Yes, but that's just what I'm talking about. See, we know Noah incested; just about had to if we was going to have any knee-biters around to populate the planet. And we know Noah was whacko from all the previous incest. That's why he loaded up his boat with crap like mosquitoes, black widow spiders and cobras."
Ben: "Did you know, Rev, what it says in the encyclopeedee about this? It says, '...the non-viable offspring that result from incest...gets worse with each generation.' So I feel sorry for you."
Hobart: "You feel sorry for me?"
Ben: "You're one generation younger than me. I'm whacky, sure, but you're going to turn into a real lugnut."
+ + + + + + + +
When I was in high school I participated in track and field. My event was called, then, the "broad jump." (No, I don't know why; just go with it.) Sometime in about the 1950s it was changed to "long jump," which I grant is more descriptive.
Didn't matter. Wilt Chamberlain and Kobe Bryant and I just kept jumping broads.
Friday, March 11, 2005
The Escapist & the Fisher Folk
Delicia Ratfinc escaped from The Old Folks' Home today. Delicia is about 66 1/2 yrs. old, nice looking. Wears 4-inch heels. As it was later reconstructed, she walked down the hill, obliviously crossed four lanes of traffic and waltzed into the pizza shop.
She asks for, and gets, one slice of pizza. $2.25, says the counterman. "I don't have any money," Delicia says. "I've got nothing to spend money on, so I don't carry any."
Counterman gives her the pizza, free, about the time a winded caregiver catches up with her and leads her back to The Home.
This, of course, is not the first time Delicia has escaped. She has made it to the grocery store (where they frowned on giving her a 12-pack of Bud and some Junior Mints for free); to the tire store (which also would not Annie Oakley her a tire); and to the drug store (where she was unable to get a free sample of morphine).
Once Delicia walked into the cleaners, whipped off her dress and asked whether it would be ready in a day or two. "I'll wait," she said.
I would say that Delicia is a candidate for the funny farm, except we don't say "funny farm" anymore, as that is disrespectful. So I guess it's off to the nuthouse for Delicia.
+ + + + + + + +
Sixty-one years ago this coming Sunday, my cousin John asked if I wanted to go fishing in the irrigation canal. This is a canal that carries water from the Descutes River near Bend down about 40 miles to Madras. I don't know what they do with the water when it gets there; flood Madras with it, I guess. It's a pretty crappy town. Then when all you can see of Madras is a couple of church steeples they turn off the water for the year, and that's when it's the right time to go fishing in the canal.
So John and I took collected our tackle. Mine was a .30-.30 rifle and his was a 16-gauge shotgun. See what happpens is that when they turn off the water, some of it remains in little potholes. And in some of these potholes you will see rainbow trout living out their days.
We would fire into the potholes hoping to stun the fish, make 'em rise to the top of the water and we'd scoop 'em out. Unfortunately for me, my rifle didn't provide adequate concussive power. But John caught a fish with every shot. He must have gotten 8 or 10 12-14-inch rainbows and browns.
When we got back to his place later, his Mom wouldn't give me any of the fish. I hope they was loaded with mercury.
She asks for, and gets, one slice of pizza. $2.25, says the counterman. "I don't have any money," Delicia says. "I've got nothing to spend money on, so I don't carry any."
Counterman gives her the pizza, free, about the time a winded caregiver catches up with her and leads her back to The Home.
This, of course, is not the first time Delicia has escaped. She has made it to the grocery store (where they frowned on giving her a 12-pack of Bud and some Junior Mints for free); to the tire store (which also would not Annie Oakley her a tire); and to the drug store (where she was unable to get a free sample of morphine).
Once Delicia walked into the cleaners, whipped off her dress and asked whether it would be ready in a day or two. "I'll wait," she said.
I would say that Delicia is a candidate for the funny farm, except we don't say "funny farm" anymore, as that is disrespectful. So I guess it's off to the nuthouse for Delicia.
+ + + + + + + +
Sixty-one years ago this coming Sunday, my cousin John asked if I wanted to go fishing in the irrigation canal. This is a canal that carries water from the Descutes River near Bend down about 40 miles to Madras. I don't know what they do with the water when it gets there; flood Madras with it, I guess. It's a pretty crappy town. Then when all you can see of Madras is a couple of church steeples they turn off the water for the year, and that's when it's the right time to go fishing in the canal.
So John and I took collected our tackle. Mine was a .30-.30 rifle and his was a 16-gauge shotgun. See what happpens is that when they turn off the water, some of it remains in little potholes. And in some of these potholes you will see rainbow trout living out their days.
We would fire into the potholes hoping to stun the fish, make 'em rise to the top of the water and we'd scoop 'em out. Unfortunately for me, my rifle didn't provide adequate concussive power. But John caught a fish with every shot. He must have gotten 8 or 10 12-14-inch rainbows and browns.
When we got back to his place later, his Mom wouldn't give me any of the fish. I hope they was loaded with mercury.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
In Praise of Hoss
Just because us old people in the Old People's Home are old, doesn't mean we just bought a turnip truck. Nosiree, a lot of us are quick in the head (an old Navy term). I mention this so's you'll know about an improvement I've made in the World of Blog.
Lately a lot of people have been pushing their blogger friends to answer a "meme," which I think is short for "Me, Me!". What they do is ask their blogger buddies a series of questions about themselves, so we can find out if they're nutcases or just wet noodles. And then the lady that asked all these questions never comes back to read the answers. Here are examples of the kinds of questions the "me-me-ers" ask:
"What attracted you to your mate other than the prospect of getting laid?"
"Do you give your children oddly-spelled names like 'Plane Jane' and 'Humpdiddel'?"
"Why are you sitting there typing when you should be looking for work?"
Well, here's my improvement, which I call the "anti-meme." Instead of asking questions about you, I give you a chance to ask questions about ME. Here are the questions and assignments:
"Why am I so brilliant?"
"How do you prevent yourself from wanting to cuddle me?"
"List not less than 100 of my best qualities." (Most people get up to 200 before they run out of steam.)
If you have time, write an essay describing 200-400 of my other good qualities. Neatness counts.
I don't know why someone else didn't think of inventing the "anti-meme." It seems like I have to do everything.
+ + + + + + + +
Merle Hertz is standing in the hallway today while Myrna Wisenheimer moves in. She is carrying one bed pillow, and behind her is a mover carrying a twin bed.
Merle says to Myrna: "I bet you're single."
Myrna: "Why, yes. How did you know?"
Merle: "You're ugly."
+ + + + + + + +
Fred Boor and I are sitting in the Fireside Room reminiscing about our childhoods. One thing that came up was having to memorize a whole shitload of nursery rhymes. This was about 65 years ago, but we still got most of them down pat:
Horse: "Jack and Jill went up the hill; it's okay Jill's on the pill."
Fred: "Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep and doesn't know where to find them." Well of course you don't know where they are, you twat. They're lost!
Horse: "Hickory, dickory, dock." Our teacher said that "dock" is what they do to male sheep when somebody orders Rocky Mountain oysters.
Fred: "Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a cow pie."
Horse: "Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? In cannabis and coca plants, all right in a row."
Lately a lot of people have been pushing their blogger friends to answer a "meme," which I think is short for "Me, Me!". What they do is ask their blogger buddies a series of questions about themselves, so we can find out if they're nutcases or just wet noodles. And then the lady that asked all these questions never comes back to read the answers. Here are examples of the kinds of questions the "me-me-ers" ask:
"What attracted you to your mate other than the prospect of getting laid?"
"Do you give your children oddly-spelled names like 'Plane Jane' and 'Humpdiddel'?"
"Why are you sitting there typing when you should be looking for work?"
Well, here's my improvement, which I call the "anti-meme." Instead of asking questions about you, I give you a chance to ask questions about ME. Here are the questions and assignments:
"Why am I so brilliant?"
"How do you prevent yourself from wanting to cuddle me?"
"List not less than 100 of my best qualities." (Most people get up to 200 before they run out of steam.)
If you have time, write an essay describing 200-400 of my other good qualities. Neatness counts.
I don't know why someone else didn't think of inventing the "anti-meme." It seems like I have to do everything.
+ + + + + + + +
Merle Hertz is standing in the hallway today while Myrna Wisenheimer moves in. She is carrying one bed pillow, and behind her is a mover carrying a twin bed.
Merle says to Myrna: "I bet you're single."
Myrna: "Why, yes. How did you know?"
Merle: "You're ugly."
+ + + + + + + +
Fred Boor and I are sitting in the Fireside Room reminiscing about our childhoods. One thing that came up was having to memorize a whole shitload of nursery rhymes. This was about 65 years ago, but we still got most of them down pat:
Horse: "Jack and Jill went up the hill; it's okay Jill's on the pill."
Fred: "Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep and doesn't know where to find them." Well of course you don't know where they are, you twat. They're lost!
Horse: "Hickory, dickory, dock." Our teacher said that "dock" is what they do to male sheep when somebody orders Rocky Mountain oysters.
Fred: "Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a cow pie."
Horse: "Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? In cannabis and coca plants, all right in a row."
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Another Day in the Life
Some people here in The Old Folks' Home are starting to take me into their confidence. I think they figure that since they have bored everybody else here to tears I will write up their stories on the internet, and then they can take a whack at boring you. Glad to help.
Carolina Sister told me she and her daughter, Tilde, had a discussion about "my Last Will and Temperamental." She said, "I got a statute in there that says I'm going to take all my money with me. But Tilde said I would really be uncomfortable in a casket stuffed with hundred-dollar bills; I'd just have no elbow room. So Tilde said to give her all the money and when I go to my Last Reward she would toss in a big check so I could get me some hats, Depends and manicures in the Great Beyond.
"Don't you just love a daughter who would look after her Mom's comfort like that?
"And did you know they have manicures in Heaven?"
I said, "Sure. And they got dementia here in Hell."
+ + + + + + + +
Yesterday it was beautiful here in Oregon. Seventy degrees, low humidity. Six kids playing in a street full of hydrant water got run down by trucks, and my neighbor Georgina Teatsuckle gave me something to chew. All in all, a pretty good day.
+ + + + + + + +
I have a new friend who lives up in one of the Twin Cities. I don't remember which one; Beirut, I think. His name is Chris Cope. I got a link to him down there in the lower left. He said he Googled me and found out I used to be Oregon public utility commissioner, and that I should own up to it.
Well, it's true. I regulated the rates and service terms of the electric, telephone and gas utilities, the intrastate trucking companies, and private water companies. It was a big job, and I could only play golf Monday, Wednesday and Thursday.
One time a lawyer called me and said the telephone company was trying to cut off his service for nonpayment, and he wanted me to stop 'em.
I said, "Well, you're a lawyer. You must be making piles. Why don't you pay?"
He said, "Oh, I don't charge my clients. You think I should take money from people just to give it to the phone company? What kind of guy do you think I am?"
Carolina Sister told me she and her daughter, Tilde, had a discussion about "my Last Will and Temperamental." She said, "I got a statute in there that says I'm going to take all my money with me. But Tilde said I would really be uncomfortable in a casket stuffed with hundred-dollar bills; I'd just have no elbow room. So Tilde said to give her all the money and when I go to my Last Reward she would toss in a big check so I could get me some hats, Depends and manicures in the Great Beyond.
"Don't you just love a daughter who would look after her Mom's comfort like that?
"And did you know they have manicures in Heaven?"
I said, "Sure. And they got dementia here in Hell."
+ + + + + + + +
Yesterday it was beautiful here in Oregon. Seventy degrees, low humidity. Six kids playing in a street full of hydrant water got run down by trucks, and my neighbor Georgina Teatsuckle gave me something to chew. All in all, a pretty good day.
+ + + + + + + +
I have a new friend who lives up in one of the Twin Cities. I don't remember which one; Beirut, I think. His name is Chris Cope. I got a link to him down there in the lower left. He said he Googled me and found out I used to be Oregon public utility commissioner, and that I should own up to it.
Well, it's true. I regulated the rates and service terms of the electric, telephone and gas utilities, the intrastate trucking companies, and private water companies. It was a big job, and I could only play golf Monday, Wednesday and Thursday.
One time a lawyer called me and said the telephone company was trying to cut off his service for nonpayment, and he wanted me to stop 'em.
I said, "Well, you're a lawyer. You must be making piles. Why don't you pay?"
He said, "Oh, I don't charge my clients. You think I should take money from people just to give it to the phone company? What kind of guy do you think I am?"
Monday, March 07, 2005
Pot Pourri
Uh, oh:
To: Old Horsetail Snake
From: MSN
Dear Mr. Snake: Your use of scatalogical terms and assorted other filthy words has gotten entirely out of hand. Therefore, you will suffer the following penalties: 1) You will not receive a beejer in your Christmas stocking; and 2) Your membership in MSN has been terminated and transferred to the Little Old Lady From Pasadena. Have a nice day, asshole.
I guess I will have to give up on MSN Search. I hear there are a couple of other search engines I can use. I think their names are Gargle and Yodel.
+ + + + + + + +
There is this lady, Phat Happenstance, in The Old Folks' Home who is driving me crazy. She's in a wheelchair, see, so when she's done in the dining room she needs one of the waitresses to push her back to her apartment. And because she thinks the sun rises and sets on her scrawny ass, she wants this done NOW:
Phat: "Help" (in tremolo).
Mr. Snake: "Phat, when the waitresses are done serving everybody, they will come get you."
Phat: "Okay." (One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three...15 seconds, maximum, pass by:)
Phat: "HELP me" (vibrato).
Waitress: "We'll be with you as soon as everyone has been served."
Phat: "Okay." (One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three...10 seconds later:)
Phat: "HELP ME! (basso profundo)
So today I shot her right between the eyes. Well, I didn't, but I coulda. Shoulda. Woulda.
Will.
+ + + + + + + +
Some people think I'm evil. But it's only because I got such good business sense. Here's what I mean:
Today at lunch I said to Nelly Nervous: "If you were the administrator here, would you populate this place with more people like you, or more people like me?"
I ask you, how does a person answer a question like that without either bragging or hurting my feelings? Can't be done, so Nelly conjured up a heart attack and died.
I tried this on two other residents later, and they likewise expired. Everybody takes the easy way out.
Anyway, by this time I have cost The Home $7,200 a month in income. So the administrator says to me, "If you'll stop that, you can live here rent-free."
See what I mean about having a good head for business? Hoo boy.
To: Old Horsetail Snake
From: MSN
Dear Mr. Snake: Your use of scatalogical terms and assorted other filthy words has gotten entirely out of hand. Therefore, you will suffer the following penalties: 1) You will not receive a beejer in your Christmas stocking; and 2) Your membership in MSN has been terminated and transferred to the Little Old Lady From Pasadena. Have a nice day, asshole.
I guess I will have to give up on MSN Search. I hear there are a couple of other search engines I can use. I think their names are Gargle and Yodel.
+ + + + + + + +
There is this lady, Phat Happenstance, in The Old Folks' Home who is driving me crazy. She's in a wheelchair, see, so when she's done in the dining room she needs one of the waitresses to push her back to her apartment. And because she thinks the sun rises and sets on her scrawny ass, she wants this done NOW:
Phat: "Help" (in tremolo).
Mr. Snake: "Phat, when the waitresses are done serving everybody, they will come get you."
Phat: "Okay." (One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three...15 seconds, maximum, pass by:)
Phat: "HELP me" (vibrato).
Waitress: "We'll be with you as soon as everyone has been served."
Phat: "Okay." (One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three...10 seconds later:)
Phat: "HELP ME! (basso profundo)
So today I shot her right between the eyes. Well, I didn't, but I coulda. Shoulda. Woulda.
Will.
+ + + + + + + +
Some people think I'm evil. But it's only because I got such good business sense. Here's what I mean:
Today at lunch I said to Nelly Nervous: "If you were the administrator here, would you populate this place with more people like you, or more people like me?"
I ask you, how does a person answer a question like that without either bragging or hurting my feelings? Can't be done, so Nelly conjured up a heart attack and died.
I tried this on two other residents later, and they likewise expired. Everybody takes the easy way out.
Anyway, by this time I have cost The Home $7,200 a month in income. So the administrator says to me, "If you'll stop that, you can live here rent-free."
See what I mean about having a good head for business? Hoo boy.
Saturday, March 05, 2005
The Old Guy Drops In; Lessons in Scat
I am sitting out near the reception desk in our Old Folks' Home when The Old Guy makes an appearance. He has a two-wheeled luggage carrier to which are attached his khaki blanket, Boy Scout kit, and extra sock. He rotates his socks, like tires.
The Old Guy is what some of you would call "homeless." I don't buy it. A home is where you hang your hat, and if you can hang your hat on one of the girders under the Center Street Bridge, where Old Guy usually dwells, then he's got a home. Simple as that. Damn liberals.
He pops out from under the bridge occasionally when he gets cold. So he's cold, and he approaches our receptionist, who today happens to be Dim Big Guy.
Old Guy: "Can I stay here tonight?"
Dim Guy: "Nope. Not this time, not last time, not no any time."
Old Guy: "I'll give you a blow job if you let me stay."
Since The Old Guy is toothless, this appeals to Dim Guy. He grabs the company manual to get advice.
"Beejer (Giving)"
Wrong page.
"Beejer (Getting)" -- "Beejers may be accepted only during meal periods, and may not be witnessed by more than two (2) residents."
Dim Guy: "Sorry, oldtimer, it's a long time til breakfast. I'll have the cops come get you again."
Old Guy: "Nah, don't do that. I'll just steal a car downstairs and drive myself to the slammer. I'll tell 'em you sent me."
Dim Guy: "Well, thanks, a little word of mouth advertising doesn't hurt. But stealing a car is a bad idea. Take my rig. I'd hate to have you arrested before you go to jail."
+ + + + + + + +
I've got this girl friend up in Canada. (Although she didn't know she's my girl friend until just this minute.) She touted me on an internet site at the University of Finland where some enterprising soul has taken the time to list all the known synonyms for a lot of common words such as fellatio, cunnulingus, male genitalia, brothel and breasts.
Book writers everywhere are indebted to this site. No romance novelist worth his/her salt could sell a book with words like testicle, semen and and fornication. No, it's got to be "love nuts," "oil of man" and "hide the bone." Consider this sentence, which is most likely going to be in the latest opus by Danielle Steelbottom:
"Boris, in the shitter to dump a meatloaf, grabbed his blood-engorged sausage, spanked the monkey and dropped his load, while thinking of the roundheels he met last night."
I tell you, that sings.
+ + + + + + + +
P.S. This site is X-rated. This should not be read by anyone under 6 years old.
The Old Guy is what some of you would call "homeless." I don't buy it. A home is where you hang your hat, and if you can hang your hat on one of the girders under the Center Street Bridge, where Old Guy usually dwells, then he's got a home. Simple as that. Damn liberals.
He pops out from under the bridge occasionally when he gets cold. So he's cold, and he approaches our receptionist, who today happens to be Dim Big Guy.
Old Guy: "Can I stay here tonight?"
Dim Guy: "Nope. Not this time, not last time, not no any time."
Old Guy: "I'll give you a blow job if you let me stay."
Since The Old Guy is toothless, this appeals to Dim Guy. He grabs the company manual to get advice.
"Beejer (Giving)"
Wrong page.
"Beejer (Getting)" -- "Beejers may be accepted only during meal periods, and may not be witnessed by more than two (2) residents."
Dim Guy: "Sorry, oldtimer, it's a long time til breakfast. I'll have the cops come get you again."
Old Guy: "Nah, don't do that. I'll just steal a car downstairs and drive myself to the slammer. I'll tell 'em you sent me."
Dim Guy: "Well, thanks, a little word of mouth advertising doesn't hurt. But stealing a car is a bad idea. Take my rig. I'd hate to have you arrested before you go to jail."
+ + + + + + + +
I've got this girl friend up in Canada. (Although she didn't know she's my girl friend until just this minute.) She touted me on an internet site at the University of Finland where some enterprising soul has taken the time to list all the known synonyms for a lot of common words such as fellatio, cunnulingus, male genitalia, brothel and breasts.
Book writers everywhere are indebted to this site. No romance novelist worth his/her salt could sell a book with words like testicle, semen and and fornication. No, it's got to be "love nuts," "oil of man" and "hide the bone." Consider this sentence, which is most likely going to be in the latest opus by Danielle Steelbottom:
"Boris, in the shitter to dump a meatloaf, grabbed his blood-engorged sausage, spanked the monkey and dropped his load, while thinking of the roundheels he met last night."
I tell you, that sings.
+ + + + + + + +
P.S. This site is X-rated. This should not be read by anyone under 6 years old.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Shafted Again, I Fight Back
Just because I live in an Old Folks' Home is maybe why everybody thinks they can rip me off. I can just hear those scammers out there: "Let's go mug some old people. They're all suckers for Nigerians."
The latest hatchet job on me is that my famous book, "Long Gone With the Wind and Rain," has been swiped RIGHT OFF THE INTERNET! And this is even after I had the copywilburwright and the screenorvillewright in my safe deposit box. And I had a patent from the Library of Congers on my idea for making artificial legs (nobody had ever thought of this before; that's why Long John Silver walked with a limp).
The theft was by -- you guessed it -- some goddamn Chinaman. I am no longer listed as the author; they claim my book was written by some fink named Confucious Say.
Those Chinks have no respect for Fair Trade and Garage Sales. They'll steal anything. My buddy Bill Gates was saying just the other day, "Proprietary theft by the Chinese has cost me over a billion dollars, and I've got a family to feed." (I hear he's been over in London looking for crumbs off-a Queen Elizabeth's table, he's that hungry.)
You know, this is strange. Back in World War II the Japs were "the yellow peril" and the Chinese were our buds. Now the situation is reversed. Personally, I think if somebody is going to be a yellow peril they ought to stick with it and not go yin yanging back and forth. I don't know how the Chinese get away with it. Everybody knows Armani is not a Chinese name.
Anyway, I haven't given upon on my dream of getting rich by writing a book. And this time I have the perfect solution to protect my work from the Chinese, as well as the Norwegians and Lapps and anybody else that covets fine writing. You'll see how this works right away. Here is the opening of My New Book:
"Linda >uyvgtaull@iprolinc.ch> sighed >RWXQNZdkgmb.pachyhouse.net< as Randy >href=30"hHp//conduit< slipped >a6.halbers6848pilusjps< her >ebolton_bt@klincowde> a boner."
You can see right away what I'm doing here. You can get the gist of the story just by reading the obvious words. But I am leaving out all the adjectives and adverbs, and you'll only be able to get them by buying my code. See, I won't be selling novels so much as I'll be selling code-breaking machines left over from World War II. No middlemen: no printing houses, no Amazons. Just me and my internet customers. I don't think I'll let anybody invest in this; it's just too good a thing to share.
This, my friends, is the book-writing wave of the future. Eat your heart out, Grisham.
In case you are thinking about buying the book code, I'm taking reservations. It's titled "Linda Lovelace Goes Deep." It's a sports story.
The latest hatchet job on me is that my famous book, "Long Gone With the Wind and Rain," has been swiped RIGHT OFF THE INTERNET! And this is even after I had the copywilburwright and the screenorvillewright in my safe deposit box. And I had a patent from the Library of Congers on my idea for making artificial legs (nobody had ever thought of this before; that's why Long John Silver walked with a limp).
The theft was by -- you guessed it -- some goddamn Chinaman. I am no longer listed as the author; they claim my book was written by some fink named Confucious Say.
Those Chinks have no respect for Fair Trade and Garage Sales. They'll steal anything. My buddy Bill Gates was saying just the other day, "Proprietary theft by the Chinese has cost me over a billion dollars, and I've got a family to feed." (I hear he's been over in London looking for crumbs off-a Queen Elizabeth's table, he's that hungry.)
You know, this is strange. Back in World War II the Japs were "the yellow peril" and the Chinese were our buds. Now the situation is reversed. Personally, I think if somebody is going to be a yellow peril they ought to stick with it and not go yin yanging back and forth. I don't know how the Chinese get away with it. Everybody knows Armani is not a Chinese name.
Anyway, I haven't given upon on my dream of getting rich by writing a book. And this time I have the perfect solution to protect my work from the Chinese, as well as the Norwegians and Lapps and anybody else that covets fine writing. You'll see how this works right away. Here is the opening of My New Book:
"Linda >uyvgtaull@iprolinc.ch> sighed >RWXQNZdkgmb.pachyhouse.net< as Randy >href=30"hHp//conduit< slipped >a6.halbers6848pilusjps< her >ebolton_bt@klincowde> a boner."
You can see right away what I'm doing here. You can get the gist of the story just by reading the obvious words. But I am leaving out all the adjectives and adverbs, and you'll only be able to get them by buying my code. See, I won't be selling novels so much as I'll be selling code-breaking machines left over from World War II. No middlemen: no printing houses, no Amazons. Just me and my internet customers. I don't think I'll let anybody invest in this; it's just too good a thing to share.
This, my friends, is the book-writing wave of the future. Eat your heart out, Grisham.
In case you are thinking about buying the book code, I'm taking reservations. It's titled "Linda Lovelace Goes Deep." It's a sports story.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
I'm Busy (Well, the Genius Is)
I do not have much of no anything today from the Anciency. I have signed up a Computer Genius who is making me a new template and, even more important, putting in links from my weblog to some of my favorite authors, such as Mariposa, Autumnville and the Demented one. It won't be done for awhile but negotiations weren't built in a day, you know, so that's why I'm lazing about.
I will have an entry tomorrow, featuring My New Book. In the meantime, read yesterday's column. You might have missed a nuance or two (as if I knew what "nuance" means).
+ + + + + + + +
Why don't flies have abortions? There are too damn many of 'em.
I will have an entry tomorrow, featuring My New Book. In the meantime, read yesterday's column. You might have missed a nuance or two (as if I knew what "nuance" means).
+ + + + + + + +
Why don't flies have abortions? There are too damn many of 'em.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
To Hell With Me
I was born back when dinosaurs ruled the earth but our ancestors, named sperm, were getting off to a pretty good start. Now I am embedded with Old People in an Assisted Living Facility where denture cleanser is a girl's best friend. Life was good in the Old Days, when you could get spermed but not spammed.
Some of the fun I had was listening to my Granddad preach. He was a Missionary Baptist hell-fire-damnation spieler who frequently predicted that Armageddon was right around the corner. (He later cancelled my membership in the church for going to high school dances, so I don't know whether or not I was to be Armageddoned.) He said if we didn't Mend Our Ways we would be going straight to Hell, which was some underground place so vile as to be beyond description. So here is how I think it was described:
Satan was Chief Executive Officer, a forefather of Bernie Ebbers. He ruled in a place where coal fires burned night and day (until the EPA got on his ass for polluting the air and he had to switch to natural gas). You would get 40 lashes a day (20 for each eye), whether you needed them or not. Satan also was Chief Financial Officer, because he knew a lot of people would try to Take It With Them when they died and he had all sorts of scams to separate people from their money.
With men, Satan would squeeze their balls so hard their nuts would pop up into their colons and give them gas. Satan made a pile this way, as he had the Gas-X concession. With women, he would downsize their boobies to an A Cup, which of course is the biggest shame a woman can suffer. Satan lost money on his Victoria's Secret franchise.
Satan also was known as Lucifer because he learned identify theft from a rogue computer nerd. His Social Security number was 666. Satan also is an anagram of "Santa," which meant he could give lots of lumps of coal for Christmas because he had so much anthracite on his hands after switching to natural gas.
Anyway, that's how my Granddad described Hell. I think.
But I'm not buying it. I think Hell is RIGHT HERE in my Assisted Living Facility. Let's see, we've got Alzheimer's, Lou Gehrig's disease, arthritic rheumatism, pneumonia, hernias, anxiety attacks, epilepsy, diabetes, palsy, broken hips, athlete's foot and every kind of cancer known to man (and woman). We're toothless, deaf, dumb, blind and broke.
And besides that, Toshiba hasn't sent my rebate.
Welcome to Hell.
Some of the fun I had was listening to my Granddad preach. He was a Missionary Baptist hell-fire-damnation spieler who frequently predicted that Armageddon was right around the corner. (He later cancelled my membership in the church for going to high school dances, so I don't know whether or not I was to be Armageddoned.) He said if we didn't Mend Our Ways we would be going straight to Hell, which was some underground place so vile as to be beyond description. So here is how I think it was described:
Satan was Chief Executive Officer, a forefather of Bernie Ebbers. He ruled in a place where coal fires burned night and day (until the EPA got on his ass for polluting the air and he had to switch to natural gas). You would get 40 lashes a day (20 for each eye), whether you needed them or not. Satan also was Chief Financial Officer, because he knew a lot of people would try to Take It With Them when they died and he had all sorts of scams to separate people from their money.
With men, Satan would squeeze their balls so hard their nuts would pop up into their colons and give them gas. Satan made a pile this way, as he had the Gas-X concession. With women, he would downsize their boobies to an A Cup, which of course is the biggest shame a woman can suffer. Satan lost money on his Victoria's Secret franchise.
Satan also was known as Lucifer because he learned identify theft from a rogue computer nerd. His Social Security number was 666. Satan also is an anagram of "Santa," which meant he could give lots of lumps of coal for Christmas because he had so much anthracite on his hands after switching to natural gas.
Anyway, that's how my Granddad described Hell. I think.
But I'm not buying it. I think Hell is RIGHT HERE in my Assisted Living Facility. Let's see, we've got Alzheimer's, Lou Gehrig's disease, arthritic rheumatism, pneumonia, hernias, anxiety attacks, epilepsy, diabetes, palsy, broken hips, athlete's foot and every kind of cancer known to man (and woman). We're toothless, deaf, dumb, blind and broke.
And besides that, Toshiba hasn't sent my rebate.
Welcome to Hell.
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