How Hoss Became a Weiser Guy

I had high hopes that the IRS would be different than the regular old government agency. The IRS I used to know was staffed with gentle, caring people, kind to a fault. But these new guys are nothing but goddamn bumble-dicking government dumb butts, sticking it to Old People in the Old Folks' Home.

What happened is that word of my $3 billion windfall from my buddy Bill Gates leaked out, and the IRS went for blood. Since I got that $3 billion in just one day, the IRS figures that I make that much EVERY day. So they got me down as making $1,095,000,000,000 a year. For you non-math types, that's a lot of money.

They not only took the $3 billion, but I am now in arrears, tax-wise. Fortunately, I was able to stuff my new gravestone into my shorts, so they didn't get that.

So, it's back to Making My New Pile. Which I desperate need. First thing you know I'll be 90 and only worth a million bucks, which ain't enough these days to get yourself cremated and scattered on the moon. Which I don't plan to do, but maybe I get my bones and my jones fired into a black hole, see what happens. I'll wave hello to Hubble on my way out.

As usual, I guess if I'm going to get rich I'll have to invent something, which comes easy for Ol' Hoss, like cold yogurt sliding off a hot watermelon.

So here's what I done. I done filed for my copyfranklloydwright and my patent pendergast on "Shrink-Wrapped Budweiser and Chips." Hey, this isn't funny.

Here's what it is (I can tell now that my pendergast is on file): You make up a bunch of bottles out of bacon cracklings, then fill 'em with Bud. Then you cap 'em and shrink-wrap 'em to keep the flavor in. Then when somebody gets a Bud they peel back the wrap, drink Bud and nibble on the cracklings till the whole thing is gone. Hoo boy! No recycling.

I won't hold the Budweiser people for ransom on this. I figure a penny a bottle royalty would be sufficient to bring me in some chump change, maybe $100,000 a day.

Might make enough to fly a lot of us to Andromeda. Might go south instead. I never been to Australia.

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Back when I was telling you about nursery rhymes, in an earlier piece, I guess I forgot my alltime favorite:

"Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Cinderella sat on his face."

Damn! I guess that don't rhyme, after all.

Making My Pile, Part 3

People in an Old Folks' Home (Tertiary Division) like me, have way too much time on our hands. For instance, lately I've found myself wondering:

Is the Southern Cross a punch by a left-handed boxer?

Is the Rapper 50-cent only twice as big as a quarter?

Are 4 rufous hummingbirds twice as big as 2 tons of cow plop?

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Okay, here we go with Part 3 of How I'm Gonna Get Rich off Ol' Hoss's Slave Labor Camp and Riding Academy. I think I'll set up the Riding Academy as a non-profit (which it won't be) corporation, because I'm going to need a tax dodge or two, what with all the money I'll be making.

Naturally I will have to get me a horse to fulfill the Riding Academy part of my DBA, but that would be okay. We've got about an acre of land outside our backdoor filled with bunch grass and dandelions so the beast will have plenty to eat. And here's how we can make some subterranean money on the deal:

First, I'll grind up all the horse apples and sell 'em for mulch. $4.50 a bag, easy.

Second, I'll get me some of those coin-operated binoculars like you see at Niager Falls and install 'em on the decks outside the second and third floors of this place. That way, the old women could put in their quarters for 5 minutes at a time and marvel at the size of that horse's wang all they want.

Benefit to Residents: Sex education.
Benefit to Hoss: $125-4,000 a month (depends on size of horse's wang).

Now, for the sum of the summation:

There are at least 70 of these Assisted Living Facilities in Oregon. By my calculations (unerring), if I took 'em all over I could haul in $4,284,125 A MONTH!

Now, here's the bad news for you investors. My buddy Bill Gates has been reading this right along with me as I type (Microsoft knows everything, just like God), and he has decided to pay me $3 billion for my idea. So you're out, and he's in.

I certainly ought to have enough, now, to buy a decent headstone.

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I've told some of you that I got me a great reincarnatin' plan. Well, I really don't, because I haven't settled on what I want to come back as. I don't want to come back as a horsetail or a snake. And the first smartfuck who says I'll come back as a horse's ass is going to be permanently banned from this site. I got pull with Internet people.

Maybe I'll come back as a banana slug. They's pretty, like me.

Ol' Hoss Has the Midas Touch

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.

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*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.

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.

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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.

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.

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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.)

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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.

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Tomorrow, Blogger willing, I will start telling you about My Grand Plan to Make Us All Rich. You're welcome.

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.

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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."

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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.

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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."

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

A "No Smoking" Zone

And on the 12th day after staring death in the eyebones, it came Easter and Ol' Hoss ressurected hisself.*

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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.

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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.

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* 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.

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."

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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.

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.

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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.

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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.

horse in hospital

Horse got lung problem. Back in a few. Read old shit.

That is all.

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."

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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.

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.

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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.

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.

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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."

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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."

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."

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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?"

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.

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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.

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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.

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."

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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.

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P.S. This site is X-rated. This should not be read by anyone under 6 years old.

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.

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).

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Why don't flies have abortions? There are too damn many of 'em.

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.

Foiled Again and Foul of Mouth

Us Old People keep getting the shaft. My Original Screenplay, "Long Gone With the Wind and Rain" (see somewhere below) did not win an Oscar last night. From what I understand, it only got 33% of the vote. I think what happened was that my Synopsisosity to Chapter 5 was so good that it was entered as a separate nominee, and it drew off 21% of the vote.

My movie had big stars like Vivian Sleigh, Clark Kent Goble, Thomas Mitchell, Billy the Kid and Godzilla. It had big fires (if you count having all of South America going up in flames as big). And we volunteered to cut the legs off Demi Moore, playing the part of Vivian, to maintain historical accuracy.

I think it woulda been a shoe-in for Best Picture.

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Merle Hertz came out of the closet today, to the delight of all of us at the Old Folks' Home. But it took him 15 minutes to find the door.

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I think the reason everybody here thinks I'm rotten is because I am. But that's because all my life I've been surrounded by smutty language -- dirty, suggestive stuff. It just wore me down. Here's what I mean:

--City DUMP
--LOAD of clothes
--SHITike Creek, Oregon
--WHOREhouse Meadows, Oregon
--Don HO
--Squaw TIT, former name of Mt. Washington, Oregon
--INTERCOURSE, Pa.
--Oregon State BEAVERs
--Cecil HEAD, Salem, Or.
--JACK KANOFF, Redmond, Or.
--Church SEXton
--SCREWloose
--SHAG rug
--Shotgun shell WADding
--LAY's potato chips
--SUCKer
--"Thar She BLOWs"
--FUCKminster Fuller (oh, well)

+ + + + + + + +

My next-door neighbor, Jillian Comeagain, imparted the secret to a long life: "Wake up every morning."

+ + + + + + + +

On the internet I found a new game for the sports program we're developing for Fox TV (see yesterday's entry). It's called: "Alphabeticize the M&M's." This will be hard for some of us, so we'll allocate a 5-minute slot.

Attention Dementia Disorder

My name is Old Horsetail Snake,
And I'm ready to go on the take:

If I start labeling these paeans to Old People in the Old People's Home as "sermons," would you be inclined to put something in my collection plate? I didn't think so. Heathen.

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I always thought that Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD, don't subtract) was something that only red-faced hypers known as snot-nosed kneebiters were fortunate enough to get. (I say "fortunate" because not knowing what's going on is probably better than living in the real world.)

But, no. ADD punches out Old People too. As I was on my usual hall patrol today, here are somethings I overheard:

Nervous Nellie: "Is this the room where I get my enema?"
Nurse: "This is for influenza vaccination."
Nellie: "Then I'm in the right place. I need my flue irrigated."

Paul Certain: "Anybody want to play a game of pool?"
Hulda Hearsay: "Not today, thanks."
Paul: "I had a truck like that once."

Maude Frickert: "What's for lunch?"
Cook: "Chili and cornbread, with cottage cheese."
Maude: "A new broom sweeps clean, I always say."

+ + + + + + + +

My cousin John called today: "Hello, you old bastard. Did you know you are now 74 and 155/365ths years old? I'm going to outlive you, you prick." (I didn't know he knew my middle name.)

John is 74 and 152/365ths years old, which makes him three days younger than me. And I have to say I guess he's right. My Mom and Dad are (were) older than me, and they died. George Washington is (was) older than me, and he died. So it looks like the older you are the better chance you have of going on to your reward, which is named Hell.

This might not be right. For instance that wonderful writer named Hunter Thompson just died, and he was only 69 or something like that, instead of 74 and 155/365ths, like me. I don't know; he might have had some help.

Look for Me on TV

Welcome, again, to the Land of Rheumatism and Dementia.

I may be jumping the gun here, but I couldn't wait to tell you that I and several other of the Old Folks' Home inmates will soon be on television. Yep, Fox TV is here today filming a series of half-hour sports programs. The neat thing is that we oldsters got to pick which sports would be filmed. Here are our projected programs:

--"Speed thumb-twiddling"
--"Wheelchair Races Sing this Song, Doodah"
--"Exercises in Listening"
--"Game Boy Dominoes"
--"Mumbler Interpretations"
--"Pain Comparisons"
--"Counting Backward From One"
--"Dueling Corset Stays"
--"Timed Nod-off Competition"

I expect that Fox will pick up the option for a couple of years of this. It's tentatively titled "American Idle."

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Just because I'm old doesn't mean I understand anything.

I'm Exercised

This rumination comes to you from an Assisted Living Facility, commonly known as an Old Folks' Home. This is just short of a Nursing Home, where decrepit people are even decreptier. I DID offer to nurse off our hot new night manager, but she said I was just "being penile." I wonder if she meant "senile"? Young people today don't got any educatiom...

Anyway, what I meant to do was to tell you about my exercise regimen. When you're as old as I am (think Methuselah) you want to try to stay in shape. (Come to think of it, I'm not sure why. Without exercising I am going to kick the bucket 10 minutes sooner? Bring it on.)

This is representative of my morning workout:

--Deep knee bends (putting on trousers)
--Crunches (putting on socks)
--Weightlifting (donning fleece-lined sweatshirt)
--Treadmill (4th trip to bathroom)

And I do this EVERY DAY! No wonder I'm so tired.

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I think the general lack of exercise around here is what makes us lose our appetites. Meal after meal, you can look on our plates and see leftovers that would make a Sudanese weep. Barbecued pork sandwich: insides scraped out, half-eaten, bun left behind. Peas: buttered, then ignored. Squash: toyed with, declined.

This might be a good thing; the cook is slopping hogs in the kitchen.

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I think I need a new job. And maybe I got one sorta lined up: Daughter said she'd pay me to quit writing on the internet. According to her, she said, "You're making a fool of yourself." With my bad hearing, I heard her say: "You're a jewel."

So why would I want to quit THIS job?

Just Another Day in the Life

Welcome back to Dementia Central. I took a nose count of the number of Old People in assisted living homes around the country so I invested in a crematory. Business is going to be good.

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We had a fire drill yesterday. Random events:

-- Rudy Longfellow spent 15 minutes pushing "out" on his room door that swings "in."
-- Carolina Sister was delayed because "I never go out without lipstick and my hair combed, and I had to put on my Sunday best because there might be news photographers."
-- Judy Goldiblob, told to take "the nearest exit," argued that "my dearest exited long ago."
-- At this writing, Gretchen Howcome, who takes 4-inch steps, pause, push walker, etc., is still on her way out. On Day 2.
-- We all burned to death.

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An old saying: "Energy can neither be created nor destroyed." Will whomever has the energy I used to have please send it back?

You ever notice how much it hurts when you crack your "funny bone"?

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My job in the kitchen today was to milk the maggots. God I wish they'd fix the separator.

And lunch today is corned beef and skunk cabbage. Can't wait.

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Nine people from The Home went to the local Indian Casino a couple days ago. Hazel Nutt told me some guys were playing a game called "Poop."

I thought for a minute, then said: "I think you mean craps."

Hazel: "Poop, craps, doodoo, dung, rabbit droppings, cow pies, horse apples -- it's still a shitty game. All those men throwing dice and lying."

Me: "Lying?"

Hazel: "Yes, there wasn't a woman around and those men kept saying 'I'm fucked!'"

Things to Ponder

There are some really old people in my Old Folks' Home. Older than sin ("See, Eve," said the Snake, "if you peel this apple first it will be easier to bite while you wait for your dentures to settle in."). We've got three women here whose grandkids are on Social Security. These women had their graduation pictures taken by Mathew Brady.

It would seem like these people have a duty to kick off to make room for some of the new people populating the planet. But nobody is volunteering to die. Selfish bastards.

Just think of all the people being born in India and China. Someday those countries are going to get so heavy they'll flip down to the South Pole. Freeze their asses off. Serve 'em right.

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FILL IN THE BLANK:

1. It's none of your ________.
2. Monkey ________.
3. ________ Week.
4. Funny ________.
5. How's ________?
6. The ________ end of the stick.
7. "Your dog has his nose in my crotch and is sniffing my ________!"

If you didn't figure out the answer until Question No. 7, it means your dog is gay. If you figured it out earlier, your dog is still gay.

(The secret word is "bite my shorts".)

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Here's something I've been wondering, and I bet you have too:

How come celibate priests are rooting for the Second Coming when they haven't even had a first coming?

(I should know this, since I know half of everything. I know all the questions, but none of the answers.)

I Strike It Rich

You know all about my book by now. But it's no longer a book. It is a screenplay!!

Yes, I have sold the rights to Twentieth Century Fucks for millions of dollars. I don't know what I'm going to do with all this money (billions?), but perhaps I will donate to a charity like the National Football League. The movie people say they like my book because it contains such stunning visuals, such as the burning down of Atlanta and Chicago, as well as all of South America, and scenes where Debbie is violated by the entire Dallas football team.

I hear that they will get Demi Moore to play the part of the heroine of my book. Since the heroine has no legs they might have to hew the legs off Demi Moore, but the casting director at 20th Century said it would be worth it.

All I have to do to collect is to finish the book/screenplay, which I will now do:

CHAPTER 5

(Synopsisosity: The book is entitled "Long Gone With the Wind and Rain," which will be shortened to "Long Rain" on the marquees. Long Rain is a Nez Perce phrase meaning "long rain." The heroine is Vivian Sleigh, whose legs were chopped off a couple years ago by a woodsman, who later said, "All I was told was to 'Spare That Tree.'" Vivian has ordered imitation legs from the Legs R Us factory outlet, and they have arrived at the post office near her home in Theda Tara, Georgia. But she hasn't been able to get them delivered to her because they arrived COD, which is a cousin of the lutefisk. As we have seen previously, she has considered a variety of transportation systems--via blue oxes, cruise ships, UFOs--but has had no solution. This is where the story picks up.)

"I wonder," said the now-getting-long-in-the-tooth Vivian Sleigh, "if the Pony Express people have a route near here. Or maybe the Greyhound Bus, only I have heard they are cutting back on service and now only carry people to Selma to protest things."

Little did she know, but fate would play a role in solving her dilemma. It seems that just this morning Jesse James robbed the local post office. Seeing a package addressed to Vivian Sleigh, Jesse (or maybe it was Frank) took it upon himself to deliver the long-awaited package to Theda Tara. Thomas Mitchell shot Jesse in the back and took the package to Vivian, and she opened it.

"Good grief!" she cried. "I shouldn't have ordered 'Extra Hairy'. These would fit Godzilla, for heaven's sake."

Godzilla, whose legs had been cut off in the Texas Chain Saw Massacre, came in from the next room.

"Look, little girl," said Gzilla. "I will wear these. You and I can get married and I will carry you every place we need to go, such as tomorrow when I am scheduled to level Tokyo and Mt. Fuji."

And so they lived slapstickedly ever after, living on a golf course that had a lot of doglegs.

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Author's Afterword: It came too late to include in the book, but I later discovered that Clark Kent Goble was so enraged upon hearing of the marriage that he threw a bunch of tea into Boston Harbor. There was no word on whether it floated.

Just Another Book Blogger

I am rushing to finish my book because I want to get into the next round of "Blogging for Books," a contest being run by Zero Boss (www.thezeroboss.com). The Boss is a pretty funny writer, but the contest is all serious, with a big prize (well, a homemade bong would be pretty big to me).

CHAPTER 4

(Synopsisosity: Vivian Sleigh is a ravished [ravishing?] southern belle who has lost both legs just below her lower erogenous zone. How they became lost is not clear, although some say it was when her home, Theda Tara, was broken into by some crazed, machete-wielding Colombians looking for bennies. Vivian has ordered prosthetic legs from Legs R Us, and these have arrived at the post office. But Vivian has been unable to find anyone to bring these instruments to the farm.)

+ + + + + + + +

It seems as if the Budweiser Clydesdales (Chapter 3) would not be available to transport Vivian's new legs as the horses were doing a photo shoot for their next Christmas card. And she didn't know if she could rely on Clark Kent Goble, even though she had expressed her undying love to him and his equipment (she had heard he was hung like a Tyrannosaurus Rex, but unless a T.Rex bounded into her yard someday she wouldn't know for sure). The last she heard of Goble he had torched a cow which then burned down all of Chicago. (She was relieved to discover it was Debbie who did Dallas.)

Out of her window she espied a geeky looking neighbor in a conical tin hat, and she asked if he might go get her legs. But he was busy escorting that pissant Dorothy on her way to visit Oz and Harriet Nelson.

Think, think, think Vivian! Well, she mused musedly, she could ask that nice man in the UFO if he could get the legs the next time he came over to make crop circles. But she wasn't able to get in contact since Al Gore couldn't possibly invent the cell phone until tomorrow. Or, maybe she could ask for help from that lumber baron who owns a thing called Babe the Blue Ox (she wondered if Babe was hung like an ox. Probably, she concluded.). But the baron was on his way to deforest Minnesota and couldn't be bothered.

Think, think! The Good Ship Lollipop (operated by Carnival Cruise Lines) probably couldn't get far enough up Shit Creek, so that's a no go.

Wells Fargo! "I've got it!," screamed the radished Vivian. But on second thought, this, too, was a bummer. Wells Fargo has gotten out of the transportation business and is into banking. If they brought the items out from the post office they would probably charge Vivian an arm and a leg, and, well, she couldn't afford THAT!

If only Clark Kent Goble were here. He looked so cute driving that horse and buggy through Atlanta. He oughtta be in pictures.

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Here in the Old Folks' Home I sometimes serve as a reporter for our monthly newsletter. Today, in honor of Presidents' Day, I interviewed a 100-year-old lady who was not kissed as a baby by any President or presidential candidate.

Hoss: "Well, MaryBeth, to what do you attribute your long life?"

Marybeth: "I have lived a long time."

Down the 'Jeopardy' Tubes; Plus: Chapter Three

Well, this old folk is back in The Old Folks' Home after bombing out on "Jeopardy" last night. It was me against two women (two women for whom the word "ugly" was invented). You probably saw the show, or maybe you were making a sandwich waiting for "Wheel of Fortune" to come on. Since I assume you were probably making a sandwich (pork tatare on Russian rye), I'll give you a brief report about how I blew my big chance:

It all came down to "Final Jeopardy." The answer and my response:

A.: "This person flew the Spirit of St. Louis."
Q.: "Who was Redd Foxx?"

I am sure that Redd Foxx is the only famous guy to grow up in St. Louis. (Well, okay, Betty Grable was from there, too, but I don't think she knew how to fly.) It turned out that the right question was "Who was Charles Goldberg?" Goldberg was a diamond merchant from New York, and what the hell he was doing in some Missouri airplane was beyond my ken.

Television assholes will do anything to put the screws to us old people.

That person doing the weenie wave during the final credits wasn't me. That was one of the women.

+ + + + + + + +

It appears that I don't have to worry about somebody stealing my book, even if I print the whole damn thing on the internet. My friend here, the Man Whose Daughter is a Lawyer, said I am protected under the Orville and Wilbur Copywright Laws. So I guess it will be okay to give you a peek at the next part of the book, which is now tenatively named "The Snows Family of Kilamanjaro Gets Out of Africa."

CHAPTER 3

(Background: Vivian Sleigh is a former Oriental beauty turned Caucasian who has lost both legs to accidents involving leghold traps [see Chapter 1]. Prosthetics have been sent to the local post office, but she has no car and can't walk to go get them because that's why she needs the new legs.)

Getting an Iditarod team (Chapter 2) to come to Theda Tara, Georgia, to transport her new legs now seems out of the question. All the entrants are busy screwing around in the snow yelling "Mush!," which is then provided by the Mother's Oats people.

Then one night, as she was bitching to Olivia de Haviland about not being asked to move her feet when people are vacuuming, this guy named Jesus came by. And he said: "Heal thyself."

Vivian put her mind to it, and lo the behold, out of her stumps grew a pair of heels.

Vivian snapped. "What are you doing, you twat!!?? You're supposed to say 'Thigh thyself' first. Thighs come before heels. And ankles and knees! Ankle bone connected to the knee bone, knee bone connected to the thigh bone, thigh bone connected to the hip bone, for Christ's sake!!" Jesus and Thomas Mitchell are so taken by this musical interlude they are dancing in the streets and composing more lyrics.

Mitchell later became famous by walking across the Mississippi River. (Late word is he may have used a bridge.)

Jesus later became famous for removing a stone from in front of his tomb. This gave birth to the phrase, "Jesus rocks!".

Meanwhile, Vivian still needs her legs transported from the post office to her home at Theda Tara. "I wonder," she wondered, "if the Budweiser Clydesdales are busy today?"

I'm on Jeopardy; Plus: Chapter Two

While we old folks in the Old Folks' Home may be old, we're not stupid. We may not know from computers, but we are Slide Rule City. No MP3's here, but plenty of 78's. We can still drive our cars (well, that's pretty stupid, but I'm just saying.) Further proof? I will soon be on "Jeopardy." You will recognize me easily: I'll be wearing a singlet and showing off my 6-pack (Bud, not abs). The other two contestants are women, so we'll have zero (0) prostates among us.

How I got to the finals was, I ran the category for "Tigers" in the preliminary round, like so:

Answer: What is a Bengal tiger with his dick pointing backward?
Question: The average length of this animal is 7 feet 10 inches.

Answer: What are seven red and six white?
Question: The tiger is known for having these stripes.

Answer: What human beings can't run as fast as deer?
Question: This is sometimes a favorite prey of tigers.

Answer: Why do the old ones gum the soft parts?
Question: Most tigers can crush the human femur.

+ + + + + + + +

Yesterday I spotted you Chapter 1 of my book, tentatively titled "Hinky Dinky Parley Vous." I think I have time before lunch to give you Chapter 2, en toto (which isn't in Kansas anymore):

CHAPTER 2

Vivian continued to ponder how to get her artificial legs from the Post Office out to her home in Theda Tara. Leslie Howard was always around, but he was so, well, wimpy (although she HAD heard he was hung like a kangaroo). Perhaps she could divert a sled dog team from the Iditarod?

Meanwhile, Sherman continued his march through Georgia only to find Atlanta already in flames. So he had Pizzaro burn down all the rain forests in South America, which caused global warming.

This, of course, pissed off Raoul Amundsen, who was busily retreating from the South Pole. He told Dan Rather, "We were in slush up to our butt-cracks."

Rather later was fired for not checking whether Amundsen had a butt-crack, and whether his butt was the same age as his crack.


(I hope I'm not giving away too much of the plot here. I'm hoping to get rich off this book, just like all the other bloggers who write books.)

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The organ harvesters were here today. You know, the people who want you to carry around the Organ Donor card. I said I had some hickey-starved neck skin. They said maybe next month.

Saving Social Security, Writing a Book

Welcome back to the home where Everybody Was Born During the Ice Age. (Not the last one, the one before that.) Lots of expiration going on. Bodies are stacking up like cordwood, thrown into hearses with pitchforks.* Out with the old, in with the old.

Invest in the urn business for future economic security.

+ + + + + + + +

Zephaniah Doodoodrawer stops me in the hall: "I'm concerned about my Social Security. President Bushwah says it's going broke in about 2042, and if it does I won't have enough money to stay here."

Hoss: "I don't think you need to worry. You're 87. That's 37 years away, and by then you would be (...um, 7 + 7, carry one; or do you carry 7?...)...you would be 190. You're not going to live that long, so don't worry about it."

Zeph: "I plan to live as long as necessary, even if it kills me."

Hoss: "Look, I'm telling you not to worry. Remember this: The government owns the U.S. Mint. It can print all the money it wants. Need a government loan? Want a tax refund? Need to buy baby a new pair of shoes? Whoosh, Franklins and Jacksons and Hamiltons just roll off the presses. It's like unplugging the Genie. So breathe easy."

Zeph: "You sure about this?"

Hoss: "Hell yes. Geezus! Am I the only guy in this building that Greenspan consults?"

+ + + + + + + +

When I mouse around the internet I see lots of people say they are writing books. Some of them are really struggling, which doesn't make much sense to me. You wanna write a book, just sit down a write the sucker. Like I'm about to. I'm kind of a slow typer, so it might take me all day, but I'll get 'er done somehow. Never mind I might have to miss lunch. So:


"GONE WITH THE WEST WIND" (I had a focus group in to discuss the title. They said it was okay, but some didn't see the need for the word "Gone.")

CHAPTER ONE

Vivian Sleigh was a classic Southern beauty, with lips as red as an orangutan's ass, and eyes that looked like moose milk in a coal mine. Her speech dripped of honey, molasses even. Her favorite phrase, "You suck", tripped so melodiously off her giraffian tongue that everybody would suck. About her was an odor of Whitetail-in-heat that attracted the local hunters (but not the gatherers). Her teeth were pearly white, but slightly uneven, like the rows of corn on a cob that don't quite match up.

Vivian had a boyfriend, Kent Clark Goble, who is a minor player in this comi-tragedian tale of U.S. Economic Activity, Fall Quarter, 1998. Later, Goble burned down Atlanta when his favorite restaurant ran out of grits.

Vivian had just one flaw: she had no legs. This was because as a young girl she was caught in a leg-hold trap. Twice.

Ever resourceful, Vivian ordered a matched set of prosthetic legs from the We R Body Parts store in Mobile, which duly arrived, addressed to her post office box. This presented a problem, as Vivian had no car. She would have to walk to town but of course that would mean she wouldn't need the fake legs in the first place.

CHAPTER TWO

(I'm taking a hiatus here. This is going so good I don't think I'll have to miss lunch after all.)

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* They didn't really use a pitchfork. That was just for special effect. What they used was a backhoe.

Old People Get Hacked

You might think that here in the Land of the Arthritic and Rheumy, we are a bunch of kindly old codgers waiting for the Reaper, and joyfully welcoming visits from the grandkids. Wrong! We do not enjoy visits from snot-nosed knee biters. The little bastards carry around tons of germs, and their moms carry fetuses and no thanks. Yessir, we can get our hackles up.

The reason I'm bringing this up is because I have found on the Internet lots of web logs by people who are "ranting" about this and that -- Dan Rather, Paris Hilton, Buster Keaton and so forth. Well, see, in the 1940's nobody ranted. We "got hacked." As in, when somebody sipped out of your lemon milkshake you would say, "That hacks me off." Not only that, I don't see how somebody can rant but not also rave. And get ticked. Well, I want to join the crowd, so here are things I can't stand and that I'm going to rant and rave and express my hacked-offedness and ticked-offedness about in the days to come (probably not):

-- Dorks. (This is No. 1 on my list because a blogger friend of mine, Autumn at www.autumnville.com claims she copyrighted this word just yesterday -- a word I have been using for 50 years. If she likes it, I can hate it. So sue me.)
-- Rich people, poor people, immigrants, emigrants, children and dogs.
-- Fleas and the horse they rode in on.
-- Brown recluse and black widow spiders. Tarantulas get a pass.
-- The New York Yankees.
-- The New York Knicks.
-- Eveything associated with New York.
-- Centaurs.
-- People who won't legalize marijuana.
-- Don Ho. 'Ho's in general.
-- Boom boxes, black boxes, boxer shorts.
-- My next door neighbor.
-- Your next door neighbor.
-- Jim Nabors.
-- Jesus (Alou, not that other one).
-- Death.
-- Taxes.
-- Faxes.
-- UN, UFO, NASA, SEATO, NATO, ESP, ESPN, CNN, ABC, NBC, CBS, Alphabet Soup. IMLMAO.

Well, this is just a starter list (probably should add starter cars, starter homes and starter marriages). I really don't like much of anything. Now that I think of it, I'm working up a pretty good hate for hippopatumi.

Oh, the Things We Hear

The Old Home on the Range:

"I'm an Old Folk at Home,
"Not yet under the loam,
"Where the runs have their way with us all.
"And never is heard,
"Very many kind words,
"No, to bitch doesn't take lots of gall."

I am on patrol in the hallways again today. People don't much like me barging into their rooms to collect my News of Big Events ("That looks like psoriasis, Maude."), but I sometimes do it anyway. I am a former journalist, and nose poking is in my blood ("Hoss is my name, and lame is my game."). Here's the 5 O'clock News:

+ + + + + + + +

Jed Crumpled to Home Administrator: "I think I'm gay."
Administrator: "Why would you think that?"
Jed: "Some guy came into my room last night and shagged me in the butt."
Administrator: "Oh, that's terrible. But that doesn't make you gay."
Jed: "I think it does. When he was done with me, he left me a Rolex watch."
Administrator: "I don't know why that would make you feel that you're gay."
Jed: "He usually doesn't leave anything."

+ + + + + + + +

Head Cook to Home Administrator: "Did you know my son can collect at least a hundred slugs during the night?"
Administrator: "No, but why would I care?"
Cook: "Well you've been asking me to hold down expenses, and the inmates keep asking for escargot, so I just wondered...."

+ + + + + + + +

Paul Certain to Me, Rudy Longfellow, Merle Hertz and Clarence Bellyful: "It's time for the Annual Carpet Beetle Races, isn't it? You guys select an entrant yet?"
Me: "Uh, how do we watch these races?"
Merle: "The number fell off my beetle last year, and I think he won."
Rudy: "Poster paint works better."
Clarence: "Old Hoss has a good point. How DO you watch these races?"
Paul: "Well, what we do is borrow some lenses from the Mt. Palomar observatory...."

No we don't.

We Call in the Law-Man

I have reported in the past how we in the Home for Old Dodderers are unhappy with the speed of service from the kitchen. We are, frankly, disgustipated. (That is disgust accompanied by constipation, a common affliction of the Milk of Magnesia crowd.)

We decide to have a committee meeting. Chairing is Rick Downside, because he is the father of a daughter who is a lawyer, so by God he's sure to know a thing or two about justice and The American Way. There is nothing in Black's Law Dictionary that he doesn't know (he said, RES IPSA LOQUITOR-wise). I am on the committee because I am an almost lawyer. My mother offered to pay to send me through law school. I said: "Can I have the money instead?" (And I just happen to know that RES IPSA LQUITOR means that something or other is Just As Plain as the Nose on My Dad's Face.) So off we go:

Rick: "First we need to BIFURCATE."
Maude Frickert: "That the stuff you put in your refrigerator to make it smell good? Some kind of soda? What the hell's that got to do with anything?"
Rick: "No, that means we separate the issues."
Maude: "You couldn't separate a fucking egg, you moron. Try something else."

Rick: "We could get a WRIT OF MANDAMUS."
Me: "You can't get a court to require a cook to speed up service. Didn't your daughter teach you anything?"

Rick: "I am sure we have A CAUSE OF ACTION. We can sue for BREACH OF CONTRACT, or MALPRACTICE. If I can just get that bitch in the witness box....Does she have a box? Does anybody know?"
Susie Redwipe (aside to me): "Are all semi-lawyers horny?"

Rick: "Now then, when we sue, the first thing we ask for is a GAG ORDER."
Me: "We're talking about the speed of service, not the quality of the food. By the by, does anyone besides me know that the cook is spamming the internet to advertise her book, 'Reheating Made Easy'?"
Maude: "Somebody wrote a book once about that Spam. Said it's made of pig noses and dog butt. With a Jello filler."

Rick: "Moving right along, what do you think about the idea of claiming a TOXIC TORT?"
Susie: "I think raspberry tarts would be better."

Rick: "I believe I now have worked up A BILLABLE HOUR. So I say to hell with all this. As for the cook, screw her."
Susie: "For slow service you're going to reward her, you horny bastard?"

+ + + + + + + + +

When Rick moved in here, I didn't know he would become A NUISANCE.

The Restaurant Review

Way back before I got lodged in The Old Folks' Home, I was a child (you weren't, but I was). And one of my pasttimes was collecting returnable beer bottles from the roadsides over in Bend, Oregon. Stubbies were worth 1 cent, quarts 2 cents, and half-gallons got you a nickel. If the roadsides were barren, my pals and I could steal some bottles off the back porch of Emil Studenfuhrer's place. Or we could lift some from the loading dock at the Palace Tavern and sell them next door at the Waldorf Tavern. (Don't worry, I will be here tomorrow; the statute of limitations has run.)

The purpose of all this was to amass 60 cents (a Tidy Sum in the 1930's) to be able to buy 3 hamburgers and a chocolate milkshake at the Palace. There was no tipping; nobody had ever heard of giving somebody something for being nice (except to the hoboes [see Woody Guthrie] who would chop some wood in exchange for a hot meal).

All this talk about food and tips is by way of explaining that I have been internetting some of the weblogs called "waiter rants," in which real waiters bitch about cheap and/or obnoxious customers. Apparently the waiters and maitre d's maintain Rolodexes of good and bad customers so they know whom to treat right ("Preferred Customer"), and whom to treat wrong ("Shit List"). I can't remember much of it, but I think some of the stories went like this:

THE CUSTOMER: Known bad tipper.
THE SERVICE: Customer orders Oysters Rockefeller. Waiter beats off in kitchen, splatters all oysters with jizz. Customer eats with gusto, compliments the chef. But zero percent tip.
THE UPSHOT: Customer returns in 8 months, says he's pregnant, wants the waiter to make "an honest man" out of him. Says he can support waiter in grand style with all the money he has saved from not tipping. Stays on Shit List.

THE CUSTOMER: Constant complainer.
THE SERVICE: Customer orders eggs and Jimmy Dean sausage. Waiter craps on plate, makes crap look like sausage. Customer bitches mightily when he can't get seconds. Leaves no tip.
THE UPSHOT: Stays on Shit List.

THE CUSTOMER: Known bad tipper No. 2.
THE SERVICE: Enters with his girl friend, demands window seat, gets stuck in broom closet. Closet is dark and cozy, so girl friend gives customer blow job. Customer leaves big tip, goes on Preferred Customer list. Customer returns next night with his wife. Demands and gets broom closet. No b.j. Leaves no tip.
THE UPSHOT: Back on Shit List.

Well, though I have escaped a petty larceny charge of bottle theft, I see I am a candidate for the looney bin. Pray for me. Sometimes the Big Guy comes through.

Some of Us Never Get the Word

Well shit! Piss, crap, thunder and tarnation!

Some guy named "Anonymous" has e-mailed me to say that the Super Bowl was LAST SUNDAY, not tomorrow (see below). Well, I guess he should know. "Anonymous" has written more than anybody in the world, so he should know (just Google it and see).

I don't know why there wasn't anything in the papers or on teevee about this. Jesus, how's a guy supposed to keep up?

I guess I will have to tell our Super Bowl Planning Committee members that they slept through the game. They probably would have, anyway.

But, hey. Anybody? Did the Nagurskis win?

Almost Time for the Big Day

Here in The Home for the Aged and the Addled, we are looking forward to tomorrow when the Super Bowl will be played. I know, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking old people can't have much interest in a young people's game. Yes, normally we don't watch football, because it comes on during our game shows. (We are SO hopeful Bob Barker will someday get a new set of dentures.) But since a billion other people will be watching, we don't want to be left out.

So this morning our Super Bowl Planning Committee met to decide what snacks we're going to have. As usual, I was chairman.

Me: "So, Hulda, what will you be bringing?"
Hulda: "My lettuce, turnip and pea salad. Hoo, ha, get it? 'Lettuce turnip and pea.' I learned that one in grade school. And the books we read: 'Holes in the Mattress' by Mister Completely; 'Spots on the Wall' by I.P. Shithigh." (Wheeze, gasp, chortle.)

Me: "And, Paul, you will be bringing what?"
Paul: "Loogies."
Gretchen: "You always bring loogies. It's so tiresome. I'd rather have boogers this time. Maybe dingleberries."

Me: "Jillian?"
Jillian: "I suppose I could bring the punch. I have a good recipe that calls for water and some other things. Water, seltzer and ice is the recipe, I think."

Me: "Takiko?"
Takiko: "Pork-fried lice."

Me: "Okay, that takes care of the food. Anybody know who's playing in the game?"
Merle: "I heard somebody say something about Broncs."
Paul: "That's right, it's the Bronco Nagurskis against the Canton Bullshitters."
Gretchen: "Oh, I do hope it's not those Red Sox people. They're so uppity and scraggly. If that Johnny Damon grows any more hair he's going to have every muff-diver in New England going down on his face."

After the game tomorrow I will post the results for those of you miss it. We will probably have food left over.

+ + + + + + + +

The local university is staging the play, "The Vagina Monologues." When it's over, will the audience clap?

I'm in Fat City

For the benefit of the mildly healthy, The Old Folks' Home conducts exercise classes three times a week. The favorite exercise is this: Extend right arm, pinch thumb and forefinger together, rotate wrist to the right. "This," the instructor says, "is good for when you have to turn the key to start your car."

Anyway, I have been wondering what happens to all the fat that people lose as a result of exercising. I can't believe it just disappears into thin (thick) air. I think what happens is it floats around until it finds a place to land. Right here in The Home, for instance, I think the fat being lost by Susie Redwipe (exerciser) is being accumulated by Gretchen Howcome (non-exerciser).

Here are some other things I imagine have been happening:

+ Queen Latifah, who thinks poundage is beautiful, becomes 15 pounds more beautiful as she takes on fat lost by the bulimic Mary-Kate Olsen.

+ Ten-pounds of globules from the rear of Britney Spears fall on top of cremated remains of serial-killer Ted Bundy. This is good: Bundy has not had a piece of ass for many years.

+ Twenty-pounds of jello-like substance shed by workout guru Richard Simmons descend upon the butt of Jennifer Lopez. She doesn't notice any difference; nobody notices any difference.

I wouldn't go outside today if I were you. I hear Oprah is still exercising.

Let's Operate

Here in The Home for Old Crones and Dorks, we gather weekly to tell each other about our operations. Somebody is designated to tell his/her story to the group. This way we don't have to repeat the story over and over until we have bored everybody to death. There is enough death around here as it is. Today, it was my turn. Here is how it went:

Doctor Cutworm: "Well, Hoss, your prostate is bodaciously canceriferous, and it's going to have to be extracted."

Hoss: "Prostate?"

Cutworm: "It's that walnut-size dealie behind your babymaker. Makes jizz."

Hoss: "If you take out my jizz-maker what happens to my love center?"

Cutworm: "Well, you won't be able To Get It Up anymore, even if you Cialisize or Viagradate."

Hoss: "I guess that's okay. I'm not getting much action (zero) anyway. So what's next?"

Cutworm: "I need you to drop your drawers so's we can get a look at your wang. After we take out your prostitute we need to put a catheter in your weenie so your bladder will have a way of getting rid of your piss and vinegar. So drop 'em."

Hoss drops drawers.

Nurse Cratchit: "My God that's tiny. My clit is bigger than your wang. Wanna see it?"

Cutworm: "This presents a problem. We don't have any tubing that small. Maybe I can drill a hole into some 6-pound-test fishing line..."

+

+

Then I woke up. When I was coming to, this is what I heard:

Cutworm: "My God that's huge. Nurse, we're going to need some supersize tubing for the catheter. I'd say something like 3/4-inch garden hose....."

Meet Lester

Today, Lester "The Molested" Haunchfat makes a strong appearance in this report of Injustices Done to Old People. Or maybe a weak-kneed appearance, because Lester is on crutches.

Usually, anybody named Lester is known as "The Molester" because somebody once thought it was a cute rhyme, but Lester became "The Molested" early in his career as an altar boy. Today, as he was reminiscing about his happy days as an altar boy, he asked me this: "Do you know anybody over the age of 10 who hasn't gotten a settlement from the Catholic Church? I think anybody who says President Bush has exported all the blow jobs to foreign countries is just plain wrong."

We're allowed to have pets here in The Home, and Lester has a dog. Its name varies, depending upon what diseases it has at any given moment. I have heard him call it "Mangy Mother," "Rabid Boy," "Heartworm," and "Fleabite." It is your typical canine, with all the moves: the leg hump, the crotch sniff, the balls lick. This morning it is licking its balls and Lester says, "I can do that." I say, "You can lick your balls?" He says, "No, the dog's."

Lester also has a cat. It's a cute thing, and everybody here has petted it -- once. The mean sonofabitch has scratched all who came within claw distance. It has drawn more blood than the Red Cross. Its favorite trick is to go into the kitchen and knock the pork chops onto the floor. You can always tell when The Cat has been in the kitchen because the chops taste of carpet beetle.

Lester also once owned a race horse, named "Ryebread." But Lester said Ryebread loafed on the backstretch one day, and he was toast by the next morning.

I can't think of anything to write today.

The (Really High) Cost of Living

It is not cheap to live in an Assisted Living Home. I guess it wouldn't seem like a lot if you're Bill Gates or Bon Jovi or Jo-Lo or Tom Brady. But none of them live here, so the company has to get their money from somebody else. Me. (I guess everybody else who lives here pays something, too, but I never see any money change hands, so I'm not sure. Although it wouldn't surprise me to find out the money changers are back in the temple.)

Here is a sampling of what we're charged for, and how much:

"Keep track of and dispense medications: $100 a month. Prescriptions for oxycontin and morphine are split 50-50 with staff."

"Laundry: $5 per load, except $25 per load for sheets in which load has been dumped."

"Air: $1 per day for use of air in common living areas such as dining room and Fireside Room. (Respiratory equipment for use in common areas available for rent, $1 per day.)"

"Backrubs: $5 per occurrence. (Frontrubs are as follows: $2.50 per titty, $8 per weenie.)"

"Wheelchair service: 10 cents a pound for lightweights, 15 cents a pound for middleweights, 20 cents a pound for obese, 25 cents for morbidly obese, 50 cents a pound if resident's fat flows onto the floor."

"Management of resident's financial affairs: All of your assets will be transferred to the owner of the Home. You will receive all necessary services for life and/or until we can arrange to have you offed."

Bill Gates does not want to live here.

Slowpokes and Speed Demons

Here in The Old Folks' Home we do what it takes to remain ambulatory. There are people on crutches, canes, walkers, motorized wheelchairs, scooters and, yes, feet.

Some of my favorites:

Florence "Speedy" McNowhere -- Speedy takes steps that are at least 4, maybe 6, inches long. Don't get behind her in a crowded hallway, because there is no oasis in a Home for the Aged. You will die of thirst, or boredom, whichever comes first, but dead is dead, as I always say. Speedy plans to walk to Chicago this year for some charity deal -- the Bangladesh Accordion Society, I think. At her pace, she will finish the walk in maybe 2008. Take your time, Speedy.

Clarence "Earnfardt" Blipscreen -- Earnfardt is the proud owner of a scooter he scored off one of those "we'll get Medicare to pay for it" ripoffs advertised on TV. He can walk, but the idea of getting something for free -- well, hell, who wouldn't? Earnfardt barrels down the hallways at 20, 30, 90 miles an hour, he doesn't give a shit. The other day he took out Nelly Nervous, Maude Frickert and Carolina Sister in just one pass. This gives us three more broken hips for February. It is one shy of his record.

George "Fag" Philpot -- Fag is NOT a "fag." He got the nickname from back when he chain-smoked Camels, the dumb ass. Fag uses a walker to get around: One step, push walker, cough; next step, push walker, deep breath; ANOTHER step (by God), push walker, gasp. In the dining room he likes to leave the walker where the waitress can trip over it. When this happens, Fag tries to laugh. No go. "Wheeze" comes out. His tablemates laugh at Fag. Everybody's happy, except the waitress. Too bad he isn't a real fag; AIDS might kill him off sooner.

What we need around here are some good funerals.

Strange But True

Here in the Home of Broken Hips and Failing Minds, one hardly ever knows what to expect from day to day. (Oh, craziness, sure, but that's pretty routine.) This morning, for instance, Rex Sagbottom said he saw my yesterday mention of blowfish, and said he was concerned.

"Tell me," he said, "if I blow a blowfish will I blow my cover?"

I edged away, awkwardly, breaking a hip in the process. I know what Rex normally sucks, and it isn't eggs or air.

+ + + + + + + +

It is imperative for old people to keep their minds active, so I have devised a small quiz. For the rights to a good night's sleep without Nyquil, tell me whether the following old sayings are true or false:

"You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him think." (This also holds true for dogs and dung beetles.)

"People who live in glass houses gather no moss."

"A rolling stone is worth two in the bush."

"A bird in the hand shouldn't throw stones."

The answers: ALL of these are true. (Nobody in this Home got any of them right. Everybody here is dumber than everbody else here. I mean, I'm just saying.)

+ + + + + + + +

Later in the day, Rex caught up with me again. This time he is brimming with joy. He has been surfing the internet and has discovered a little-known fact:

"You know who invented phone sex?" He giggles. "Thomas Alva Edison, that's who. In the VERY FIRST phone call of all time, he said, 'Watson, come here. I want you.'

"Is that kinky, or what?"

I'm Starving Here

I (it's always about me) have reported earlier my distress at the slow pace of service in the dining room. But it is not all the staff's fault. For instance, at my table, Angie Stallworthy has a way of slowing things up. No matter what is on the menu, she has comments and questions, and bitches and moans. Last night I could take it no longer. Here's how it went:

Waitress: "Tonight we're serving pork chops, cauliflower, mashed potatoes, gravy and grapes."

Angie: "Are the pork chops already cooked? Could I have pork tatare (??) instead? Did you know they found mad cow disease in Canada? We get our drugs from there, so I hope they're not contaminated. What would we call it -- mad Lipitor? angry Viagra? Is there much salt on the potatoes? How much? Did you know a dose of salts will go through you like a dose of salts?"

(I sneak under the table and bite her on the ankle.)

"I hope that's real cauliflower and not some of that brocciflower I've been reading about. I hear it's green. Green vegetables are all right if they're string beans, I suppose. Did you know you can get hominy in either white or yellow?"

(I rip out a kneecap.)

"We used to grow cauliflower but the slugs ate all of them before we found out about killing them with beer. Any old kind of beer would do, you didn't have to use Bud. Did I tell you I'm allergic to mad cow disease? I think I'm the only one."

(I apply a scissors hold.)

"Are those potatoes from scratch, or some of those reconstituted muck-de-mucks? Could I have butter instead of gravy? Real butter, too, not some damn Blue Ribbon margarine."

(I get her in a half-nelson.)

"Are those grapes from Chile? Everything seems to be coming from some foreign country. Except jobs. All those are GOING to some foreign country. Are the grapes Seedless Thompson or Concord? Seedless are best, because grape seeds can get under my dentures and that just feels like you've been clawed by an armadillo."

(I apply a full nelson. Her neck snaps like a twig under an Eddie Bauer boot. As she is going down for the count, she gets in the last word.)

"Alum. Could I have alum on my grapes? It gives my mouth that oh so beautiful puckery look, sort of like a blowfish in a sushi bar."

I'm as Sharp as TWO Tacks!

Every now and then, here in the Home for the Grizzled, the Activities Director gives us written tests so as to activate our brains. It also helps determine who are the candidates for the Alzheimer's Division down on the first floor. Here are the questions from a recent test, and my answers. As usual, I have an answer for everything. I wasn't born yesterday.

Q.: What is a Whatzit?
A.: A thingamabob.

Q.: What is a Dildo?
A.: Theodore Dildo was Governor and U.S. Senator from Mississippi in the 1920's and '30's.

Q.: What is Fellatio?
A.: An Italian film director.

Q.: What is Bondage?
A.: Massachusetts pronounciation of Band Aid.

Q.: Does God answer all prayers?
A.: Yes, as long as you don't ask for anything. That's why we have banks.

Q.: Why are chairs called "seats"?
A.: So Masters of Ceremonies don't have to say: "Ladies and Gentlemen, please be chaired."

Q.: Why does hair grow out?
A.: Because toenails grow in.

Q.: Can you spell your name?
A.: Wye, oh, you, are. En,A, em, ee.

These tests are self-graded. Everybody always gets 100% (although I am the only one who gets the answers right) because they don't want to be sentenced to the Alzheimer's District. Down there, nobody has answers. They only have questions.

P.S. I overheard the Activities Director talking about me the other day, and damned if she didn't compare me to Gov. Bilbo, about whom it was said: "He wasn't always as bad and he sometimes was."

Oldster's Version of a Mommy Blog

The New York Times recently had a story about "mommy blogs" -- weblog stories by mothers of precocious children, all of whom will someday be President. A few of these are actually very good. Most are truly insipid. For example:

"7:14 a.m. -- My son Quincy the III was eager for his bath today, for some reason. Then I noticed him rubbing his rubber ducky on his wee wee. This was VERY upsetting; what if he turns into a rapist/serial killer? I would be SO embarrassed. His grandmother probably would cut him out of her will, which he is counting on to pay his way through hairdresser's school.

"7:20 a.m. -- I noticed there was cum on the rubber ducky. Oh, goodness, I opined to myself. Is he on steroids? Would he risk his baseball career just to get some early poon? Oh, readers, what should I do?"

And on and on, etc., ad infinitum. But what the heck. If this stuff sells, why can't we have an "Oldster's Blog -- Tales From The Home"? We can, and here it is:

6:30 a.m. -- I arose. Bones creak. Floor squeaks. Take a leak. Take a nap.

8 a.m. -- Read the newspaper. Failed to find my name in the obituaries for the 271,095th day in a row. Read story about papparazi trying to get pictures of Laura's bush.

9 a.m.-12 p.m. -- Nap. Sleep the sleep of the innocent.

Noon -- Lunch. Pretty good today -- green eggs and ham. Better than yesterday's owl pellets. Toothless Mary Typhoid complained that they forgot to puree her ham.

1-3 p.m. -- Nap. Tossed and turned. But, I wondered, turned into what?

3-5 p.m. -- Watched grass grow. Slow going today.

5 p.m. -- Dinner. Regurgitated catgut on toast, with a side of goose droppings. (I'm just guessing here.)

6-8 p.m. -- Nap.

8 p.m. -- Go to bed.

All in all, a busy day. I'm really tired. And tiresome.

Keeping Active

In my Home Where the Average Age is 84, the administration decided to put in a sidewalk in the back 40. This was after two of us fell on the gravel and busted ourselves into smithereens.

Well, needless to say, this provided us with many hours of Activity. We got to watch the Pouring of the Cement! And the Drying of the Cement!

This was lots better than what we usually do, which is pitch pennies in the Activity Room. I am ahead. Paul Certain went broke the other day and borrowed off me, and now he owes me 6 cents. I think he's going to stiff me. Cheap bastard.

Anyway, before the cement got dry, Merle Hertz decided he'd scratch his name thereon. He said he tried this once when he was a kid; his dad caught him and whupped him with his razor strop (this is NOT a typo). I said I didn't want to be a party to his crime, so I went back to my room. Little later I went back outside and, sure enough, there scratched in the drying cement was this: M*Y* N*A*M*E*

Merle apparently was not going to risk another stropping, even if his Dad is dust by now. But I got to wondering: Did this make him an anonymous blogger?

And what about my 6 cents, Paul, you fuck.