Let's Play 'Doctor'

Back in the 1930's and 1940's, any old doctor could usually tell right off what was wrong with you. If you had a broken bone, he could generally spot tht right off. Same with measles and chicken pox. If your heart was beatin' like a jack hammer, he'd listen and say, "Mmmmmm." Which just goes to show that doctors back then knew just about everything there was to know about medicine.

Nowadays, doctors don't know shit. The proctology doctor might, but the eye-ear-nose-throat guy won't unless he has to clean off his shoe. See, today they all specialize in something or other. You get a weeny wart, you go to a weenyologist. You ask an osteopath what to do about that and he'd say, "Gee, I don't know. I'd give Big Ernie a heads up, if I was you."

You think the cardiac specialist is going to help you when you get the flu? Hell, no, he's probably got it himself and can't remember whether it's feed a cold, starve a fever, or the other way around. I love the Asian flu doctors. First of all, they're not all Asian. Second, they're always real free with their appointments because they know by the time you get to see them you'll have healed up,which gives them more time for golf.

In the 1930's and 1940's, I had a doctor who took out my tonsils, took out my appendix, set my broken arm, got me over the chicken pox and ear infections, yanked out my Mom's hyster, fixed my brother's crossed eyes, cured my Dad's broken back -- although never on Thursday, for that was Doctors' Day at the Bend Golf Club.

Honest. Thursday was designated "Doctors' Day." Some people began taking advantage of this, hanging around the bar, hoping to get a free diagnosis. And some people took umbrage about the doctors lolly-gagging when people were dyin' of shin splints, so they changed it to "Men's Day." Since there were no women doctors this did not prove to be an additional discrimination.

The docs I envy most are the psychiatrists. They get the inside dope from all these people who are always talking to Big Ernie God. Maybe someday I can get one of them to do an expose'. What we need to know, I'd say, is "Where is Heaven?" For all anybody knows for sure, it could be underground where all the preachers think Hell is. If that proved true, I bet scientists would put it in the category of "too bad."

Some of these people have really got balls, like those who went to school for a long time and get to be called Doctor Something or Other but don't know a thing about sticking fingers up buttholes. These have got doctorates in homo fruit fly technology and/or the estimated date that kudzu will advance on the Inuits. I know a doctorated oceanography guy who is busy estimating how high the oceans would be if the water wasn't full of sponges.

He says if they don't soon make it illegal to take sponges out of the ocean there'll be sharks swimming on Wall Street.

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My favorite phrase today is getting a little. Adj., of sex fiends. Def.: Sleeping with dwarfs.

Cloning Is Not for Amateurs

Meet a "salmelon." One of the creatures that result "When Cloning Goes Bad." Somebody (I can't figure out who) has deftly created about 30 of these odd things which appear in a slide show that will blow my mind, maybe yours too. Go to
Bad Clones to see the show. (Oh, and in case you care, there's another one of these figments at the bottom of this piece. And it's down there at the bottom even if you DON'T care.)

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More borrowing: My buddy The Ozguru told me this true story.

Mujibar wants to enter the country but is stopped by an Immigration Officer.

"You need to pass a test before you can enter the U.S.ofA.," says the official.

"OK," says Mujibar, "test I'm."

Immigration: "I want you to use yellow, pink and green in one sentence."

Mujibar (thinks, brightens): "Oh, yes. Here: The telephone goes green, green, green, and I pink it up, and I say, 'Yellow?'."

(Afterword: Mujibar is now living in your neighborhood and working at the Microsoft help desk.)

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The other day when I was writing about high school gangs I forget to remind you that diseases also got gangs. About the time I was pushing over privies my Mom's Mom had pulmonary failure and was dying of cancer some disease. Mom told me not to use the "C" word because it was some kind of nasty disease good people weren't supposed to get. This was in the early 1940's. Today, now, you got people almost braggin' about having sexually transmitted disease the AIDS.

Anyway, these diseases can really gang up on you -- strep throat, pneumonia, hepatitis and rigor mortis is a frequent combination, I guess.

Kind of reminds me of the old saying: "And now abideth Faith, Hope, and Love, but the greatest of these is Worms."

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My favorite word today is husband. N., Mr. Fixit. Def.: The person whose amateur plumbing technique has left air in the pipes so they will make that satisfying "clunk" when the water is turned off.

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And here is your basic orangufrog:

Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport

Take a few secs today to wish a very good buddy of mine a Happy Birthday. Click on Poopsie (Janie) and take a quick trip to Tennessee.

My buddy Vicki Bennett has called my attention to a news story that talks about a potential volcanic eruption on the South Sister Mountain, which is about 100 miles east of my Old Folks' Home. Some researchers say even if it blows, it won't be all that big a deal, unfortunately. I think the visitor industry has put this in the category of "too bad," because a decent volcano is a pretty good tourist draw, which would create more jobs for Oregon.

See, the neat thing about volcanoes is they draw a lot of rubberneckers from out-of-state, so we can throw up some hot dog stands and invent a lot of jobs in the service industry. Jobs in the service industry are well-liked by Big Business because they don't pay much, and they are well-liked by poor people because they can't be outsourced. You couldn't possibly sell hot dogs in India to someone who wanted to see a volcano in Oregon.

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Until recently, most of the rubberneckers have been over there in Serbia, according to this other story Vickie sent me about the World Testicle Cooking Championship. It seems an Australian who called himself Nigel told some people in Sumska Kuca, there in North Serbia, that he was the world's leading chef when it came to cooking up kangaroo nuts, and he would be glad to show off his skill if the Serbians would get ahold of some testicles.

So the Serbs went balls out for this idea. They rented this expert a hotel room, bought some kangaroo testiculars -- and the sumbitch never showed. Well, they went ahead with the World Championship, and a team that whipped up bull and boar's nuts won the title, so the day wasn't wasted.

The sponsors said they hope Nigel will show up next year if he hasn't gone tits up. They said they would hang loose.

All this talk about testicles has made me hungry for nutcrackers:


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My favorite word today is patience. Adj., like a great blue heron. Def.: What you use while waiting for the right moment to screw someone over.

This Is How You Spell Onomatopoeia

Oh, damn. Update: Feets points out I spelled it wrong. But now it's right. Hoo boy. Onomatopoeia. There.

You know how it is in high school when some kids hang around the fringes of your gang, but never quite get invited in?

(It wasn't quite that way in grade school, when our gang rgularly "pantsed" Jerry Rippee. Jerry was so anxious to be one of us that he submitted, day after day. He was so pitiful that we made him a member of the gang. Which says something about our coolness, I think.)

Our gang in high school was like the Hell's Angels: There were a lot of us. Let's see, Don, Jack, another Don, Sam, John, Bill, Phil and me. This is the gang that left the horse in the high school one Halloween. Martin was a fringe player, and the only reason we let him into our booth at Kessler's Ice Cream now and then was because he had his own wheels, a 1936 Model A.

One time five of us were out riding with Martin and he was driving crazy. I said, "Martin, I bet if you go around a corner on two wheels, you can shear off the lug nut posts on the other side when the car comes back down."

So Martin tore around this corner on two wheels, and sheared off the lug nut posts on the other side when the car came back down. "Pay me," I said, as the other four of us headed off toward Kessler's.

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We led incredibly vicious lives in high school. Lots of times our gang would get p.o.ed at the girls because one of our number got dumped ("jilted," or "Dear Johnned," we'd say). So we'd go find a bunch of girls and yell bad things at them: "You're ugly as a mud fence." "You're all a bag of bones." And like that. We held nothing back.

And they'd yell back: "You smell like jock straps." "Buzzards." "Momma's boys." These girls wanted their mouths washed out with soap.

I don't know how any of us survived high school, getting in gang wars all the time.

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My favorite word today is denounce. N., particulate of speech. Def. When it's not verbs, adverbs, adjectives or conjunctions.

I'm Always Up for a Challenge

I previously gave you one of the British Foot in Mouth Award winners. Here's one more, actress Alicia Silverstone:

"I think that the film ['Clueless'] was very deep. I think it was deep in the way that it was very light. I think lightness has to come from a very deep place if it's true lightness."

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Somebody sent me one of them pages of odd facts, like: "There are no words in the dictionary that rhyme with orange, purple and silver."

Hah! You think Ol' Hoss isn't going to challenge that?

They say nothing can rhyme with an orange.
I'm darn close with chickens that free-range.
It just goes to show,
To be in the know,
Trust Ol' Hoss who knows dirt ain't a dinge.

There's nothing that can rhyme with purple?
Well, there's acid that makes you go burple.
So never say never,
Hoss is too clever,
What he pours on his pancakes is syruple.

You can't make a rhyme out of silver?
You come pretty close with deliver.
But to make it exact,
Hoss has the ol' knack,
He says, "Hey, there's always Phil Silvers!"

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Here's another useless fact:

The dot over the letter "i" is called a tittle. What is inside a woman's T-shirt is called a chest.

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Here in The Old Folks' Home, our Alzheimer's unit is planning an event to be remembered.

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My favorite word today is magic. N., I lost count again. Def.: The additional riser someone adds to your stairs while you creep upward in the dead of night.

I Was Just Thinking About That

It is always good thinking to do some thinking now and then. So I began thinking some deep thoughts. Let's see what we got here:

-- The Chinese invented gunpowder, Nobel invented TNT, the U.S. invented the atomic bomb, and the Indians invented corn. Which has been the most useful?

-- Everybody has something to complain about: politicians, the weather, their job, the next-door neighbor. If we eliminate the politicians, the weather, all the jobs and all the next-door neighbors, would people complain about not having enough to complain about?

-- Do you know that you also are a next-door neighbor?

-- In case you are robbed, will you be able to give police the serial numbers of the bills that were in your wallet?

-- Do crop circles come in any other shape?

-- Why is baseball not called basesball?

-- Why is diarrhea called "the trots" rather than "the canters"? I have always voted against diarrhea, even when it is called "the runs."

-- Why do cows eat hay and women can eat just about anything, like chicken livers, and they both can make milk? I am a big believer in hay and chicken livers, though.

-- Why is it that when you get a wrong number it is always someone you don't know?

-- Why are you the only good driver on the road?

-- Did you know that Tennessee Walking Horses also can run?

-- When Saddam is executed, will the oxygen he would have used be put up for sale on eBay?

-- When I am reincarnated as a fine Kentucky thoroughbred standin' at stud, how will you know it's me?

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My favorite word today is out. Adj., what did you think? Def.: Descriptive of every part you have ever needed for your car to be fixed.

Am I Glad It Wasn't 8 Things

Ol’ Hoss picked up this Ol’ Meme from my buddy Ol' Shane. To be properly entertained, you really ought to click on the links.

7 things I can do

1. Cook, if I have enough beer
2. Type really fast
3. Play the ukulele
4. Sop up gravy with bread
5. Charge things to your MasterCard
6. See over the heads of little people
7. Make up words*

7 things I can’t do

1. Cook, if I don’t have enough beer
2. Climb mountains
3. Gain weight
4. Sew, but I can darn socks
5. Anything artistic
6. Rub my head and pat my tummy at the same time
7. Pat my head and rub my tummy at the same time

BF 7 things I see as attractive in the opposite sex

1. Something like my buddy Pier Angeli
2. Smarts, so they don’t want to eat at McDonald’s
3. Good legs
4. Good everything else
5. Willingness to make the beer run
6. Doesn't need a Stairmaster
7. Forgiveness. Lots of this, please

7 things I say the most

1. Hoo boy
2. Boy howdy
3. So it goes
4. Take an old cold tater and wait
5. Scientists classify this as "too bad"
6. I'm so pretty
7. That asshole Bush

7 books that I love

1. The Bible, because it is "open source"
2. "My Ten Years in a Quandary," Robert Benchley
3. "Low Man on the Totem Pole," H. Allen Smith
4. "Long Gone With the Wind and the Rain," Mr. Horsetail Snake
5. "Up Front," Bill Mauldin (featuring Willie and Joe)
6. "Weeny Whodunits and Other Yoda Yoga," Mr. Horsetail Snake
7. "Sex Life of the Banana Slug," Charles Darwin, et al

7 things I plan to do before I die

1. Eat me an abalone steak
2. Help elect a black President
3. Plan my reincarnation as a fine Kentucky horse standin’ at stud
4. Gladhand Bill Gates
5. Apologize for killing mosquitoes that the swallows needed for food
6. Tie a mirror on my shoe so I can look up your dress when you visit
7. Apologize for looking up your dress

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*My favorite word today is rumornates. N., jumping over the moon. Def.: Cows that gossip.

Children's Books in Time for School

Quite a few children's books have been written. Not all of them have been published. Here are some your poor kids will never see:

What Is That Dog Doing to That Other Dog?

You Were an Accident

Jane Was So Bad Her Mom Stopped Loving Her

Garfield Gets Feline Leukemia

You Are Different and That's Bad

The Pop-up Book of Human Anatomy

When Mommy and Daddy Don't Know the Answer They Say God Did It

Strangers Have the Best Candy

Barney: The Prison Years

Mister Policeman Eats His Service Revolver

Pop Goes the Hamster, and Other Great Microwave Games

Curious George and the High-Voltage Fence

The Boy Who Died From Eating All His Vegetables

Things Rich Kids Have That You Never Will

Controlling the Playground: Respect Through Fear

Daddy Drinks Because You Cry

How to Become the Dominant Military Power in Your Elementary School.

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What's the name of the guy with no arms and no legs who is lying on the front porch? Matt.

What's the name of the guy with no arms and no legs who is lying in a bed of leaves? Russell.

What's the name of the guy with no arms and no legs who has been pinned to the wall? Art.

What's the name of the guy who will never do this again? Mr. Snake.

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My favorite word today is taint. N., mystery zone. Def.: The area between the vagina and the anus: "T'aint pussy and t'aint asshole."

Miscellaneous & Et Cet

I have not had much here about the hurricane and its victims. And I won't. I've done what I can, as you know you did and are doing. But this here place is a port out of the storm. Relax, jangle gently as you move and don't look back -- something might be gaining on you. -- Satchel Paige.

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This was sort of fun. The states in red are the ones I have touristed. You go to World 66 and you can make a map of all the states you visited, or all the countries, all the Canadian provinces, or just Europe. Note those three Deep South states I have not been in -- Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama. I doubt if my visiting would have made a difference. But who knows?
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Yesterday when I teased my pal Bonnie about owning a University of Michigan shirt, my buddy Lois Lane said in the comments that she's in a shirt-giving mood. And Bonnie seemed to be offering a Michigan State University shirt. Look, I will take all the university/football shirts I can get and I'll show 'em off. I love to get packages. When you are done giving to Katrina victims, I am at Apt. 111, 695 Orchard Hts. Rd. NW, Salem, OR 97304.

After all, it is dang near my birthday. I was born on Oct. 1 and on Oct. 2, 1930. An explanation of this Miracle Birth is here.

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What has eight legs and one eye? Two chairs and half a pig's head.

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In Great Britain, the annual Foot in Mouth Award in 2004 went to a Member of Parliament, Boris Johnson, who said on television: "I could not fail to disagree with you less."

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My favorite phrase today is false alarm. N., when you gotta go. Def.: When the urgent need to defecate turns out to be only an urgent need to fart.

School Days, School Days, Good Old...

It is me again. Since it almost football season, it is time for all of us to swear our fealty to universities with good football teams. Teams who only excel in academics can go pee up a rope until it's time for commencement.

Now, most of you don't need to pay any attention to this picture. It is here for the benefit of my pal Bonnie. See, Bonnie is a stalwart of The Dark Side, a.k.a. Michigan State University, and that just won't do.

This fine shirt was brought to me in July by a buddy of mine, Vicki Bennett, who roots for the University of Michigan. And it just so happens that Vicki also is a former friend of Bonnie's. All this proves is that my allegiance is for sale.

So, anyway, go over to Bonnie's Place and give her the raspberry. Tough luck, Bonnie. (Scientists have put this in the category of "too bad.")

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Speaking of psychology, which my shirt was doing, I am thinking about the need to catch a case of paranoia. The only people here in The Old People's Home who seem to get any attention are those who've got delusions of one kind or another. Take my down-the-hall neighbor, Sixbit Rattigan. I was doing hall patrol yesterday when I caught ol' Rattigan talking to The Home's Administrator:

Rattigan: "People are always talking about me."

Administrator: "No, they're not."

Rattigan: "Not what?"

Administrator: "Talking about you."

Rattigan: "What are they saying?"

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My pal Oz has come through again:

"Incontinence Hotline....Can you hold, please?"

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Do you realize that in 40 years we'll have thousands of old women running around with tatoos?

"I suppose that there on your leg is some kind of snake?"

"No, that's a varicose vein."

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My favorite word today is gasoline. N., a rare breed. Def.: A combustible formerly sold in screw top containers, now available only in finer stores.

Something Something Something

I knew two fine people, Angie and Miss Zoot, each of whom is having another child, but after a lapse of several years. So I thought they probably need the advice rendered by this how-to picture. You are welcome, Moms. I live to serve.

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This happened sometime in the 1960's. I am too decrepit to go to the State Library and look it up. You can do it, if you want to.

We have a State Hospital for the mentally disadvantaged here in Salem, the capital of Oregon. There are several buildings out there in East Salem, some of which are connected by tunnels so the patients and staff don't have to cross busy streets.

Somehow, those tunnels became the scene of assignations between patients who were perhaps addled but had not lost their sex drive. Legislators learned of this and demanded a hearing. A state official defended the practice, calling it "tunnel therapy."

Hoo boy, we liberals thought that was funny. Naturally, the Republicans made them give it up. So, according to what my mother told me when I was little, I guess all the guys out there went blind and grew hair on the palm of their hands.

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A guy is lying in his bed, near death, when he perceives emanating from the kitchen the unmistakable smell of chocolate chip cookies, his favorite food of all time.

So, with difficulty, he works himself downstairs, feebly clutches the table and inches his hand toward what he feels is giving him new life -- a warm chocolate chip cookie. His wife smacks his hand with a spatula.

"Get the hell away from there!" she screams. "Those are for the funeral."

(This groaner comes courtesy of TanLucyPez.)

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A caller on a Portland radio station wanted everybody to know the German word for brassiere: "Stopemfumfloppin."

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My favorite word today is diet. N., why children don't starve. Def.: The thing that occurs when you observe a 3-year-old eating his boogers.

Your 'Can't Miss' Motion Picture for 2005

If I am going to Make My Pile, which I must if I am to be reincarnated as Smokey the Russian Blue Cat, I expect I will have to go into the motion picture business.

I did not say "movie." "Movie" is short for "moving pictures." "Moving pictures" is what you do when you move. You also move desks and pianos and other ungainly objects so that you achieve a permanently bad back. Which is what you get for not hiring Mayflower to move your damn pictures.

"The Mayflower Compact" would be a good film but it's probably been done by the DAR or the Temperance Union. So my motion picture is going to be about British royalty. I know absolutely nothing about British royalty, which makes writing the script a piece of cake. People really dig science fiction; why wouldn't they fall all over themselves getting to my history fiction?

For this film, I think we will open with The Beatles singing "Hen-e-ry the Eighth I Am, I Am (I got married to the widow next door, etc.)." This would be voiceover to some beheadings, Mary Queen of Scots and Anne Boleyn come to mind. I am undecided. I guess it will depend upon what era of baskets for chopped heads that we can find in the antique shops.

Do you know why the United Nations delegates sit in a circle? So nobody can be "at the head of the table." They got this idea of equality from King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. I doubt Arthur was paid any royalties for this idea. (His copywilburwright probably has expired, anyway.) So maybe we will have a segment on different-shaped tables Arthur considered -- rectangles, trapezoids, tetrahedrons, etc. -- before settling on round. This will give film-goers a chance to go get popcorn.

Fade to black, then slow dissolve to Wallis Simpson. She's the American lady that King Edward VIII needed to play footsie with. So he abdicates (we will give the people who attend my motion picture a handbook which explains British phrases, like "abdicate," "spot on," and "jolly good." I will hire my buddy Shane, an Englisher who is presently unemployed so it won't cost me much.)

We will probably have an Alfred Hitchcock moment, in which we catch Prince Charles nude in the shower in the Bates Motel. I am told that even if our focus goes below the belly button we still will retain our PG rating.

Our Big Scene will be in the Tower of London. It is a requirement of British royalty that there always be six ravens in the Tower (currently there are eight). These ravens are often fed a rabbit carcass, but in my film we will have them feasting on some plain old tea-and-crumpets type, like Monty Python, who will shrug off The Birds, turn his face to the audience and ask, "Is British royalty relevant?"

I hope it is not too late for the motion picture houses to insure against the avalanche caused by 500 people yelling "No way!!"

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My favorite word today is inscrutable. Adj., imponderable. Def.: The first six chapters of a book on your bedside table which has such an impenetrable plot you can't bring yourself to continue.

I'll Be Right Back

I think I am onto something here. You will remember that I plan to be reincarnated right after I kick the bucket because I so much enjoy breathing. I suppose you do too, so you might want to get in touch with Genetic Savings and Clone down there in Texas.

They advertise themselves as "the world's leading pet-cloning company." And I sure wouldn't mind coming back as a pampered cat. (The company tells me there is not much call for people who want to come back as pot-bellied pigs.) I am well-disposed, though, to coming back as Smokey, the now-dead Russian Blue pet of this couple who live in Medford, Oregon. Before he died, Smokey had some of his cells harvested and stored down in this Texas clone-a-torium because, the owners said, it "had a melodic meow and a distinct personality." Which sounds like me all over.

Genetic Savings & Clone started out asking for 50,000 smackers to clone your pet, but what with down-sizing and out-sourcing and what not, the price is now down to $32,000. These Medford people think in a few years it will be down to $10,000, which sounds about right to them. I mean, this was a good cat.

So what I need to do is get some of my cells scraped off and sent down to GS&C and mixed in with those Smokey molecules. Somebody said the only cells that work are those they scrape off your baby-maker. We'll see. I'll do whatever it takes because I sure want to get took care of by that Medford couple. I love to be doted on.

Of course I will need to send it some money, which I don't have. I thought about an advance sale on my body parts. You know how much my body (and yours) is worth, piece by piece? $4.50. Maybe $5 if you're really fat because hide sells for 25 cents a square foot and so fat people have a real advantage when it comes to selling their parts.

So I will need to figure out some other way to Make My Pile. I wonder if there's much of a market for Russian Blue cats? That would be a good business to get into, because I understand they go for about $10,000 apiece.

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My favorite phrase today is Judas goat. N., of biblical proportions. Def.: The asswipe who says "Let's have one more" when you are already drunk.

How to Break Up a Picnic

Speaking of food, I gotta tell you this story of not long ago when I was evil. It is okay to be evil when you're 74 332/365ths like I am. Nobody will hit you because you look so frail and beat-down. Besides, it was only a practical joke invented to piss people off, at which I am pretty good.

This Congressman I worked for is now out of office but he has this former administrative assistant who keeps track of everybody who worked for the Congersperson. This year he suggested we get together for a reunion picnic. I hate reunion picnics because of all the ants, yellow jackets and flies they attract. And dogs, like old Maggie Hipsalot.

So, since I hate picnics I volunteered to help. I said, Why don't I send out a notice to everybody tellin' 'em what to bring? "Golly, Ol' Hoss, that would be fine and just dandy," he says.

"I will send it in your name so they will know how official it is," said Hoss.

Well, you know how this went down. Normal people would tell the reunionists to bring table service and their favorite hot dish, or rolls, or sodie pop, or their favorite dessert, or a pile of snacks like Spam-and-Velveeta canapes. Here's what Ol' Hoss told every one of them suckers to bring:

"Graham crackers, marshmallows and Hershey bars."

People who went to the reunion said just about everybody told the organizer of this thing: "Up yours, and here's one for the horse you rode in on."

I don't know. I didn't go. I hate s'mores.

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My buddy Oz of Australia keeps finding these one-liners that make me giggle:

"Don't be sexist. Broads hate that."
"I used up all my sick days, so I'm phoning in dead."
"Five out of four people have trouble with fractions."

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My favorite word today is radiator. N., smellier than thou. Def.: The gentleman in the elevator with a body odor so vile it is safe to let go of a seeper.

Would You Like to See Some Justice Done?

Somebody done wrong by my buddy.

This, for once, is not about me. It's about my buddy John, The Muzik Dude. He's a stand-up guy who sometimes sounds tough but melts when his family and friends ask him for anything. He's the kind of guy you want living next door. I ain't got any higher praise than that.

What has gone down is that a newly large phone company, Cingular, has screwed my buddy John over more than somewhat. Go read it about it here: Muzik Dude. This will get your dander up.

Then go to one of the sites of GENUINE Jim: Jim Turner, where you will see, in part:

"I'm talking about the nightmare my friend John had recently with his cell phone provider. Now we have a movement, and momentum grows to the point of a grass roots level that is beginning to poison the company's reputation..

"Can this happen? Is it possible that a little voice in the blogosphere can start a storm the likes of which could cripple a business? I for one would like to see that happen."

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My favorite word today is smile. Adj., more like a grimace. Def.: Pretending you don't have a hangover.

I Believe Everything I Read

This story makes sense, but it might not be true.

Before the Battle of Agincourt in 1415, the French expected an easy victory over the English. The French decided that they would cut off the middle finger of every captured Englishman so they would no longer be able to draw the renowned English longbow, and thus be incapable of fighting in the future.

The famous longbow was made of the native English yew tree, and the act of drawing the bow was calling "plucking the yew." In the battle, much to the bewilderment of the French, the English won. And they then began to taunt the French by showing their middle finger and screaming, "I can still pluck yew! PLUCK YEW!"

The spelling of the words has been revised over time for some reason, and the words used in conjunction with the one-finger salute are mistakenly thought to have something to do with an intimate encounter.

It is also because of the pheasant feathers on the arrows used with the longbow that the symbolic gesture is known as "giving the bird."

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A buddy of mine, Lightning Bug's Butt, has written a book, titled "What's Shakin' in the Men's Room." It is comprised of pieces from his site and some previously unpublished stuff. Hoss has sent in his order. You might want to mosey over and find out what's what.

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My favorite word today is inconsistent. Adj., let's call it art. Def.: Descriptive of people who wouldn't dream of urinating in public but who delight in placing a representation of the Manneken Pis in the goldfish pond on their front yard.

Blame It All on Me

Ol' Hoss never knows which of his schemes will be the money-maker he so sorely needs, so he just goes on thinkin' up new diddles before anybody else can get to 'em. It is especially satisfying to beat my buddy Bill Gates to the finish line.

As you know, I always get a copywilburwright and/or a patent leather on my ideas before I spring 'em on my readers. So don't be botherin' to steal today's idea, which is:

Ol' Hoss's Shoulder the Blame Megacorp.

Here's the premise: Hardly anything hurts the psyche like having to admit guilt. You know how you feel when you have to confess you didn't get the kids the right present, or you're late to work because you slept in, or you've peed on the toilet seat. It's an embarrassment, is what it is. People point fingers at you and say, "Shame." The story about your misdeed is told over and over into the next generation. You never live it down.

Get it off your back. For a fee, you can blame it on Ol' Hoss. And I will admit guilt! I am used to apologizing. You should have seen me carry on when I knocked Hilda Moonbuckle down the stairs here in The Old People's Home. I got all red-faced and whiny, got a beat look on my face, did some world-class cringin' and promised to go and sin no more. Apologia is my middle name.

"Mike*! You pissed on the toilet seat again!" "Nope," says Mike. "Hoss did it."

"You promised to be here at 3:30!" "Hoss stole the car."

See, you just send me a quick message from your fancy phone so I'll know what I'm confessin' to, and nobody needs to be the wiser. Just be sure to specify whether you need a Class A snivel or maybe only a Class D "I'm plenty sorry about that."

I bet you're feeling better already, considering how much guilt you're carrying around.

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A place on the Internet has been pointed out to me that is sort of fun. It's called the Sloganizer. Type in a word or two and it makes slogans for you. I like slogans:

"Feel the magic of nursing homes."
"I lost weight with cremation."

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My buddy Judy told me what Confucious told her:

"Man who walk through turnstile sideways going to Bangkok."

"Crowded elevator smell different to midget."

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My favorite word today is :: ::. N., in any dice game, roll them bones. Def.: Your point is 8.

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* I am hoping to drum up business from the two Mikes on my Favorites list, Mike Miller and Michael Ashley.

Be Happy: Give Hoss Your Lunch Money

My buddy Jana recently mentioned that when she worked at a kids' camp she had to unsew the back of a teddy bear to confiscate contraband candy. Naturally, this has given Ol' Hoss a money-making idea. Almost everything does. Here's the way it's going to work:

I will set up shop along several of the most-used routes to high school. Kids will give me their lunch money and I'll lend-lease them some stuff their parents wouldn't, like soda pop and low-rider jeans so's they can show their ass-crack. I better lay in a supply of push-up bras, too. Then when they're on their way home I sell 'em a toothbrush to hide the Coke smell, and give 'em back their corduroys that don't show ass-crack. And make a note to get some bras in smaller sizes.

The Declaration of Independence didn't say that only parents have a right to pursuit of happiness.

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Here are some things I been saving that need to get off my chest:

Church Bulletins:

"Due to the rector's illness, Wednesday's healing service will be discontinued until further notice."

"The Peacemaking meeting scheduled for today has been cancelled due to a conflict."

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A stranger walks into a bar in West Virginia. A customer eyes him, walks over, and says, "So, what's your line?"

Stranger: "I'm a taxidermist."

Customer: "What's a taxidermist?"

Stranger: "I mount animals."

Customer: "It's okay boys, he's one of us."

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On the official website for the State of Wisconsin, it says: "Permanent residents: Find a grave." In Wisconsin, when they say "permanent," that's what they mean.

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Double definition day:

My buddy Oz says:

"Circular definition: See Definition, circular."

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My favorite word today is clean. Adj., semi-funny. Def.: The type of joke you mistakenly believe is the only kind you can tell your pastor.

Don't Bury Me Deep on the Lone Prairie

Talk of death occupies a lot of folks in an Old Folks' Home. Not about our own. We only talk about whomever happens to not be in the discussion circle there in the Fireside Room.

Matilda Halfhere said, "Did you have the meatballs yesterday? I bounced one off the floor and it went almost to the ceiling."

Hoss: "Uh, Mattie, we was talkin' about pushin' up daisies."

Matilda: "Old age comes at a bad time."

Unhappily, this energized the House History Freak, Feelgood Haines. You probably remember Feelgood. He has a peculiar spin on every history ever histed.

Feelgood: "Did you know why gunslingers always said to the bad guy, 'You'll be six feet deep by morning.'? Well, a course you don't because you slept through History class. What that means is the bad guy is going to be dead and buried. Now, natcherly, you wanna know, 'Why six feet'?"

Hoss: "Anybody notice whether meatballs is on the menu again tonight?"

Feelgood: "I knew you'd be the first with a question, because you don't seem to know much. The reason is they had themselves the bubonic plague back there in London so the Mayor says, 'Bury them dead suckers six feet deep so the plague don't get the rest of us.' So that's the why of that. Trouble is, the Mayor screwed the gravediggers good and proper, 'cause it was fleas that caused the bubonic. So all that digging was for bullshit."

Hoss: "Did you people notice they're almost done fixing the parking lot?"

Feelgood: "You know some cemeteries has been paved right over? Later on, the six feet deep thing worked out pretty good, what with land shortages and all. They started double-decking the people. One box six feet down left room for another box on top. First two-for-one sale in history."

Hoss: "I think I'm getting a touch of the brain-dead. Anybody know if that's going around again this year?"

Feelgood: "Listen. Down there in California they got a law that says you only gotta cover the casket with 18 inches of dirt and turf. I don't think they're gonna call it to the attention of the Western movie producers, though."

Hoss: "How's that?"

Feelgood: "Think of Alan Ladd sayin, 'Tomorrow, bub, they'll be plantin' you one and a half feet under.'"

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My favorite word today is gag. Adj., get along little stogies. Def.: After a long wait, the only taxi offering a ride is distinguished by the smell of stale cigars.

Songs You Ain't Hardly Heard Of

My buddy Dave Morris has tagged some of his pals to tell the world about "five songs you're currently digging hard." Since I got nothin' to do but belly up to these meme things, I'm just going to list some of my all-time favorites that I play on a kazoo. I can also whistle these, when the TV talent people ask. As Dave guessed, No. 1 on my Hit Parade is:

1. "Take an Old Cold 'Tater and Wait", Little Jimmy Dickens. I get so blubbery when I hear the chorus:

"Now 'taters never did look good
"With chicken on the plate,
"But I had to eat 'em just the same.
"That is why I look so bad, and have these puny ways,
"Because I always had to take an old cold 'tater and wait."

2. "Amazing Grace." The first line of this song is what gets me:

"Amazing grace, how sweet it is...."

Now I know good and damn well that the line is "how sweet the sound." But I was such a fan of Jackie Gleason that every time somebody would break into "Amazing Grace" I would think of Jackie saying, "How sweet it is!" And then my mind segues right into Jackie sayin' to Alice, "How would you like a trip to the moon?" After I am done breaking myself up, I apologize to God or whomever this song is about, and go about my business.

3. "Classical Gas", Mason Williams. This is an instrumental by a guy with Oregon connections. In 1968 Mason got two Grammys for "Classical Gas" AND an Emmy as the head comedy writer for the Smothers Brothers Show:

Tom: "Mom liked you best!"
Dick: "Lower your voice."
Tom: (Basso profundo) "Mom liked you best!"

This is the ONLY song I have stored in my computer, so I guess you know I like this song more than somewhat.

4. "A Man Called Hoss", Waylon Jennings. This ain't a song but the title of an album. If you have to know why I'm favorin' it, you has missed a lot of posts.

5. "Piano Man", Billy Joel. This is one of the most real non-cowboy songs ever. It tells about people wastin' their time in this bar. This includes the Piano Man himself, who is quite a good player:

"And the piano sounds like a carnival,
"And the microphone smells like a beer.
"And they sit in the bar and put bread in my jar
"And say, 'Man, what are you doin' here?'"

The reason I like this song is because I have known people with fine talent who never got that big break (there are several Internet writers of my acquaintance who are in this category). I am always, like "What are you doin' here?"

Anyway, the only way my 5 songs could be any better is if they included something about prison, pickups, gun racks, moonshine, Momma, rain, railroad tracks, smoke-filled bars, lonely women, little dogies and grits.

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My favorite word today is Godzilla. N., science as fiction. Def.: A motion picture too bad to watch but too interesting to sleep through.

Advertise Your B**g on the Hoss Channel

My new buddy Pointmeister discovered somewhere on the Internet what he described as "The Old Hoss Channel." And if you look at this picture real careful-like you will se Mr. Snake semi-prominently displayed.

Well, I gotta admit the Pointmeister has outted me. I was tryin' to keep it secret that I'm gonna have a cable TV channel until I had a full 13 weeks worth of around-the-clock programs in the can. I won't worry about any more than that, for once it gets started The Ol' Hoss Channel will self-perpetuate -- writers from everywhere will be all over me like a tall dog to get in on my action.

You are probably interested in the names of the programs already on tape and ready to go as soon as the FCC gives me some bandwidth, or whatever the hertz geeks call it:

"Ol' Hoss, the Football Player and His Women: Hoss Goes Long"
"Ol' Hoss, the Softball Player and His Women: Hoss Goes Deep"
"Old Folks at Home: Variety in Organ Bequests"
"Where Elephants Go to Die: The Ivory Soap Years"
"Dung Beetles on the Loose: Elephant Shit Has No Chance"
"Prostates We Have Seen: A Surgeon Goes Deep"
"Religious Experiences: Who Invented the Virgin Mary?"
"The Truth About Botox: Warnings About Home-Canned Green Beans"
"Elders Speak Out: Homilies You Can Safely Ignore"
"Accepting Your Body Shape: The Cellulite Pride Society"
"Does God Care?: Live Chat With Big Ernie"
"The 7 Blunders of the World: The Conception of Donald Trump"

I am still collecting names of potential hosts for what will be my prime-time knockout show: "Why Scientists Say 'Too Bad'."

I wonder if the hits I get on this piece can be used to show advertisers what power I got with b**g readers. I am wanting a 50 rating and a 14.0 share.

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My favorite word today is smug. Adj., sorry about that. Def.: The satisfied look on the face of someone in the express elevator as the doors of the car shut just when you get there.

Hot Damn! Hoss Is Off on a Rant!

I suppose you knew it would come to this. Ever' now and then Ol' Hoss gets pissed and has to let everybody know it. I am hacked about leeches, because:

Leeches suck!

I hope I get over this soon.

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My favorite word today is: quaint. N., really outdated. Def.: The name of any shop such as "Hair Today," "10 Penney's Nails," or "Boot Up" that once seemed clever but now seems only insipid.

Harvest Moon, or Moon the Harvest?*

Seeing as how I am in An Old Folks' Home and therefore almost dead, all the people with annuities in mind suddenly got my name.

"Hoss, leave your money with us, NOW, and you will be happy living off the principal while we harvest the interest to pay for saving the Wily Coyote of North Hollywood."

"Hoss, your estate can do us both a lot of good. Sign it over and we will keep you in beer while we save the Everglades from your buddy Laura."

Well, I think the coyote is a fig newton of the imagination, and I doubt my buddy Laura is going to screw with the Everglades. And, anyway, I ain't interested in anything to do with money unless it helps me Make My Pile.

And right here is how it's going to go down. I have invented the leprosy detector. You see, when you are armed with one of these here dudes, you are protected from lepers.

Let's say you're in a restaurant, and you're not wanting to get infected with leprosy again. So you grab your leprosy detector and go around gettin' ever'body to stick their finger into the hole, there. If their finger comes off, you have caught one of the suckers, and you can banish 'em to the smoking section. Or someplace else where losing face is still in style.

These will be on sale until Labor Day, half off (hee). After that, expect to pay full price.

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My favorite word today is whoops. Adj., why me? Def. A minor spill of water in your genital area makes it less appealing for you to arise and go to the restroom.

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(*How many times do I have to tell you: The title of these pieces seldom has anything to do with the content. But they is damn good titles. J. K. Rowling is always after me to do titles for her books, so I guess it's okay to tell you that No. 7 in the Potter series will be "Harry, Harry, Quite Contrary, the Half-Crazed Spook.")

It's Always Just Right in 'The Home'

It has turned out that there is no place in the United States that is "just right" when it comes to weather. Except here in My Old Folks' Home where we have heat registers and air conditioning and so, of course, it is perfect all the time.

But for you people who have to Go Outside, there is no perfect. Hawaii comes pretty close, but they get rain and tsunamis and lava belches, so there's some demerits right there.

No place in the William Penn and Lewis and Clark country is worth shit year-around. Lots of people from the northern climes go to Arizona in the winter. And they get the hell out of there along about April when the temperature goes up to 120 or so. So there's your Arizona demerits.

Lots of people leave Florida in the summer to go up to Chicago and Dyersburg, Tennesee*, so they can get in on the high humidity. So Florida. chock full of people and alligators, is no paradise, especially when it comes to items like Andrew, Ivan and Charley. Huge demerits for those boys.

You got your people living in Maine in the rain. And the snow. Screw that.

People live in North Dakota and South Dakota where it's either hotter than hell or colder than hell. (How this works is beyond me, but that's the way it is.) People live in Tornado Alley -- Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Missouri, Illinois -- and get their shit blown around regularly. No thanks.

Ice fishing up in Minnesota and Wisconsin and Michigan. Think of it. It has to be damn cold for those lakes to freeze over. Who needs it? Those people could be in Arizona waiting for a chance to get out of there when it gets hot. Then they could go back to Michigan and enjoy that stupid humidity.

You see how this works? People bounce around to get comfy and first thing they know it's all gone to hell and their balls are sweating or freezing. There is just no happy middle ground for balls.

Pretty soon everybody will be living in an Old Folks' Home where we got as little or as much heat as we need, and all the air conditioning anybody could want so our balls don't sweat.

It would be nice, though, if they could put up a ice fishing pond that we could use in the summer. That would be about perfect.

(* This is for my buddy who has nothing to mow but dead grass, seed pods, dirt and molehills, Poopsie at Poop Happens.)

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My favorite phrase today is never again. Adj., my poor head. Def.: The lie you tell yourself the next morning after a heavy bout of drinking.

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Speaking of balls...

A Birthday Is Followed by Pestilence

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MILLIE GARFIELD

Millie Garfield was born Aug. 18, 1925. She is one of the oldest known writers on the Internet.

Go wish Millie Happy 80th Birthday at My Mom's Blog.

I read somewhere about a b**gger in Canada who is older than Millie, but I can't find the source. Scientists put this in the category of "too bad." All I know for sure is that Millie has me beat by five years.

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About all a person in a Used Up Folks' Home has to do is watch television, read, and think. Sometimes you can think while watching TV or reading, if you can multi-task like I can. So I was reading an Internet piece by a lady who got Lyme disease and at the same time I was thinking about pestilence.

You don't hear a lot about pestilence these days. The word has sort of gone passe' in favor of "crisis" or "disaster" or "epidemic". But it is wise to be warned of pestilence, since it might get popular again. In case it does, here are the Top 10 things to worry about:

1. Having an A branded on your chest, a la Hester Prynne.
2. 666 or 616. There is some debate, now, about Satan's number. Stay tuned.
3. Kudzu. It has eaten the South and it is coming your way, Yankee.
4. West Nile virus. It is unfortunate that a lovely place like the Nile gets associated with a terrible disease. But then I guess we wouldn't have Cock peculiar tumor, named for Edward Cock.
5. The aforementioned Lyme disease. This is caused by a tiny tick that leaves a bulls-eye mark on your skin. This is so its cousin, the yellow jacket, knows where to sting.
6. AIDS. You don't want to get this. A lot of people already have it and they seem to want to share. Don't accept the offer.
7. Chlamydia. This is sexually transmitted, so the best thing to do is not have any sex. Doctors like this disease because there is a lot of money in curing chlamydia.
8. Texans.
9. Bacon fat. This artery clogger was invented by Francis Bacon who wanted to be remembered for something after everybody quit crediting him with writing Shakespeare's plays.
10. (Tie) Congress, Dubya, gout.

Notice that this is only the Top 10. You also need to worry about No. 11, zebra mussels, and No. 12, bombs.

Do not worry about global warming. It either will, or it won't.

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My favorite word today is huh? N., something missing. Def.: The word used when in examining your notes for your next Internet piece you come across a cryptic abbreviation.

10 Commandments and Amendments

Ol' Hoss is infamous. I am mentioned in a story about eldlerly b**ggers written for General Media, which owns a bunch of newspapers in North and South Carolina, Virginia, Florida and Alabama. If'n you wanna see it you can click hereabouts: General Media.

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"Exodus" is a damn good word. It don't get used much, though. People got so used to sayin' "migrate" and "emigrate" that "exodate" just went out of style. It would be good down on the Mexican border: "Hey, amigos, let's swim across the Rio Grande exodus to the U.S.A."

It was Moses what invented the word "exodus" when he was over there wading in water afflicted with the red tide disease and talkin' to God 'n' stuff. It was while he was on that long vacation that he got some good ideas from God on how people oughta act. Before this, people didn't have any rules, which scientists have put in the category of "too bad." Politicians especially need rules for other people to live by so they can screw the people who are living by the rules.

It has been a long time since the Ten Commandments has been updated, so I'm gonna take care of that. Cripes, I have to do everything.

1. Thou shalt have no other gods before me except during the 13 weeks of "American Idol."

2. Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven images except for the Oscar Awards, which during times of metal shortages, like during World War II, shalt be made out of wood.

3. Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain. If you are going to say goddam, no capitals, please. HE kind of likes the nickname "Big Ernie."

4. Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy. Most popular holidays shalt fall on Monday (except for My Boy's birthday) so as to give the faithful a three-day weekend.

5. Honor thy father and mother. It is especially bad form to add the word "fucker" to the word "mother." In Big Ernie's eyes, this is a major no-no.

6. Thou shalt not kill, except for kudzu, mosquitoes, blow flies and people who have the misfortune of living in Red states.

7. Thou shalt not commit adultery. (This Commandment is presently on hold while the states sort out the definition. Most everybody agrees that adultery can only be committed by adults, given the root derivation of the word, which is Hebrew for "diddle.")

8. Thou shalt not be caught stealing.

9. Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor unless he's rich and living in Neverland.

10. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass...

There's more, but I am knocked out by the image of a guy chiseling into stone something about grabbing ass.

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My favorite word today is bizarre. Adj., the stars at night. Def.: Description of the dress at least one New York designer will provide for an actress at the Academy Awards ceremony.

Where Do Jersey Cows Come From?

I have this buddy, named Debi, who lives over there in Jersey. Only this isn't Jersey as in New Joisey, but Jersey as in a Channel Island just off France (but is part of the United Kingdom). Jersey is so little (46 sq. mi.) that it would fit inside my home county, but then it wouldn't have ocean all around it.

Jersey is where Jersey cows were invented. There is a littler island just north named Guernsey, which is where Guernsey cows were invented. I have been thinking about inventing a cow, but a cow named Horse probably wouldn't sell too well. "A Man Called Horse" was a good movie, though.

Debi has "tagged" Ol' Hoss with one a them "meme" thingies. So I'll get right on it.

What I was doing 10 years ago:

I was golfing at the Salem Golf Club. I did that every day, back then. I wish she had asked "What were you doing 25 years ago?" Then I could have said I was making a hole-in-one on No. 8 at the Salem Golf Club. But, no, she asked about 10 years ago, so you'll not get to read about my hole-in-one on No. 8 at the Salem Golf Club 25 years ago.

What I was doing 5 years ago:

I was playing gin rummy at the Salem Golf Club. When I got bummed out playing golf I shifted to gin rummy as I am a good card player, as you would expect. But a lot of cripples who quit playin' golf before I did had studied up on the gin nuance and I lost a lot of money. Most of those guys have died. I hope they rot. They probably will.

What I was doing 1 year ago:

I was playing on-line bridge and I had for a partner this dimwitted lady from France who did not understand that an electronic knee-nudge was the signal for 6 spades. She probably thought it was an invitation to whip up a menage a trois or some of that other salacious creepy French stuff.

What I was doing yesterday:

It was the day here in the Home for Us Golden Agers that we get our apartment cleaned. The cleaner is the former night manager, who is hot hot hot. If I could get a picture of some flames on here you could see just how hot she is. I could hardly bring myself to look at the big tatoo on her back when she leaned over to clean the shower. And so she wouldn't be embarrassed I stood there with my hands at the ready in case her titties fell out of her T-shirt when she vacuumed under my chair and I would be able to tuck 'em right back in. They didn't fall out, so I guess all in all it was a pretty dull day. Oh, I read some pieces written by my Internet buddies. They were all pretty lame.

Five snacks that I like:

Did you know that Corn Dogs are also known as Pronto Pups? Also: Glenfiddich Scotch, Fried Twinkies, Uno bars and whatever Angie thinks would be good for me. Angie is the queen of the Internet recipe, trust me.

Five things I would do with $100,000:

I would probably get 5 x $20,000 worth of lottery tickets. And then I would say, "Easy come, easy go."

Five locations I would run away to:

This is easy. A lot of my readers is hot women. I wish I had a picture of some flames somewhere on this page so I could show you how hot they are. There are at least five I want to get next to (*wink wink*). I would name names if it were required, but it isn't. (Women who want to know if they're on my hot list can eMail me at nowayamitellingyou@bugspot.com. But save yourself some time. If you are a female, you are on it. If you are a male, you might not be.)

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My favorite word today is silly. Adj., that's so lame. Def.: How you look when trying to imitate Gene Wilder in "Young Frankenstein" when he is told by Igor to "walk this way."

I'm in Connecticut Today

My buddy Whizzer has got all my stuff today on accounta I promised I would guest post for her. This is not like me, but I am doing this for free. So if you want to visit with Ol' Hoss, kindly click on Where's Whizzer? She lives in Connecticut, so that's where Hoss will be today. (I like Whizzer a lot, so I'm even giving her my favorite word of the day. Don't tell her. She gets the big head real easy.)

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The older you get the better you realize you were. --Anon.

Tenting Tonight on the Old Campground

I remember going to Camp. And today, Camp is still a big deal for little kids. Even big kids. You got your basic skills camp, your swimming camp, your tennis camp, your basketball camp, church camp, Campfire camp, Girl Scout/Boy Scout camp.

Usually these camps have a cute name, like Builders, Pioneers, Hoopers, Boy-Meets-Girl-Under-Close-Supervision. Then all the kids learn the lingo where everything that's said is followed by "between the sheets" and all the campers laugh and laugh but it isn't that funny. ("We're going to play footsie ping-pong today, gang," says the counselor. "Between the sheets!" respond the campers. Like I said, it isn't funny.)

Ol' Hoss is thinking about developing a Camp for kids somewhere up in the Cascade Mountains to get a leg up on Making My Pile. If we get up there far enough we will be pretty safe from the pedophiles down here on the flatlands, so that's a plus that will appear prominently in my advertising campaign.

I am not sure at this point if Camp Hoss will need a theme. Bowling for Dollars comes to mind. If I had to choose one right now it would be to teach the kids how to cook, at which I am very good. See, what you do is you heat up a flat rock with some fire made by rubbin' some sticks together. You tear the center out of a piece of Wonder bread and put the bread on the rock. Then you crack an egg open and deposit it in the hole in the bread on the rock.

Fried egg! Listen, if I can teach a bunch of kids how to fry eggs, they can make their Momma and Poppa plenty happy on Mother's Day and Father's Day. Moms and Pops ought to pay me plenty to get fried egg in bed once a year.

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My favorite phrase today is how nice. Adj., lying through your teeth. Def.: One of the stock phrases to be used when shown the child's latest feeble effort to draw anything.

How to Make a Root Beer Float

The headline of this piece has nothing to do with its content, as usual. I'm just checking to see if there is anybody in the world who does not know how to make a root beer float.

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This is "short-shrift Saturday," where I do my worst work because nobody comes to visit on Saturday because they're not at work. People only surf the Internet when they're at work.

Ho ho har de har har. One of the finest tongue-in-cheek stories of the year comes, of course, from Great Britain, where a newspaper is reporting on sales of women's thongs:

"Sales of thongs remain firm among women aged 25 and under....But demand from older women continues to sag."

The headline? "Bottom Falling Out of Thong Market."

For this I am indebted to my buddy Shane. The whole story is here.

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My buddy Laura recently axed a guy from her b**groll on account of he was excessively nasty about Chelsea Clinton. Excessively. Good for her.

This reminds me of something. I am going to axe from my Geriatric Ward anybody who has the temerity to demean pay toilets. There is a lot of money in pay toilets. So don't be pissing on pay toilets and you'll be okay in my book.

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My favorite word today is collection. N., cleaning up. Def.: The tiny bottles of shampoo and the cheap shower caps that you have brought home from motels and keep forgetting to use.

Sister Makes Leaving Pay Off

I don't know if I told you this, but I have to tell you this because I know how much you'll miss Carolina Sister. She is moving to Portland, Oregon. Here's a picture of her son giving their car a fill-up.

Sister says she's moving to Portland to be closer to.... well, I can't remember what she'll be closer to. Salem, where I live, is closer to the ocean. The Willamette River goes through Portland but it goes right through the middle of Salem and is only three-four stones' throws from where we live. Five stones into the wind.

It could be that she wants to be closer to Japan. I give Portland that. Japan is a lot closer to Portland than it is to Salem. So is Russia and some other places, but Salem is closer to San Francisco, which may be a bad thing because of all the homos down there. I bet the homos in San Francisco wished they lived in Salem because they'd be closer to Canada where they could get married. Well, that'd be all right. I got nothing against homos. Some of my best friends aren't homos.

So Carolina is having this "garage" sale in her room here in The Home on the Deranged. I go in and see she has 21 rolls of toilet paper that look suspiciously like the t.p. that The Home puts in the public restrooms.

Hoss: "That looks like the t.p. they put in the public restrooms."

Carolina Sister: "Well, they just keep putting that paper in there and a lot of it doesn't get used right away so I bring it in here for safekeeping. Take some, it's only 40 cents a roll."

Hoss: "Uh, what about this stuff in the corner, the sheets, and pillow cases and cotton dresses. Won't you need that stuff in Portland?"

Sister: "Oh, no. All that stuff is from the lost and found here. There's lots of good stuff in the lost and found. You have to get there early, though."

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Ol' Hoss knows no foreign languages but has a vast appreciation for any mother tongue that gifts me with such truths as:

Para todo mal, mezcal, y para todo bien, tambien. ("As a remedy for everything bad, mezcal; and to celebrate everything good, mezcal too.")

(Mezcal is the one that comes with the worm in it. Believe it or not, the worm was put in originally to give the booze a better taste.)

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My favorite word today is leavings. Vb., possibly borscht. Def.: Placing in the refrigerator a leftover that is too small to make a meal but cannot be thrown out until it is sufficiently moldy.

But You're Probably Clueless

Several of my Internet buddies lately have asked their readers questions about themselves. See, they want to figure out if anybody's been paying attention. So Ol' Hoss has figured this is a game two can play, so here are some questions about me. Let's see how well you have committed my previous pieces to memory.

The top prize in this contest is you get to respect me in the morning.

1. How old am I?

A. Real old
B. Older than that
C. One foot in the grave
D. 74 314/365ths

2. What is my chief aim in life?

A. Bedding Hulk Hogan
B. To get through the "10 items" line with 11
C. To shit on a seagull
D. To Make My Pile

3. Where was I born?

A. In the Maudlin family outhouse
B. In Abe Lincoln's outhouse
C. In the Greyhound Bus Station shitter
D. In a house in Bend, Oregon, that soon will be on the Historic Homes list

4. What is my whole name?

A. Asshole

5. What was my main occupation?

A. Shoeing the fisherman
B. Gutting transients
C. Learning to spell opthalmology
D. Scribbler of little repute

6. What is my favorite drink?

A. Boilermaker, with Ovaltine chaser
B. Ovaltine, with Boilermaker chaser

7. Why do I b**g?

A. Because it was there
B. Because it was you
C. To teach little children how to swear
D. Aesop, Ambrose Bierce, Mark Twain and George Carlin were in need of replacement.

That's it. Keep your answers to yourself. Nobody got hurt. Just move along.

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My favorite word today is nirvana. Adj., sweet tooth. Def.: Finding in the back of your child's closet an overlooked Halloween candy bar.

Cerebral Is as Cerebral Does

Yesterday I allowed as how I was gonna bail out Internet b**ggers who got writer's cramp from goin' brain dead. Part of my plot to Make My Pile is to secretly substitute for these people with some topical topics. For a price.

Some Internet writers find they got nothin' interesting to say so they rely on formula pap, like "Uninteresting Things in My Junk Drawer," or "What We Had at Burger King." Instead of that, they can hire Ol' Hoss, the Master Internet Double. They give me their user name and password and I will tap into their site and post some spellbinding stuff in their name. Nobody will be the wiser, except me and the poor sap who is payin' me.

Here are the categories in which I am offering services:

Gardening: Types of Fish to Use in the Corn Row
Child Rearing: The Kids Were So Cute Today
Child Rearing: Did I Really Give Birth to These Monsters?
Comedy: Bad Jokes and Good ($5 off if permitted to use the F-bomb)
Vacations: Without Gnats, $30; With Gnats, Free
Rants: Any Subject Except George Bush, who needs no help making himself look like an asshole
Walmart: That Bitch in Aisle 3 Never Watches Where She's Going
Weird Science: Which Came First, the Opossum or Lois Lane
Man-Eating Sharks: List of Stomach Contents, Alphabetical Order
Movie Reviews: (This piece will be free, because Ol' Hoss does not go to the movies. All movie reviews will say: "This stinks. Don't go to the movies and you'll never see another bad one.")

The cheapest standard pot-boiler I got is "Blogger Ate My Piece Again Today."

The line forms to the left.

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My favorite word today is suckered. Adj., doilies abound. Def.: How the person feels who has patterned her life after Martha Stewart.

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(You know, I better rethink this Master Internet Double idear. It sounds a lot like work, and if I have to work to Make My Pile, I ain't very interested.)

I Can Do It For You Wholesale

There's a lotta Bible study here in The Old Folks' Home. Some people is naturally worried about the hereinafter; they get kind of morose, really, which is too bad. It is especially bad because if they read the Bible atall they would know they's supposed to be happy.

In the fourth chapter of Philippians, Ol' Paul* says, "I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation."

Don't that sound just like your buddy Ol' Hoss? "Happy as a clam." "Oh Happy Day." "Happier than a two-peckered billy goat."

The problem is that this might work to my disadvantage in my new occupation. If you're happy all the time how can you rant effectively about bumble-dick government, bad porn, taxes, and impertinent children? But I guess I gotta do it because there's such a need: I am gonna be writing Internet pieces for people whose wells have run dry.

I probably haven't told you about this before. See, what I went and done is incorporate myself as "Master Internet Double." People are gonna hire me as secret agent to write their Internet pieces when they got nothing to say but don't want their readers to know they has run out of material. There is no greater shame than to run out of material and be left b**gging on such topics as:

"The various colors of puke"
"I guess I'll go to bed now"
"Even coffee isn't helping this morning"
"Here's another one from the archives"
"Maybe I'll have something tomorrow"

Maybe I'll have something tomorrow on my categories of service, with a price list. Well, actually, there's no maybe about it. Hoss always has something tomorrow.

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My favorite word today is guess. Vb., that's odd. Def.: What you do when you see in the midriff of a sunbather what is either an "outie" belly button or a large piece of lint.

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* Paul, also known as Saul, was a tent-maker in real life. You thought all tent-makers were named Omar, didn't you?

The Color of Hoss

I really think I am onto something this time. There could be big bucks in this one. In which case Making My Pile will be assured.

For anybody who hasn't been here afore, Ol' Hoss desperately needs to make a pile of money before he gets figuratively buried on the Lone Prairie because he don't plan to be buried but to be cremated. And it is expensive to take care of these particular cremains, which is funeral director-speak for ashes and bone splinters.

See, what I been thinking is to have my ashes attached to Halley's Comet so you can see me coming your way every 76 years or so. I also have contemplated having these cremains attached to a gray whale so I would get to go south every winter. Cold weather kind of conflicts with my idea of happiness.

Well, I don't need to decide this today because my doctor said I have two years left. Now that was in March, so I guess now I have 1 and 2/3rds years left. Plenty of time to make life or death decisions about wise use of cremains. One thing I have decided is that I want my cremains remaining all together so that when the medicos figure out how to cure what killed me they'll be able to reconstitute me, sorta like they do with freeze-dried food.

So the bottom line is I gotta make some money to pay for all this, and what better way than to invent a new color? I have spent a lot of time on this. I don't have a kitchen, so I've had to do my scientific work in the bathtub, which is okay because I am not making bathtub beer.

I have been in touch with the Crayola people and, naturally, they is intrigued, because as any fool knows, 120 colors is not enough. People everywhere are demanding new colors for their shirts, ties, shoestrings and footballs. And if there is one thing Ol' Hoss is good at (and there is), it is meeting pent-up demand. Remember how I invented the Budweiser bottles made out of bacon cracklings? "Meal in a Bottle", I called it. Unfortunately I didn't make any money on it because the Chinese can make bottles out of imitation bacon cracklings a lot cheaper than I can.

Bein's as I am a nice guy, I am going to tell you what color this new color is. It's frobitzer. Don't that sing? You got that in your mind's eye, what a swell color frobitzer is?

Well, maybe you don't. It's kind of hard to describe. It's sorta red but more like bronze with seafoam green and maybe some wood lavender. You'll know it when you see it.

I hope Crayola doesn't take more than a year and two-thirds to pay me.

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My favorite word today is red-faced. Adj., sorry about that. Def.: In brushing a fly off a lady in the bar you discover it's a wart.

The Well Runneth Dry

I can only say, in self-defense, that I posted 11 times yesterday at Wisconsin Chris's Blogathon charity deal, and I have not had time to patrol the halls here at the Old Folks' Home. Consequently, I don't know who has died recently, or how funny it was. Some people die off better than others; I only report on the most interesting ones.

I guess all I can tell you today is about this guy, www.thenonist.com, who has written a piece about Internet writers and suggested we go all introspective. He asks, for instance, "Why do we b**g? Is it really still fun?"

Here's the summation of his little pamphlet:

B**gging "need not ruin lives or waste perfectly good URLs."

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My favorite word today is depilatory. N., pretty hairy. Def.: What you'd like to buy for the girl with great legs, but don't dare.

I'm Not Here This Morning

I am not here today. I am posting a bunch of times over at the blogathon page of Wisconsin Chris, who has promised to post every half hour for 24 hours in a campaign to raise money for the Elton John Aids Foundation. So I will be at this place at mid-day Wisconsin time, and then again later on.

However, since you're here, you might as well get in on the latest pro-environment hobby, slug training. If I can get slugs to find their way through this salt maze I don't know what good it will be but it's gotta be good for something. For instance, this is a lot better than clubbing harp seal pups. And it sure beats training pigeons to shit on people who are downtown shopping, which is what was happening in this space yesterday.

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From my buddy Oz of Australia:

This Easterner is explaining to the Westerner how he finally achieved the life of his dream, owning a cattle ranch.

Easterner: "The hard part was coming up with a name for the ranch. We finally settled on 'Double R Lazy L Triple Horseshoe Bar-7 Lucky Diamond Ranch.'"
Westerner: "How many cattle you got?"
Easterner: "None of them survived the branding."

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My favorite word today is open. Adj., at the ready. Def.: The shape of a mouth waiting to spew its two-bits worth while somebody else is carrying on.

Once More Unto the Breach

There are about 500,000 words in the English language, according to my dictionary freak, of which penis is only one. The average educated person knows about 20,000 words and uses 2,000 in a week, this know-it-all tells me.

It seems to me that at that rate, this average educated person would run out of words in ten days. So then he shifts to French? Which has only 160,000 words, and that's when you count such strange ones as le hit parade and le Starbuck's.

I don't know. Maybe it doesn't work that way. It would be pretty hard for me to switch to French, on accounta all I know is pinot noir, au revoir, and hunchback of Notre Dame.

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Here are the last of the 96,422 things about me, maybe:

98. When I worked on a "throwaway" newspaper in Walnut Creek, Calif., we didn't have a wire service. So anything we printed had to be written by the staff. Some days we didn't have enough news to fill the space dedicated to news. That is when I figured out that we needed to use longer words, like predicated, perspicacity and parsimonious because they take up a lot of space. It didn't matter if nobody knew what they meant because nobody was reading the damn thing anyway.

99. When I went to Willamette University, my fraternity played host one day to a member of a touring German college choir, named Peter Feiersinger. (I remember that name because it was such a good one.) At the time, I had a crewcut. Feiersinger had never seen one before. Which I found strange, since all the war movies showed the "heinies" (Germans) as blond guys with a crewcut. So I always vote against getting your education from movies.

100. Also at Willamette, I had to take American Literature. This is when I discovered, through force feeding by the instructor, that books have "messages," like slyly telling you the condition of mankind ("dire") while peddling you a Gothic romance. It wasn't good enough to read "Moby Dick" for the action; no, you also had to understand the subliminal message, which was that Darwin never saw an albino whale but would have liked to. I have always voted against American Literature professors and messages carried by pigeons who shit on people who are shopping downtown.

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My favorite word today is dope. N., braided hemp. Def.: The Boy Scout instructor whose every effort results in a granny knot.

The Good, the Bad and the Indifferent

Quite a many of you have probably noticed the dearth of poetry on this site. That is because Ol' Hoss don't cotton to poetry. The last good poetry written was "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner," and that was good only because it gave us a famous saying about albatrosses hanging around our necks. But the guy would not have been much of a shortstop:

"It is an ancient Mariner,
"And he stoppeth one of three."

He makes a clean play on only one of three balls hit to him? Sounds suspiciously like a Seattle Mariner to me.

The only other good poem was "The Rime of the Ancient Raven" by Edgar Poe, and it was good only because it warned us about getting shit on by seagulls while we're at the coast.

The problem with a lot of today's poetry is that it don't "rime." Now here is some pretty fair poetry, handwritten by Ol' Hoss:

A lot of guide dogs for the blind,
Have never seen the Golden Hind.

You see that? That's actually got prize-winning potential. And it's sort of classic because it make sense. Also, it rhymes good. A guy could start there and segue right into some iambic pentameter and maybe spew out a sonnet or two. But no; modern poetry writers like to piss around with words that sorta rhyme but by God do not rhyme. For instance:

The weather was quite cold and bitter,
About which Mark Twain often nattered.

No way on God's green earth does "bitter" rhyme with "nattered." Never happen. You might as well say that "gargantuan" rhymes with "huge mother sucker." Hoo boy, that kind of writing pisses me off.

There is only one kind of poetry that really ought to be pandered to. That's the kind that has a message, sort of like a Sunday serrmon. Here's what I mean:

"Time and tide wait for no man, and then kick ass, man."

"One fish, two fish, three fish, go fish,
"Be real careful when you're trimmin' blowfish."

"You ought to eat an apple a day,
"Unless you're really interested in buyin' your doctor another goddam Cadillac, and that ain't hay."

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My favorite word of the day is rube. N., dumbass. Def.: A guy who goes around inventing phrases we've heard a hundred times, like "Life is just a bowl of cherry bombs."