For Want of a Mill a Hot Dog Stand Is Born

Jimmy Whetlip is sort of new here in The Manor of the Old Folks Bred, so I don't know much about him. I DO know he's one of those exacting kinds of guys -- you know, "My piece of pie is littler than his piece of pie." "My room is one square foot less than you advertised."

So it didn't surprise me none to see him parked at the gas pumps arguing with the attendant. I parked at another pump and went over to see what was the hassle.

Jimmy to the Attendant: "No, I want exact change."

Attendant: "I can't make exact change. The U.S. Mint did not make any mills yet."

Hoss: "Hi, Jimmy, S-up?"

Jimmy: "I drove in here and asked for exactly one gallon of gasoline, which costs $2.89 9/10. I am offering him full price when he can make change."

Hoss: "Uh, Jimmy, there ain't no one-mill coins.'

Jimmy: "Then how come they advertise in mills? Nine/tenths is nine mills. Ten mills is a penny. I want what's mine, and what I want is one mill in change. And I'm going to sit here till I get it."

Well, you know what happened after that. More of us came to realize he was In the Right, and we all ordered one gallon of gas, just on principle. So, at first there was a hot dog stand. Then a full-blown 7-11 store came in. Starbucks built on the corner, a bank came in, a bed and breakfast, GI Joe's with their sleeping bags, a mattress store, a dirty book store, hookers, drifters, crackheads and cops -- pretty soon it was just a normal American neighborhood.

My car's still down there. I notice the service station attendant is getting a little long in the tooth.

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The last year I played at the Salem Golf Club, one of my friends, Leo, was getting married for the eighth time! He asked another friend, Brad, if he was coming to the wedding.

"I can't make it, Leo. I'll catch the next one."

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My favorite word today is Enroning. Ger., let's hear it for the home team. Def.: Anonymous comments written by you on your own b**g praising what you wrote today.

A Short Little Tiny Teeny Meme Thingie

Ol' Hoss was tagged by his new buddy Stacie to do a little meme: "Go into your archives, find your 23rd post, 5th sentence, and report what it is." Hoo boy, talk about wisdom for the ages: 23rd post, 5th sentence is

"And the Drying of the Cement."

Now, I didn't linger over there, that being so long ago, but I guess what was happening was that Merle Hertz and I were practicing this new Olympic event, where you see who can sit the longest waiting for cement to dry. When you live in an Old Folks' Home like Merle and me, you take your Olympic events as you find them.

Merle outlasted me, though, when he said: "You know, Hoss, I am going to scratch my name in that new cement. For posterity. And because I only did it once when I was a kid and my Dad whopped me with a razor strop." I said I ain't gonna be a party to scratching holes in no $2,000 concrete job and went back to my room to watch Bob Barker try to keep his teeth in when he said "Go down on me!," or whatever it is he says.

Later I went to see what Merle done, and this is what he put in the cement:

M*Y* *N*A*M*E*.

The gutless wonder. My guess is Merle's Dad is still alive and has still got a razor strop.

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"Yankees suck." Even though the Boston Red Sox are out of the baseball playoffs, they still despise the Yankees. I looked into this. The leading industry in Boston is The Yankee Suckage T-Shirt, Bumper Sticker and Refrigerator Magnet Co. (In second place is lottery tickets on how fat Ted Kennedy will get before he explodes.)

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What a husband who wants to keep living DOES NOT say to his pregnant wife:

"Not to imply anything, but I don't think the kid weighs 40 pounds."

Or,

"Got milk?"

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My favorite phrase today is tuning up. Vb., when sufficiently bored. Def.: Throwing a great number of stones into an abandoned well in an effort to change the echo from baritone to tenor.

Petered

I stole these penguins from somebody. Sorry about failure to give credit. Just whistle while you work.

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This is Sunday and I rested, and so I don't have much. I am petered out. There is a tavern in Portland, Oregon, named "Peter's Inn." I think "inn" is different from "out." Better, too.

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A couple of things from the two Ronnies on BBC, handed to me by the sage Ozguru.

Ronnie Barker: "The perfect crime was committed last night, when thieves broke into Scotland Yard and stole all the toilets. Police say they have nothing to go on."

Ronnie Corbett:"We've just heard that in the English Channel a ship carrying red paint has collided with a ship carrying purple paint. It's believed both crews have been marooned."

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My favorite word today is ready. N., embarrassingly obvious. Def.: The outline of a Trojan long carried in the wallet's secret compartment that apparently will never be needed.

(A note to Ann Adams: You invited me to visit. I can't. The link to your page, rocrobelgranny, does not work. Maybe you will see this and tell me you fixed it.)

Tell Me Where It Hurts

Today, Ol' Hoss will explain to you your latest politically corrected position. You are now officially in favor of polygamy.

Well, anyway, I am. I got to thinking about things that I am for and against, and it dawns on me that I should not be against anything that doesn't hurt me. I am plenty against hurt. You might be, too, for all I know. What I mean is, how damaging is it to me, or my bank balance, or my full dinner pail, if three women want to knowingly marry one stud? I am not talking about 12-year-olds assigned to Uncle Cotton-Eye Joe from Day 1. I am talking willingly and knowingly.

So you can add that to things I don't object to, like abortion, death with dignity (assisted suicide), gays, lesbians, blacks, Jews, Indians, the Washington Redskins, redskin peanuts, and banjo players. None of that stuff hurts me. Does it hurt YOU? If so, how, exactly? I draw the line at mimes, book bans, and Dubya, though. I have my limits.

I am not even especially ill-disposed to murderers. Some of their targets "have it coming." Murderers are the best parole risk. And if they don't put the murder on me, well, what the hell?

(I just asked my wife about adding murderers to the list of things that are "okay". I take one raised eyebrow as a "no." So scratch that. Tom Cruise? Another scratch.)

Mimes offend my sense of humor, so that hurts. Book bans offend my sense of civility, so that hurts. Dumbya offends my sense of sense:

"Our journey from national independence to equal injustice includes the enslavement of millions." --Riga, Latvia, May 7, 2005.

"But you can serve your country, as well, by feeding the hungry, or finding shelter for the homeless, or helping a low-income person fill out a tax reform." --New Jersey, March 4, 2005.

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My favorite word today is incontinent. Adj., domiciled. Def: What you say when you wish to be more vague than saying you are "in residence."

All About the Washington Redskins

This place in Oregon is called Squaw Tit Mt. Washington. I remember being on top of Pilot Butte in my hometown of Bend in 1946, though, looking at a U.S. Geologic Survey brass plate pointing to various peaks on the skyline, and this one pointer was aimed at "Squaw Tit." But that was considered politically incorrect, so later on it was changed to honor George Washington, who didn't need any more honors. They shoulda named it for Madonna. Or for the movie "Tin Cup."

We got a lot of political incorrectedness here in Oregon. A state law passed in 2001 said all 150 places with "squaw" in the name had to be changed. It is slow going. So far, the Oregon Geographic Names Board has changed the name of only 10. A new suggestion is that Squaw Creek in Sisters, Oregon, be renamed to Whychus, an Indian word meaning "where we cross the water." BFD. That creek is so shallow, if you had on a pair of my Toestub Preventers (my brilliant piece of two days ago), you could wade it and not get your socks wet.

We got towns in Linn County named Berlin, Waterloo, and Liverpool. Some people tried to change the name of Berlin during World War II. Fat chance; it was named for a local dignitary, not Berlin, Choimany. Something bad happened in Waterloo. The Beatles grew up in Liverpool.

Down in Klamath County is Unnecessary Mountain, named by some little girls who were making a fantasy list of things unnecessary, like Mosquito (Malheur County) and Deadmen (Wallowa County).

There is nothing pending to again change the name of Whorehouse Meadows. It was changed in 1971 to "Naughty Girl Meadows," then back to "Whorehouse Meadows" in 1981. It was a tent camp erected to serve the needs of cattle ranchers and sheepherders over in Eastern Oregon.

One wonders why sheepherders needed women.

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From my buddy Oz: "Do not try to solve all life's problems at once -- learn to dread each day as it comes." --Donald Kaul.

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My favorite phrase today is power up. Vb., pain and strain. Def.: Striving to increase the pressure of your pee outflow in an attempt to break up the cigarette someone has thrown in the urinal (not an Olympic sport).

'Bubble and Squeak'

My buddy Debi, over there in the Isle of Jersey, says "bubble and squeak" is what we would call tidbits, or miscella-
neous. Cute, no?

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If you started driving from Victoria, B.C., to Salt Lake City, your halfway point could be Halfway, Oregon. It would be pretty stupid to go through Halfway on your way to Salt Lake, but you could do it. Halfway only has a population of about 300, so you probably wouldn't run into any cellphone/car accidents there. What you would run into is Modern History, as wrought by The Old Folks' Home historian.

Feelgood Haines: "Hoss, you hear about the troubles in Halfway?"

Hoss: "I am faint of heart today, Feelgood, so I cain't take no bad news."

Feelgood: "Bullcrap. You're healthy as a new-vaccinated whore. Their trouble over in Halfway is they sold cheap and bought high."

Hoss: "Get it outta your system."

Feelgood: "Yessir. Back in 2000, for 20 computers and $75,000, the Town Council changed the name of Halfway, Oregon, to HALF.COM, which was a Philly internet player. This was on the Today Show, and they don't lie much, so it was true. After a year, it changed back to Halfway, so you could again be halfway between some places. Like, right now, this little town is halfway between two littler cities in Oregon, if you can imagine such a thing, Langrell and Pine. Or Nome and Atlanta."

Hoss: "That it?"

Feelgood: "Hell, no! You in a hurry to pull your pud or somethin'? Well, with this $75,000, the Halfway City Council made a down payment on a $500,000 fairgrounds building, figuring tourist income from news about HALF.COM would bring in beaucoup bux. It didn't, so the city got foreclosed on. But that ain't the worst."

Hoss: "What could possibly be worse?"

Feelgrood: "You Google for some singles matchups in Halfway and they ain't any. City is piss poor and you can't get any action. So no point in driving through there, I'd say. Damn place is halfway to nowhere."

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Flux. Flocks. Frocks. Flicks. Flacks. Fox. Fax. Bleh.

Not all the useful words start with "f".

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Short people should buy stretch limos.

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"I'm not the butcher or the butcher's son, but I'll beat your meat until the butcher comes."

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"He moved in such a way that suggested he was attempting the world speed record for the nonchalant walk." -- Terry Pratchett.

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My favorite word today is skin. N., epidermis epidemic. Def.: Item found in copious amounts at skateboard parks.

How Many of Me Could Dance on the Head of a Pin?

Do you know how hard it is to be an Internet writer when you live in an Old Bewildered Folks' Home? Well, I have it just as tough as you do. And here's what's tough:

You have various folks or various scenarios that populate your pieces. So when you write about them you just assume everybody knows what you're talking about because all your readers were here yesterday, right? Well, they weren't. So when I get involved with Feelgood Haines, I always remind you who he is ("the history buff who knows every history ever histed"). And when I tell you my plans to not die, or to only semi-die, I always explain that I need a lot of money to pay for my plan to be reincarnated. This is called "Making My Pile."

And when I mention Chinese people on my site, I am always sure to tell you that they hack me off because they steal all my good ideas for books and inventions, which has many times prevented me from Having My Pile Already Piled.

In other words, your buddy Ol' Hoss is not cryptic. You could come in 30 days ago, or 30 minutes ago, and you would know everything you need to know. For instance, if I happened to mention I had to go to WalMart to get some candles so the people here could self-immolate, you would know all the history associated with this event.

Well, all this is background to telling you my latest invention, which I hope to sell to somebody before the Chinese steal it. I am fairly well committed to the plan to Make My Pile While the Making Is Good, so here it is:

Meet the Toe Stub Prevention and Automatic Weight Loss Machine. It's easy to picture, ain't it? It's a slab of iron you strap to your feet. This iron thing extends about an inch beyond your big toe so when you get up during the night to go pee you won't stub your toes on that chair the missus moved after you went to bed.

And look at all the exercise you're going to get, clomping around the house with 5 pounds of iron strapped to each foot. That flab/cellulite/fat will come off in great globs. Your inner skinny self will magically reappear. You will be only too willing to give me testimonials. Which I won't care about because I will have sold out to Weight Watchers for enough money to reincarnate as a rhinoceros.

I guess this is new, my plan to come back as a rhino. Well, despite all I've said, I've got a soft spot in my heart for the Chinese, and they are strongly dependent upon rhino horn as an aphrodisiac. Powdered rhino horn is called Chinese Viagra, only it's called that in some funny squiggly characters that nobody can make out unless you can read Beijing grafitti.

If somebody shoots me to get my horn it won't matter because I can always come back as something equally fine, if Weight Watchers pays enough. I am smooth like that.

Now then, the only question is whether to come back as a black rhino, or a white rhino. Because I enjoy being popular, which of these would people put the least hate on?

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My favorite word today is tears. N., heart-broken. Def.: What to expect when the previously uninterested child suddenly develops a yen for the huckleberry pie of which there is no more.

Scram Gravy Ain't Wavy (Notary Sojac)*

My wife had to had a lump removed from her breast. Don't go gettin' out your joss sticks and burnin' incense for her because she's just fine. None of that metastizable stuff. What hacks her off most is the cost of the Arimidex.

Arimidex is a medicine invented by somebody so the Chairman of the Board could get paid $8 billion a year. It's sort of a preventative in case there's any bits of cancer floating around. It costs almost $600 for 90 pills. So my wife and I discussed this:

Me: "You know, we could get 200 gallons of gas for that much money."

She: "What would we do with 200 gallons of gas?"

Me: "We could help everybody in this Old Folks' Home self-immolate and have some gas left over."

She: "Can they get their own Martha Stewart-brand candles, or do you have to go to WalMart again?"

Me: "Yeah, that's kind of a downer now that gas costs so much. Okay, I'll send out for the Arimidex."

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You remember Jack Benny? He's the victim of a holdup gunsel, who says, "Your money or your life."

Benny hesitates. The gunsel says again, more firmly: "Your money or your life!"

Benny: "I'm thinking!"

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The Orchard Heights Bulletin has come out again. Here is my favorite line:

"Sadly in 1999 he passed away." Damn, I wish they'd let me edit this stuff. I coulda fixed that sentence right up:

"Cheerily in 1999 he passed away." Or,

"Angrily in 1999 he passed away." Or,

"With relief in 1999 he passed gas and away."

And I never even majored in English in college.

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My favorite word today is estimate. N., guess again. Def.: The word that eventually is followed by "We found some more things."

(*What Smokey Stover's creator, Bill Holman, told us.)

I Am 'In Residence' Elsewhere

Today I am not here. I am guest posting for my really good buddy Whizzer at Tell Me Why? I got a swell piece over there, probably. Come see.

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My favorite word today is portion. Vb., think about it. Def.: Avoiding the homeless.

Just Keeping My Hand on the Tiller

Hoo boy! I am mighty grateful for the outpouring of "Happy Birthday to Ol' Hoss" yesterday. Seventy-two comments is my world record. It may not count, though, because having a birthday is like begging for comments.

I might see how many I can get if I throw myself a pity party. For instance, how about if I announce I am about to throw on an application of athlete's foot medicine. Would maybe 70 people feel sorry for me?

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As is my long-standing (two weeks) custom, I am mostly taking today off on accounta it is a day of rest.

Somebody sent me (you) a story:

"Once upon a time a beautiful, self-assured princess happened upon a frog as she sat, contemplating ecological issues on the shores of an unpolluted lake near her castle.

"The frog jumped upon her lap and said, 'Elegant Lady, I was a handsome prince until an evil witch cast a spell upon me. One kiss from you, however, and I will turn back into the dapper young prince that I am. And then, my sweet, we can marry and set up housekeeping in your castle with my mother, where you can prepare my meals, clean my clothes, bear my children and feel grateful and happy for doing so.'

"That night, as the princess dined sumptuouosly on lightly sauteed frog legs seasoned in bechamel sauce, she chuckled and thought to herself, 'I don't freaking think so.'"

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The following is not to blow my own horn but to give credit where credit is due. This appeared, in connection with my birthdays, in my comments section a couple days ago. It is by my good pal Bonnie, who went to Michigan State Agricultural & Veterinary:

Ode to Gene:

On this penultimate day of Gene's 74th year,
He claims to be peculiar, rather than queer.

The irony of his last name is one of life's riches,
Hoss is never maudlin and keeps us in stitches.

I daily come by and mind what Hoss says,
From strange definitions to "the Family Pez."

He's always right: that Hoss is no fool,
Except when he cheers for Michigan's WRONG school!

His love for Betty is especially nice.
He loved her so much he married her twice.

Happy Birthday tomorrow and on Sunday too...
The world would be poorer if not for you.

(Aw, shucks.)

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My favorite word today is lambaste. Vb., flirting and such. Def.: Hitting on the young ones in the sheep bar.

Five Years' Worth of Bonus Days

HOO BOY!! Ol' Hoss is now 75!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Of course you know what that means. It means I have had 5 years worth of bonus days. See, in the Bible it only promises "three score and 10," a "score" being 20 and 10 being 10, for the calculus challenged. Almost all of you people have not had any bonus days, and you won't get 'em unless you quit mouthing off to the guy in the next lane over who's got a bad case of the road rage.

HOO BOY!! Tomorrow Ol' Hoss will be 75!!!!!!!!!!!>

If you want the refresher course on why I get two birthdays, it is here. Today I am 27,394 days old. I wonder how much time I have wasted on people who said, "Wait a minute" or "Gimme a sec"? You can find out how many days old you are by going to this site. There is some other uninteresting stuff there, too. Like, you know, like the heat produced by burning 75 candles.

This site says, "The heat produced by burning 75 candles would boil 8.57 ounces of water. If you recall, asswipe, you burned 74 candles last year, which is the sole cause of global warming."

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I am glad you mentioned candles, for this reminded me of what happened yesterday here at The Olden People's Home. We found one of the inmates, old Ferdie Minuette, sitting on the driveway soaked in gasoline. As Ol' Hoss has a way of getting to the meat of the coconut (proved yesterday), it was left to me to figure this out.

Hoss: "'S-up, Ferd?"

Ferdie: "I will soon self-immolate to protest the linen service at this place. 'Tis a far better thing that I do than I have ever done.' Got that out of 'Tale of Two Cities.'"

Hoss: "You're bein' a little hard on our Administrator, aren'cha? This might cause her to puddle up."

Ferdie: "I don't care. If they ain't gonna iron my sheets there's no point of going on any longer. You got a match?"

I opened up my Zippo, turned the wheel, got a good flame going and tossed it to him reconsidered. I suddenly remembered what it said in Martha Stewart's latest book:

"If you come across someone who wishes to self-immolate, correct procedure is to touch him off with a tapered candle, not a Zippo. Twelve-inch tapers are suitable, but the more stylish immolations occur by offering the soakee a 14-inch taper."

Hoss: "Crap, Ferdie. I ain't got a 14-inch taper on me. Come on, I'll drive you to WalMart. You got any preference about what color candle you wanna immolate with?"

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My favorite word today is outsource. N., we've been jobbed. Def.: The place in The Philippines you go for uninformation.

Hoss Knocks Off Another 'Meme'

My Australian buddy Ozguru has laid a meme on me. That's okay. I am really good at stuff involving me, and when it's a "double me" is when I really shine. He says, "Name five idiosyncracies."

My first reaction is, "How did he know I was peculiar?" My second reaction is, "How do I narrow down the list?"

1. I have all my original teeth. They are in a jar. Some have gold on them. Unfortunately, these teeth, being a second set, did not qualify for a visit from The Tooth Fairy, so the gold represents my entire estate. Maybe this isn't idiosyncratic.

2. I didn't have my first beer until I was 14. Most kids in the 1930's and 1940's had beer a lot sooner than that. And then I QUIT drinking beer until I was 15! This counts as being peculiar.

3. I have been married 5 times, twice to the same (present) wife. Women taste good. Mickey Rooney was married 8 times. He is more peculiar than I am.

4. I ALWAYS put on my left right left (?) sock first. But nowadays I don't wear socks, just slippers, everywhere I go. I think I will be cremated with my slippers on, because when I go, I want to be comfortable.

5. I am quick to make fun of pe0ple, like cripples, ethnic groups, accordion players, Jews, and diamond merchants because they are all Jews. Wait a minute..... I guess this is pretty normal, sort of The American Way. Maybe I better add one to the list just to cover my traces with Oz.

6 (provisional). Coconuts are what gags the maggot. You poor saps who struggle to get into a coconut, and then struggle to get the hull off the meat are the biggest time-wasters in history. Coconut meat is not edible. Coconut milk has more cholesterol than lard. Eat the husk if you want fiber. Coconut salesmen ought to be hung up by their coconuts. I may be peculiar, but I am not queer.

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My favorite word today is conflict. (N., not to reason why.) Def.: The difference between actresses at casting ("Pick me!") and flowers in the forest ("Pick her!").

Lot's Wife Was a Salty Old Dame

While I was engaged in the Summer/Autumn of Compliments to my b**gger buddies, I mentioned that I would need a topic for when I was all done with that. The votes are in. Out of 800 page visits, I got two votes for "When Salt Lake Wasn't So Salty," and one for "Rhode Island's Pourous Borders." Fortunately, those two subjects are practically identical. The wisdom in this piece is entirely attributable to Feelgood Haines, the history buff who lives in my Old Folks' Home and who knows every history ever histed.

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Feelgood: "Have you ever floated yourself in Great Salt Lake, Hoss? Probably not, as you are such a shut-in. But in case you get a chance to go floating, you might wanna think it over two or four times. See, the Salt Lake is full of piss."

Ol' Hoss: "Anybody know if it's going to be sunny today?"

Feelgood: "You dip. Salt don't evaporate. Listen, people can float right on top of Salt Lake because it's got so much salt in it. From Mormon piss. I can see by the look on your face you wanna know all about it."

Hoss: "I am pining away."

Feelgood: "So, when the Mormons came to Utah in the 1840's, they saw right away what a great tourist attraction the Great Salt Lake would be if people could float in it. And they needed tourists because they wanted to raise money to build a Nabertacle for this great choir they had. So these Mormons would go down and swim in the lake and relieve theyselves because they knowed there was a lot of salt in pee-pee. After a few years, one of them guys started floating because they had so much salt in the water, so they declared victory and got themselves an extra wife from Brigham Young."

Hoss: "I remember that."

Feelgood: "Then they put out a bumper sticker that said, 'Walk on the Water With Jesus When He Comes.' A side effect of this campaign was they got to add a lot of out-of-state baritones and altos to the choir. But that's not the best part."

Hoss: "I knew you'd get to it."

Feelgood: "The State of Rhode Island would fit inside the boundaries of the Great Salt Lake. So that has made Rhode Island's borders really pourous, because as you know, the salt pours when it rains and water seeps everywhere, like a fart in church. Lucky for Rhode Island, the Messicans don't know about these loose borders yet."

Feelgood: "I wonder if there is salt in Rhode Island piss? A lot of those assholes drink margaritas, don't they?"

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My favorite word today is bummer. N., same as terrible, horrible, no-good day. Def.: A nostalgic reminiscence about the good old days which, on reflection, weren't really that good.

I Am Giggly Because This Is So Over

(Yesterday's art work was supposed to be a stegosaurus. I couldn't tell, either.)

This, at last, will be the final post necessary to tell you how Ol' Hoss spends his day. Having run through my b**groll, everything else is pretty anticlimactic.

2:40 p.m. -- Research for favorite word of the day. Blatherskite comes to mind. Jamie Dawn suggests a word she invented, hitonius. I invent riotonius. How about "queen"? Def.: A guy proud to be called "His Hindness." Needs work.

3 p.m. -- HAPPY HOUR! I didn't really have two Young's Deluxe Double Chocolate Stouts this morning, Shelley. (Shelley is my No. 1 daughter who decided to read my piece. Shit.) Happy Hour is two sour mash bourbons/water/ice/vodka.

3:05-5 p.m. -- Research for tomorrow's piece. Scan my wife's Presbyterian Church Bulletin, find the minister making a strong case for Bible study in school:

He laments "the fact that significant percentages of the population know nothing of what is arguably one of the most foundational pieces of literature in the world. Huge numbers of people don't know, for instance, where phrases like 'East of Eden' and 'salt of the earth' originated, or who Abraham, Moses and David were. Culturally, we are all poorer for this biblical amnesia."

Well, "Amen" to that. I had to take "Bible History" in college. I had to take Advanced Biology, too, where they taught Evolution. This is "arguably" the best of all possible worlds.

Find another gem from the minister:

"It's not surprising that people who minister to kids are under great pressure simply to keep them entertained, to make church fun. Kind of like the time when Jesus preached his first sermon in his home synagogue and they responded by trying to kill him." Jews have more fun than anybody.

5::10-6 p.m. -- Write piece for tomorrow: "When Salt Lake Wasn't So Salty, Which Is Why Rhode Island's Borders Are So Pourous." Strongly emotional stuff. A two-hanky yarn.

6:01 p.m. -- Invent a slogan for Morton's Salt: "When It Rains, It Pourous."

6:02-9 p.m. -- Boring. Dinner, Pee, TV, Bed. Wake up shortly after midnight, which is the end of the day and the end of my "How I Spend My Day" story. Whether I went pee, and whether the seat was up or down, is no longer of any interest. Made sure the toilet paper roll was configured in the "over the top" mode, though.

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My favorite word of the day is butchery. N., not good news. Def.: What you know has happened when your stylist, combing out your hair, says, "It will grow out."

My Day Is Almost Over

This is the 50th or 60th installment of "How Hoss Spends His Day." Much of which is spent visiting almost 9 dozen b**ggers.

12:32 p.m. -- Five guys I haven't told you about yet. One is GENUINE Jim Turner, in Colorado, who has a whole passel of kids 6 years old and younger, including the new-born Colton(left). Jim has near-unrivaled powers of observation, and he shares them with us. And he occasionally hosts what is known as "The Genuine Bash," where folks talk with each other via Yahoo. The observational powers thing might also be applied to Canadian Paul Sveda, but in a different way. Paul is one of the best photogs you'll find on the Internet. One of his pictures is my desktop.

12:37 p.m. -- While I am out of the country I land in Australia, where I find my buddy OzGuru, a geek's geek with some cute "Fortunes of the Day" and who keeps me posted on his beloved Sydney Swans in an Australian football league who, in a major upset, just WON the Big League championship! Then there is Daniel Freedman, another Briton, whose computer skills keep him employed and who is keeping me posted on his battle with weight. He is over 16 stones!*

12:41 p.m. -- Just before lunch arrives, I go see Robert Seifert, who is recently married and who has changed his movie: He is back in school studying music, which he says he should have done a long time ago.

12:43 p.m. -- There are a few more that I am trying to figure out, including this one black guy. I will save those for another day. There is, though, one more person you should visit, Amanda Matilda, a working mother of two who says, "I might as well be married to a potted plant." Do Amanda, and Ol' Hoss, a favor and go give her a hug.

12:45 p.m. -- Lunch arrives. Luckily, so does daughter. Off to Dairy Queen.

1:30-2:30 p.m. -- Power nap. Dream that Oregon governor I worked for wants a speech on Arbor Day. Try to think up a theme. "Have you hugged your trees today?"

2:30 p.m. -- Check my site for comments. Five, so far: 1. "Like you say, pretty lame, Hoss." 2. "Somebody told me this was funny. When?" 3. "'Next B**g' can't be worse than this." 4. "None of your links work." 5. "What's the phone number of that cute babe in your last post?"

(Hoo boy, I love me some comments.)

2:35 p.m. -- I need a topic for tomorrow's post. How about this?

From my newspaper: "A mall-based retailer, Hot Topic, says its best-selling T-shirt is one boasting about Oregon: "Come for the fishing. Stay for the strip clubs." Nah.

From my former son-in-law: "Some people are like Slinkies. They're not real good for anything. But they still bring a smile to your face when you push them down the stairs." Hmmm. Has potential.

Zoot's Mom: "Be weird whenever you have the chance." YES!

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My favorite word today is eyesore. N., I know it when I see it. Def.: Three tons of strangely shaped bronze in the city park that a committee assured the City Council is "avant garde."

(*14 pounds to the stone, for the trigonometry challenged.)

Most of the Best of the Rest

For several days, Hoss has been telling how he spends his day. Some people my age (74 360/365ths) would just be going: "Got up, peed, ate, peed, watched TV, ate, napped, peed, watched TV, ate, went to bed. Got up to pee. Got back in bed." But I discovered you, so my day is lots more interesting than that. We are up to:

12:04 p.m. A new addition to my b**groll is Theresa, who is out of the projects, the first in her family to graduate from college, and who is writing a book. She might get some help from her twins:

Twin A: "This toothpaste tastes like butt."
Twin B: "How do you know what butt tastes like?"
Twin A: "Well, you were sitting on my head in Mom's tummy."

12:06 p.m. -- Also new is Tabor, a most interesting lady whose husband grows oysters in their back yard and who years back went fishing with Che Guevara and to dinner with Castro. But enough about him. Go find out about the amusing her and the new house she is building.

12:08 p.m. -- A professor at a London university, Huw, fascinated me with this illuminating sentence:

"Call me lazy, unromantic, a dour old pessimist, a socially inept hermit, but the stresses and strains of setting out with deliberate and purposeful womanising in mind leaves me nonplussed rather than excited as convention supposes it should." Don't let on that you know, but he since found a "special somebody." We'll see. But he sure can write. And so can Texas's Follow That Star, an engineer turned hairstylist who is an absolutely brilliant writer.

12:11 p.m. -- I head over to see (at right) Karla, whom I really appreciate because she tells stories on herself. Like the time she woke up drunk in an alley, or the time she raised maggots in the trunk of her car. Worth a visit, regularly. And so is my buddy Jana, who gave us her daughter's take on a song:

Daughter: "Let the rain fall down and bake my beans, let it wash away my celery."
Real Version: "Let the rain fall down and wake my dreams, let it wash away my sanity."

12:20 p.m. -- From there to the dirty words department. My buddy Autumn, over there in Minneapolis, is the ace of strong language. You remember George Carlin's "the 7 dirty words you can't say on radio"? You are warned, but, my goodness, she is funny. I calm down with some classic photographs by my buddy Deb, whose eye for beauty is superb. And I breath a sigh of relief that we have good people like Dr. Mike, who is down in Texas volunteering his time to help flood evacuees.

12:25 p.m. -- I gotta go see Portland's Betsy, who does a little bit of everything -- politics, whimsy, stories about her kids, who I think are 9 and 11 and who both have b**gs! And I visit with Inanna, who has great West Virginia stories but who is losing her grip on strong language. This is because, according to her son (age 9 or 10), "While you were sleeping I had doctors come in and do tests and you don't have any sailor blood."

(After I am done going through my b**roll, I will tell you how to write your Internet piece: "You sit at the keyboard, open a vein, and bleed.")

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My favorite word today is hope. Adj., smoke 'em if you got 'em. Def.: The desire of smokers that it is a particle of food lodged in their throat, not cancer, that is causing them to cough.

On the 7th (1st?) Day, Hoss Rested

Like Big Ernie, Hoss needs to rest now and again. So today, watch some pro football, or catch up on the reading in the posts below.

Tomorrow I will resume telling you how I spend my day. As if you wanted to know.

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My favorite phrase today is where Eagles fly. N., Philadelphia, maybe? Def.: Roadkill.

Can I Finish By Lunchtime?

Ol' Hoss has been telling you how he spends his day. You have seen that it is mostly spent drinking Pero, rootbeer and Double Chocolate Stout. Occasionally I visit some of the people on my b**groll, such as:

11:33 a.m. -- Maybe I should go see some people who are now and then ill. My buddy, Karen, down there in Utah, seems to take more pills than anybody should have to. But by God she's as chipper as there is, so good on her. She has lots of fun stuff on her site. Back in New York is Babs the Spazz, who regularly makes fun of her epilepsy, and why the hell not?

11:37 a.m. -- In North Carolina is Edgy Mama (Anne Fitten), a published author ("Storm Mountain") who is putting the finishing touches on a second novel, "Janus Watchers." This two-header here is Janus, one of the oldtimer Roman gods. If you're nice, Anne will send you a page from her latest, and you will be mesmerized.

11:39 a.m. -- Somebody's opening my door. It's Delna again. I live on the first floor, she on the second. She thinks the way to her room is through mine. One time I said, "Yes, this is the way. Come in and take the elevator." We get into the middle of my place, and I say, "Sonofabitch, somebody stole my elevator. Go take the one down the hall." But she still stops in to check now and then.

11:41 a.m. -- I better go to Texas to see Surfie. Poor Surfie. Her mother won't retire because she knows Surfie will see to the needs of her ailing Dad. But all in all, Surfie is very upbeat and has fun stories to tell. Stay in Texas to see the lady who is turning two houses into one, Candace. She and her husband are selling their rental house and their own home so they can move to North Carolina to be closer to family. Ain't that sweet? And so she is.

11:46 a.m. -- What Jade is going through I wouldn't wish on a dog. She had a serious operation on her arm/shoulder that put her out of b**g commission for a month. She's back. Go give Jade a pat on the back. But save some pity for Portland, Oregon's Victoria. She created a Fantasy Football League for 10 of her readers -- and she is in last place! Ho ho har de har har, Vicki. But don't pity Happy Feet. Her 10-year wedding anniversary is next month (right around the time of my birthdays) and she's going to go hear The Boss, Bruce Springsteen. Poor baby.

11:58 a.m. -- I don't just visit girls. I drop into Colorado to see my buddy MuzikDude, an interesting Colorado cuss who has some neat friends named "The Duckslayers" and "The Bunnybashers." These people are super-tight, so the dude is plenty rich, indeed. I peddle my way up to British Columbia to see Trucker Bob, a really swell guy with a gift of good gab. Then I come back to my hometown of Salem, Oregon, to see Frank, a.k.a. The Pirate. Listen, this guy is a storyteller. I cannot say anything much nicer than that.

Noon -- Oregon once had an attorney general named George Neuner, back in the unenlightened days. One day George announced: "I am going to give all of you an hour for lunch, instead of 30 minutes. You will honor this by calling this extra period 'A Neuner.'" Which turned out to be just right.

Still Noon -- Time for lunch. Tuna casserole or breaded pollock? Honey, do we still have some oatmeal cookies?

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My favorite word today is constiprated. Adj., good subject for a rant. Def.: Harangues about sphincter constriction.

I'm Not Bored; Are You?

See, what I forgot was that this was going to be "The Summer of Compliments," and I only complimented a few people. So in telling you how Ol' Hoss spends his day I am getting around to complimenting some of the other people. The problem is autumn has occurred. Tough bananas. As Ol' Hoss always says, "So it goes."

11 a.m. -- Still checking my b**g buddies. I go see my great pal Jamie Dawn.(Picture by her brilliant daughter, Courtney.) This stoic has had something like 18 throat surgeries and she is heaven-sent for maintaining a sense of humor. She has a female doctor who used to be a man. If you want to think evil thoughts about that, goodbye. So after I am done protecting people's privates, I drift over to Missouri to see Cara, who has been thrust into being a home-school Mom almost without warning. She is doing nicely, I think.

11:07 a.m. -- Hoo boy. Time for one of my favorite stops. This is at the home of J&J's Mom, there in Virginia. The other day her son says, "My penis fell off." Later he says, "No it didn't. I tricked you." I swiped this timely cartoon from my really, really good friend, Poopsie, of Dyersburg, TN. Poopsie is a farm-dwelling therapist hoping to find a Prince Charming, but it isn't life or death. She is one of my prize people. I leave there and zip up to Wisconsin to see Chris, who spent a week down South helping Katrina victims, only to be run off by Hurricane Rita.

11:13 a.m. -- It is well past noon there, so time for Ol' Hoss to crack another "Young's Luxury Double Chocolate Stout." Thish is going shwell, folksh.

11:14 a.m. -- I can see I am not going to get to mention everybody because some of them are new, and I can't characterize them yet. One more time: "So it goes." Time out to count up the votes for my proposed first piece next week: "How Grunion Got Their Name." Zero. Okay. Something on bestiality? Been there, done that (but not often!).

11:16 a.m. -- I love to tease my buddy Bonnie, because she went to that Veterinarian School (Cow College) called Michigan State. Bonnie is a terrific writer. Go there for some pretty words and pictures, and to be reminded to "call your mother." My Mom is long gone, so I go back to Tennessee to see Busy Mom, another brilliant lady who can get 20 comments with a one-sentence post. Busy Mom is now 41 years old!!

11:20 a.m. -- It dawns on me I have not visited the "strange people." One is the irreverent Blog Ho, who recently completed (finally) a two-page book. The other is equally irreverent, Arizona's Lightning Bug's Butt, who actually has a printed book on the market, "What's Shakin' in the Men's Room." I can't imagine what that might be.

11:25 a.m. -- Caregiver comes by to see what we want for lunch. Choices: Kilbasa and sauerkraut, or egg-potato casserole. We used to be able to walk to the Dairy Queen. Decide to just double up on oatmeal cookies.

11:26 a.m. -- Can't decide whether to visit the zany Esther Wilberforce-Packard or the school teacher Mamacita, whose URL is "weeklyscheiss." "Scheiss" is German for bullshit. She is fibbing. Her stuff is like silk, lustrous and well put together. I read both these sites because I can't resist zaniness or fine writing.

11:30 a.m. -- I am in awe of Raehan, a mother of two down in California who recently confided she will go for No.3. This lady can write about poop or Picasso with equal ease; you leave this site day after day saying to yourself, "That was wonderful. How does she do that?"

Say, that calls for some haiku:

I've had rich rewards.
I've gone from nutzos to soup,
And ended with poop.

(Hoo boy. Have I not called your name yet? Raise your hand and you can go potty. Seat up, please, if you're male.)

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My favorite phrase today is a dead duck. Adj., the end all to be all. Def.: What you are after your buddies tell you, "Try it, you're only young once."

Going and Going and Going and.....

I am on a roll, telling you how/where I spend my day. I am having a lot of fun talking about you. Usually among 103 people (number of writers I currently am visiting every day) you would think there would be some losers. Nope.

9:20 a.m. -- Have given wife breakfast. Look for something to nibble. Pop Tarts? Popcorn? Soda pop? Settle for beer touted to me by Angie, to whom I have referred before. She and her husband are fixing up a beautiful old house in Virginia, and awaiting the arrival of a newbie in about 135 days. The beer is "Young's Luxury Double Chocolate Stout." By prescription only.

9:25 a.m. -- I am a collector of clans. So I go off to visit the Pez bunch, whose matriarch is TanLucyPez (I also mentioned her two days ago). She is Lucy as in the Peanuts comic strip Lucy. All of these people have Pez-pal names. I am secretly in love with Lucy, who is in Pennsylvania, because she's so funny, and funny is the best. These are some of her kids: Acton Bell, also in Pennsy; the delightful dddragon, in Pennsy; and Aral, in Massachusetts. Aral is special to me. She is openly lesbian and is married. AND she plays goalie (!) for a ladies hockey team. I am very proud and fond of her.

9:40 a.m. -- Luxury Double Chocolate Stout on keyboard. Hair dryer begs for mercy. Reverse the flow on door-to-door salesman's $900 vacuum cleaner. "Z" is no longer stuck, but now can't use letter that always has "u" after it. Substitution: "The *uick and the Dead."

10 a.m. -- My next clan is based in Virginia, but The Cowgirl, pictured here (ain't she pretty?) cut the traces to move to Nashville because she wants a career in country music management. The head honcho in this group is Unga Chunga, still young enough to be a dynamite dancer and singer in community theater. Another daughter presides over one of my pet places to go, MommaK. Mom usually has some interesting *uestion for her visitors; everybody has a lot of fun. Another of the kids is... Wait a minute. Did you know the Internet went all the way to Okinawa? Sure you did because you drop in on my buddy Meredith, whose husband is stationed at a military post there. You can tell how wonderful Meredith must be by looking at the pictures of their 6-month-old son, Eli. And by reading her most interesting posts.

10:20 a.m. -- Cleaning lady has been here and gone. I go potty. Seat up this time.

10:22 a.m. -- Decide to read the newspaper. Katrina, Ophelia, budget deficit, balance-of-trade deficit, Social Security, Iraq war. All a war of words. I pass.

10:30 a.m. -- Second wind. I track down the Judys. One is the lady who is so kind by sending me humorous stuff all the time, Judy (kenju), over there in North Carolina. She sells wedding flowers; no funerals, thank you very much. I am in love with Judy, too. Down in Texas is Judy, who has two dreamboat children and who is deep into landscaping, including a banana bush. Did you know bananas would grow in Texas? Did you know the Internet went to Texas?

10:35 a.m. -- Also in Texas is a lady to whom I regularly send Internet kisses and hugs. This is because she's such a great writer, numbnuts! The fact that she's really pretty has nothing to do with it. This is Tisha Sharp, who recently lost her bedroom wall to a careening motorist. Someday Tisha will have a book, and you will buy it.

10:40 a.m. -- Most people go through life not knowing any Tammys. I got three: my niece; my Tammy Average Mom, a now stay-at-home-from-schoolteaching-Mom who lives up near Whitehorse; and my Tammy Boo, of Maine, one of two b**ggers who has visited me. Speaking of dogs (hee hee; Hoss 1, Tammy Boo 0), I visit my buddy Schnoodlepooh of Washington State, who has two dogs and who reminds us incessantly: "Baxter is a poodle, Bailey is a schnoodle."

10:50 a.m. -- Begin worrying about a topic for posts in the future. Possible themes (let me know which you like best): Amoeba Sex Life; When Salt Lake Wasn't So Salty; the Porous Borders of Rhode Island; How Grunion Got Their Name; the Commandment Moses Didn't Tell Us ("Thou Shalt Buy Low, Sell High").

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My favorite phrase today is so yesterday. Adj., teen speak. Def.: Your teenager's description of the new cellphone you bought yesterday which is passe' today.

You People Are Really a Lot of Fun

Ol' Hoss began yesterday telling you how he spends his day. This is more. Most of it is spent with you. It's really exciting because you get to watch me type fast. Mostly I am visiting other writers (now up to 103; added a guy yesterday).

7:05 a.m. I take a sip of Pero, the barley/rabbit doodoo concoction. No caffeine. Switch to root beer (Dad's). Caffeine sustains me while I walk to England to visit some of the men in my life. First is my buddy Shane, whose style of writing is mesmerizing. I drop in on my buddy Latigo Flint, "the greatest quickdraw the world has ever known" (and that you never heard of). He lives in the L.A. area, maybe with Luther Burbank, and where he hustles the Starbuck's waitress. He is guaranteed fun 4-5 times a week. In Kentucky, I visit a prison guard, Lejnd, who has fascinating stories about life in stir; a guy in St. Louis, Dave Morris, who can make money doing radio voiceovers because he has such a beautiful set of pipes (and a mighty fine wit in his b**g and in his comments to others); then off to Massachusetts to find The Pointmeister, Mike Ashley, a comic who finds some great stuff for my (your) amusement; a fella up in St. Paul, Chris Cope, a professional writer who speaks Welsh in his spare time to cover for the fact that he used to live in Fargo; Big Dave, a talented writer over in Michigan who is burdened by having his Daddy watching him like a hawk; and my longtime buddy Se7en, another template designer who did this very one for his chum Ol' Hoss. Se7en lives lived in New Orleans and his house got half-full of water.

7:25 a.m. -- Another potty run. Seat up, or down? Am in a hurry, so seat down. Cleaning lady comes today.

7:27 a.m. -- I do not forget my pal Debi over there in the Channel Island of Jersey. See it down there at the bottom? She is dynamite with "Jersey facts." Debi has four children and the typical travails. It is interesting to follow her mood swings. Through it all she maintains a nice, light touch. And her children are beautiful. Which puts me in the mood for another mother, Juno, a former New Yorker now plying the environs of Southern California. Juno is a superb story-teller. Almost always her tales do that upbeat thing at the end that brings you to laughter. Or tears.

7:35 a.m. -- Root beer on keyboard. Wife's hair dryer has fixed this before.... Now okay, except letter that comes at the end of the alphabet, which doesn't look at all like omega as in alpha to omega, sticks. Column will have to be written "a to y." Make note: "yen buddha."

7:55 a.m. -- Illinois is awake by now so I go see my buddy Lois Lane, whose name is not Lois Lane but let me tell you she is an ace reporter. She produces some of the best stuff you will ever get to read for free. Then I romp right over to Michigan where I can find Vicki Bennett, one of my bestest pals whom I would describe as brilliant. And so she is. She is the latest winner of "Blogging for Books," and one of the latest losers of a child to college. Another loser-to-college is my buddy Teacher Woman, up there in Washington State. Daughter Abby, whom I suspect is a Mensa candidate, just shipped off to college. Tears in Michigan and Washington. But they got a support group going; they'll be fine.

8:20 a.m. -- Wife calls from bedroom, wants to get up. Best part of my day.

(I am going to keep this up for awhile. I'm having a good time. And, no, I have not forgotten my two Judys, my two Tammys, my Jamie, Busy Mom, J&J's Mom, Tisha, the lady who went to a Cow College...)

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My favorite phrase today is holy shit. Adj., blessed by the Pope. Def.: Descriptive of a two-hour workload with one hour left to deadline. (Possible solution: Root beer on the keyboard.)

Such an Interesting Life I Lead

I think I will tell you about how I spend my day. I do not have any young children to put vomit on me, or to throw poop on the walls. I don't have any neighbors I can visit and write about because we're all deaf as posts. I am tethered to oxygen so I don't get stuck in traffic anymore. So all in all, I'd say I've got it better than you.

2:20 a.m. -- Go potty. I sit down on the toilet so I can find out if I raised the seat the last time I went. (I COULD test the seat with my hand, but that is not very sanitary. Sanitary is The American Way.)

6:30 a.m. -- Go potty. It is now light enough to see that I didn't raise the toilet seat when I must have gone potty a couple of hours ago and can't remember that I went. (This is a work in progress.)

6:35 a.m. -- Get dressed. All my sweatshirts have bumper slogans on the front, like "In the beginning there was nothing, which exploded." I am a fan of the Big Bang and the Gang Bang.

6:40 a.m. -- Publish my piece on the Internet. Go to my home page, then go back to my b**g page. This assures that I will get one hit today. I leave a comment: "Pretty lame, Hoss."

6:45 a.m. -- Whip up a cup of Pero. This is a coffee substitute made, I think, out of barley and rabbit shit. These are the only two things scientists know of that don't contain caffeine.

6:48 a.m. -- Start visiting my b**g buddies. Usually I start with Whizzer (Mandy), back there in Connecticut, who is both funny and pretty. Here's what she looks like. Fine and dandy, no? She has been looking for true love and lately maybe has found same. Good for her.

6:52 a.m. -- Then I chase down Zoot's Mom, in Tennessee. She's a cute writer although she talks about a lot of stuff I don't care about. But I have to keep visiting because I am trying to get next to her daughter, Miss Zoot, who is over there in Alabama. Missy is about 8 months pregnant, so it is not what you think, dirty-mouth. Missy makes a helluva template and I am keeping her on the hook in case I ever need a new one.

6:54 a.m. -- Start checking on b**ggers with weird
relatives/husbands/acquaintances. I go see my Florida buddy, Laura, who is hacked at Arlene, Dennis, Emily, Katrina, Ophelia, and now Rita, which are some of this year's hurricanes that have caused Florida to escape to the Rockies. Then I might head to Central Oregon, where I can find Annie, who has a married brother who is advertising for some more women to give him some loving. I check with Seshat, an incurable West Virginia romantic who is currently mired in some not-good stuff. I visit, in Pennsylvania, TanLucyPez, who has a strange brother-in-law who is quite free with opinions and sperm. I never fail to visit Christine, who is writing "100 Reasons Why I Hate My Husband." This poor soul is between a rock (her husband) and a hard place (her children). But she amuses the hell out of us.

(You know, this is going to take awhile. I hope you're in for the long haul.)

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My favorite word today is manhole. N., under cover. Def.: A device constructed to allow men to look up the dresses of women passing by.

My second favorite word today is 18-wheeler. N., catch you on the flip side. Def.: A device constructed to allow men to look down the dresses of women passing by.

This Will Make Sense, Eventually

A lot of people have been wondering how Ol' Hoss manages to read so many b**gs (102, now) and still have a normal life. I know it's not natural to read a lot of b**gs, but it's not bordering on bestiality, either.

I was never much into bestiality. Not many people are. I guess there was just this one guy in my high school, but nobody else. He was kind of a loner, so I don't know if this was an early cow-homo sapiens cloning experiment, or just a cow-homo deal. I don't know how it turned out. Some things just don't interest me.

Cloning might be a better deal for me than reincarnation, come to think of it. I was readin' my Reincarnation Monthly, and there was a sidebar about different ideas for keeping alive/coming back/not going. One of these ideas -- I think I told you about this before -- was where they scrape some cells offa your whang and then grow a New You in a test tube. I guess the cells gotta come off the whang because, to a man, that's his most important part. It's what a lot of guys think with.

Another idea -- and this drew a lot of favorable comment -- was Not Going. This is the cheapest alternative, since reincarnation is kind of tricky and involves hiring some Voodoo guys down in Haiti and like that. It seems the way you Don't Go is to keep on breathing. Since breathing is so natural -- not like bestiality at all -- this seems like a pretty simple way of Staying Alive.

So that's how I manage to read so many b**gs.

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The Washington Post has had its annual Mensa Invitational. Readers are asked to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting or changing one letter, and supply a new definition. Here are some of the good ones:

Reintarnation: Coming back to life as a hillbilly.
Hipatitis: Terminal coolness.
Osteopornosis: A degenerate disease.

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My favorite word today (courtesy of the Washington Post) is Karmageddon. N., plant you now, dig you later. Def.: It's like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's, like, a serious bummer.

When Couples Diverge

DEAR DIARY:

"Saturday night I thought he was acting weird. I was shopping with my friend all day long, so I thought he was upset that I was a bit late getting home. He didn't seem to have much to say; he was very quiet and absent. I asked him what was wrong but he said 'Nothing.' I asked if he was upset about something, and he said it had nothing to do with me and not to worry.

"I told him I loved him. He simply smiled. I don't know why he didn't say, 'I love you too.' It seemed as if he wanted nothing to do with me anymore. He just sat around and watched TV. Finally I decided to go to bed, and about 10 minutes later he came to bed and to my surprise he responded to my caress and we made love, but I still felt that he was distracted.

"I was going to confront him about it, but he had fallen asleep. I don't know what to do. I'm almost sure his thoughts are with someone else. My life is a disaster."

HIS DIARY:

"Played a horrible game of golf today! Shot a 95 -- can't putt for crap.

"Got laid, though."

(This was laid on me by my buddy Whizzer.)

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My favorite word today is fakir. N., outsourced to India. Def.: You, when you pretend to like a work of art by a friend who knew you would like it when you don't.

Why Bananas Grow Upright*

Not everybody has a buddy in France, like I do. I suppose a lot of people in France have buddies in France, but I'm not in France; I'm in Oregon USA, 9 time zones to the West. So Anne and I don't have coffee very often.

But she did let me take her picture. That's she on the left. I don't know who that is on the right. But Miss Kentucky oughta be taught the difference between butt cracks.

My buddy Anne is a translator. You got some past participling you need done, or some sentences needin' to be parsed, in English or French or Esperanto, or you want some swearin' done in Arabic, you let her know. She will relocate if your English is bad, which it probably is. Go say heidy ho.

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Once again, it's Just Ask Judy time, when the oldster speaks:

The nice thing about being senile is you can hide your own Easter eggs.

The funeral home director goes up to the widow and says, "How old was your husband?" She: "He was 98, I'm 96." He: "Hardly worth going home, is it?"

My memory's not as sharp as it used to be. Also, my memory's not as sharp as it used to be.

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Up there in Centralia, which is in Washington State, there is the Scatter Creek Kennel and Training Services. This is Jim Elder's homemade sign advertising his business:

"When you train here, sit happens."

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My favorite word today is obscene. N., wash your mouth out. Def.: The turnout on the highway where the ob may be viewed.

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(*I don't know why bananas grow upright. I just needed a snappy title for this piece.)

Cheese With Mold Gets Mighty Old

The apartment my wife and live in is pretty small, less than 600 square feet. So even if we throw out a few pieces of paper we gain quite a bit of space to fit some more oxygen in. A guy can't get too much oxygen.

So here are some old love letters from my wife that I'm tossing:

"2 lbs. hamburger
"Collard greens
"Whatever kind of beer you like."

(You ever have a wife that put beer on your shopping list? I thought not. Mine is the best.)

"This is the fourth day we have not spoken to each other. The next time Ed McMahon calls for you, should I say anything?"

(A normal wife wouldn't a let on that Ed called the first time. Ain't she a peach?)

"You once said if I ever need anything, to let you know. I'm letting you know that I need a trip to Reno so I have sold your golf clubs and your bowling ball."

(How many wives would keep their husbands in the know like that? I ask you.)

I guess I need to give up cleaning for the day. Somehow, all the notepaper my wife uses gives me paper cuts.

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My newest buddy, Inanna, has sent me this little bit of news:

Not to be outdone by "Two-Buck Chuck" wine at Trader Joe's, WalMart is putting out some house brands to join the competition. Where they got a leg up is they can afford a lot of money for naming rights. There is this Arkansas professor of country marketing who says "the right name is important."

A marketing survey turned up the 10 most popular names for the wines WalMart will hustle in the $2-4 range:

10. Chateau Traileur Parc
9. White Trashfindel
8. Big Red Gulp
7. World Championship Riesling
6. NASCARbernet
5. Chef Boyardeaux
4. Peanut Noir
3. I Can't Believe It's Not Vinegar
2. Grape Expectorations
1. Nasti Spumante.

The beauty of WalMart wine is that it can be served with either white meat (possum) or red meat (squirrel). Go tell Inanna "thanks." And fish around over there till you find one of her West Virginia tales. She's a pistol.

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My favorite word today is never. Adj., no way. Def. When the temporary federal tax on telephone service will expire.

Erecting a Stack

My buddy Big Dave seems to think I am being a little too forward when I say I intend to "Make My Pile" before I kick the bucket. I said, "Maybe I could say 'Erect My Stack.'" Big Dave said that's even worse. What he wants me to do is announce that I am "A Geriatric Satirist Sub-Specializing in Fund-Raising Enterprises." I guess he wants me to sneak up on people, and I am okay with that.
So my latest Fund-Raising Enterprise designed to Make My Pile is nearly off the drawing board. It is, as you can guess, the latest thing in hearing aids.

See, lots of people won't wear hearing aids because they're embarrassed to admit they need hearing aids. So they go through life either smiling and nodding and saying "Just so," or they go through life saying "Huh?" Now, I know there are these little tiny hearing aids that only cost about $3,000 a pop that go way, way down in the ear canal and nobody can see 'em. But sometimes they get so far down toward the hammer-anvil-stirrup the hearing aid guy has to dig 'em out with a pick axe, and that's no good.

This somehow reminds me of the time there in the 14th Chapter of Mark where some goons of the high priest lopped off a servant's ear for no good reason, and that guy instantly became hard of hearing. Which is where Van Gogh got the idea.

Anyway, what's neat about my new hearing aid is that it don't look like a hearing aid. It looks like an ear. See here in this picture is how it works. You just slip my new ear-looking ear over your own ear and ta-da! you can hear mosquitoes making out in the back forty.

But right here is what's going to make it sell: When somebody blows into one of the Ol' Hoss Make My Pile Hearing Aid and Love Apparati, it will whisper back: "I'll follow you anywhere." This will save the wearer a lot of time in the romance department.

Franchise opportunities will be available, if you want to become a "Sub-Specialist."

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My favorite word today is lucky. Adj., cash me out. Def.: Descriptive of someone at the slot machine you just left.

Politicians Have More Fun Than Anybody

Now, then, if you think I am totally one-sided about politics, you're pretty close. Except if you remember Mary Jo Kopechne and sort of understand how I feel about that, well I come out pretty two-sided. It's just that I can't turn down cute pictures. Cleanup crews will probably look at this and say, "too bad."

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I am having a "borrow" day. Ol' Hoss will borrow from his buddies so he don't have to be brilliant all by hisself. According to my florist buddy back there in North Carolina, this is the record of a telephone exchange between a hotel guest and room service at an Asian hotel:

Room Service: "Morrin. Roon sirbees."

Guest: "Sorry. I thought I dialed room service."

Room Service: "Rye. Roon sirbees...morrin! Jewish to oddor sunteen?"

Guest: "Uh, yes...I'd like to order some bacon and eggs."

Room Service: "Ow july den?"

Guest: "What?"

Room Service: "Ow july den?...pryed, boyud, poochd?"

Guest: "Oh, the eggs! How do I like them? Sorry. Scrambled, please."

Room Service: "Ow july dee baykem? Crease?"

Guest: "Crisp will be fine."

Room Service: "An sahn toes?"

Guest: "What?"

Room Service: "An toes. July sahn toes?"

Guest: "I don't think so."

Room Service: "No? Judo wahn sahn toes?"

Guest: "I feel really bad about this but I don't know what 'judo wan sahn toes' means."

Room Service: "Toes! Toes! Why jew don juan toes? Ow bow Anglish moppin we bodder?"

Guest: "English muffin? I've got it! You were saying 'Toast.' Fine. Yes, an English muffin will be fine."

Room Service: "We bodder?"

Guest: "No. Just put the bodder on the side."

Room Service: "Copy?"

Guest: "Excuse me?"

Room Service: "Copy...tea...meel?"

Guest: "Yes. Coffee, please, and that's all."

Room Service: One minnie. Scramah egg, crease baykem, Anglish moppin we bodder on sigh and copy...rye?"

Guest: "Whatever you say."

Room Service: "Tenjewberrymuds."

Guest: "You're very welcome."

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My favorite word today is wind. N., perhaps a southeaster. Def.: The fake thing a mime will lean into if you'll give him your attention for as little as 5 seconds.

Scientists Say Creationism Is 'Too Bad'

This here is a picture of a separatist signpost in downtown Salem, Oregon. See, the State Capitol is on State Street, and the Methodist Church is at the intersection of State and Church. (A block to the west is High Street, and you can just imagine what goes on there.)

Bible belters don't have all the power in Oregon. But we have to admit that when it comes to arguing about Creationism vs. Evolution, the Bible thumpers have the best of the argument. See, they don't have to prove anything. You say, "What about the dinosaurs turning into birds?" You say, "Look how the flamingo has evolved into lawn ornaments." And they unburden themselves with the perfect response: "That's just the way it is."

But now Ol' Hoss has the poison pill. He puts "paid" to the creation cretinists:

There in the Bible it quotes Big Ernie as saying, in Genius, "Behold, I have given you every plant yielding seed that is on the surface of the earth..."

Okay, fine. So where did seedless watermelons come from? Huh? How about that!

So maybe Big Ernie is Luther Burbank in disguise? I think not. No, sorry, creationist lovers, the evidence is too overwhelming in favor of evolution. Seedless watermelons descended from monkeys, just like everything else.

Hoo boy, science is so simple when you know a lot of stuff, like I do.

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I got more goods from my pal in North Carolina, Judy (kenju). Per example:

A lot of folks can't understand how we came to have an oil shortage in our country. There is a simple answer: Nobody bothered to check the oil. We just didn't know we were getting low.

The reason for this is purely geographical. Our oil is located in Alaska, California, Coastal Florida, Coastal Louisiana, Kansas, Oklahoma, Pennsylvania and Texas.

Our dipsticks are located in Washington, D.C.

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Also:

Among the Top 5 Smart Answers for 2004:

As a man approached a flight attendant at the departure gate, he opened his trench coat and flashed her. She says, "Sir, I need to see your ticket, not your stub."

Ho, ho har de har har. Also:

A lady is picking through the frozen turkeys at the supermarket, and they were all pretty small. She says to the stock boy, "Do these turkeys get any bigger?" And he says, "No, ma'am, they're all dead."

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My favorite word today is zoo. N., a movie named Animal House. Def.: Where you take children to watch monkeys play with themselves.

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.